"Good morning."

Amal blinked awake, her golden eyes fluttering open to find her father standing right in front of her, his face close enough that she could see the faint lines around his eyes.

Slowly, she pushed herself up from the gold beneath her and looked down.

Wait... gold? What gold?

That was when she realized that she was sitting on the throne—the Golden Throne, the seat of the Sultan, the place where only he was supposed to sit!

"It seems my daughter loved sleeping on my throne. That makes me wonder, do you want to take over my position that badly?"

Amal’s caramel face slowly turned red, the flush spreading from her cheeks to her ears.

"No!"

She sprang off the throne as if it had burned her.

"I-I’m sorry, I-I-I don’t know how—"

Her frantic apology suddenly died in her throat.

"...you."

Amal saw her father teasingly smiling at her.

"You."

He was teasing her!

"You! You! You dummy!"

Amal began tapping at his arm with her frail hands, her small fists landing with harmless thumps against his silk sleeve.

Each tap was more indignant than the last, and Malik found it wonderful that she was comfortable enough to do this without fear, to act like a daughter instead of a subject.

"Hm, last I heard, attacking a Sultan led to pretty severe punishments."

His smile widened just a fraction.

"Yooou!"

Stopping her world-ending attacks, Amal huffed and looked away, her lower lip jutting out in a pout.

"Stop teasing me!"

"I’m not."

"Yes, you are!"

"No, I’m not."

"Fatheeer!"

Amal rushed forward and headbutted him in the chest, which was less of an attack and more of a nuzzle.

Her forehead pressed against him before her arms wrapped around him in a tight hug that tried to push him back.

Oh, perhaps it was a tackle.

Honestly, it was difficult to tell with how frail she was, her small body trembling with effort just with this alone.

Malik raised a hand and placed it on the back of her head, his fingers threading through her purple hair.

"Do you feel any better, my daughter?"

She looked up, and her golden eyes widened as if she had only just noticed something fundamental had changed.

"I... yes."

It seemed that she was so used to the constant pain and the dull ache of Corruption eating away at her from the inside that only now, with it gone, did she realize how much she had been suffering.

"W-What did you do, Father?"

Her voice sounded extremely worried.

She knew of his sacrificial nature, the way he had always thrown himself into danger to protect others, and she was terrified of what lengths he had gone to help her while she was asleep and none the wiser.

"Don’t worry. I haven’t done anything that would hurt me. Now, why don’t you go and sleep on a proper bed, hm? I’m sure we’ve had enough insurrections for one day."

Amal glared at him for a few seconds, her golden eyes searching his face for any sign of deception.

Then she looked away, huffing once more.

It seemed that she did not believe him; perhaps she never would in these situations.

Malik did not remember just how severe his track record was, but he did not bother trying to fix the misunderstanding. Nor did he bother trying to convince her otherwise.

Instead, he looked at the massive golden gates at the end of the hall and called out:

"DUNYA. COME ESCORT MY DAUGHTER."

He used Rukh in his words, channeling just enough to make them echo throughout much of the Holy Palace without causing a shockwave.

And since the power was focused and directed, Amal’s ears were unharmed, finding it no different than a soft call from across a room.

Responding to his call, Dunya appeared right behind the two of them, stepping out from next to the grave behind the throne.

Her sudden materialization was seamless, as if she had been waiting there all along.

"Hee."

Or in other words, "My Sultan, I’m here."

Malik glanced at her calmly, but inwardly, he was surprised.

’Was she just waiting for me to call her? Hm, it seems so. Probably since the moment we came back here.’

But that was not the only thing that surprised him, as he noticed that her clothes were different.

No longer sporting the dark dress worn only by royals, she now wore the uniform of a maid.

It was simple, practical, and entirely out of character for someone of her station and might.

’Did we get so close in the past because she was my personal maid?’

Once more, Malik quickly reached a conclusion, using all the information that he had picked up to fill in the gaps.

[Would you like me to take her away now?]

Her script now appeared in the air, written by purple words:

Death.

This ’Death’ seemed to come from a necklace around her neck, barely visible.

It was an upside-down cross, a Holy Relic that helped her converse.

This sudden change made it obvious that she didn’t care for ’conversing’ before now.

Only when Malik returned did she bother to think of how to better ’converse,’ mainly with him, and had bought this Holy Relic.

’I was wrong before. She’s more than precious.’

Malik nodded at her, donning a neutral face.

"Yes, and thank you."

Dunya kneeled at once and bowed her head low.

[By your Will!]

Standing back up, she gently reached a hand to Amal, who quickly clasped it without hesitation.

With that, the two stepped close to the grave behind the throne—the one that bore Malik’s name, carved with Sinbad’s claws—and disappeared. Teleported away to wherever Amal’s chambers were located.

Dunya’s eyes had not left Malik the entire time, and a soft smile made its way to her face just before she vanished, a warmth in her gaze that spoke of years of devotion.

Now alone in the golden hall, Malik returned to the throne and sat down, letting the metal press against his back.

The Holy Relic immediately began to work, filling up his Rukh reserves, which had been dangerously low after the healing of Amal.

Though he had not mentioned it, by the end of that ordeal, he had been close to running out entirely.

Ding!

’Hm?’

—

╔════════╗

║OVERFLOW!║

╚════════╝

[Your Fear Spreads...]

[Fear Points: 0.4 → 33.6]

—

’What caused this? My helping of Amal or...’

He did not want to think of the second possibility.

After all, that would mean that Huda and Safira had discovered his identity.

That the two women he had met in the East had somehow learned that the strange old man who had led them through the trees was actually their Sultan.

Or, well, perhaps it could be a combination of the first and what he had done much earlier in the day.

After all, thirty-three Fear Points was a pretty decent amount.

At least for now; later on, he was sure it would be nothing but a very tiny drop in the bucket compared to what he would need.

Anyhow, with the two copies of his Soul gone—their forms dissolved back into the orb, which now sat dark on the arm of the throne—he began to think of the near future.

The burning fury in his gut had not cooled down one bit; if anything, knowing that the Originator of Corruption was actively rotting his daughter from the inside out made his blood boil even hotter.

The time for playing it slow was over, though it had never really lasted long.

Those past versions of him were right.

He needed to expand his influence quickly, and the entire world needed to know who was back!

But still, Malik came to the same conclusion he had reached before, as he was left with only a vague direction on how to go forward, forcing him to think a little more... ’think.’

’Maybe I need to spin the wheel.’

Or more like make an excuse to gamble.