Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death-Chapter 124: A Raised Hand

***

I can hear the sound of a heartbeat...

Before it cuts out.

Won’t ever leave my memory...

Blood spilled, cries drowned out.

And I can see a tear on a father’s face...

Reflected in the eyes of our enemies.

How could I have ever let you down?

Oh, how could I have ever let you down?

...How could I leave you to die?

Damn your promise.

Damn you.

***

{Inside The Projection}

The first thing Malik noticed when he blinked was that he was not dead.

Right. It seemed that some part of him believed that there was no coming back from that.

The second was that it was morning. Judging by the steed he mounted, and the position he was in the caravan, it was the morning before the attack.

His luck with "checkpoints" seemed to continue.

But his mind didn’t seem to acknowledge that.

For a while, he just let his steed take him forward, hands barely gripping the reins.

Around him, the caravan rolled along the path, the rhythmic creak of wooden wheels and the chatter of traders filling the air. Birds sang. The Shams peeked over the horizon, casting long shadows over the sandy road.

It was peaceful.

Slowly, his breath hitched.

A wave of nausea rolled through him as his body trembled from top to bottom.

He couldn’t forget it... process it. His death. His blood. His limbless body. The fire and the sound of a horn. A roar and a fallen father. Loss. Rage. Desperation.

It was all... just a bit too much. Even for him. So, instead, he chose to ignore it.

Busy his mind with something far more important.

Not repeating that tragedy.

A question popped into his head.

’Why now? Why here?’

The resets never sent him this far back, right?

At most, he’d wake up a few hours before death, like that time with Rafiq.

But this? This was different.

It was early morning.

The Shams had barely started crawling up the sky.

The attack wouldn’t happen for at least another ten or so hours.

New... that was new.

Which meant two things:

Either this curse was completely random, and for the first time, it just so happened to throw him back at a time earlier than any before it.

Or there was a reason for it. A specific, intentional reason.

Despite the unforgettable loss of Sinbad, Malik leaned toward the second.

Before? He chalked it up to randomness. Just another cruel, arbitrary trick played by whatever cursed God had ’Their’ claws in him. But now? No. Not a chance.

Because so far he wasn’t given an utterly ridiculous "checkpoint" that was a fraction before death... his OWN death, where there was nothing to do but scream.

No. Every reset had a purpose.

Just enough time to change something.

Or just enough time to suffer in a specific way.

Like the curse’s... owner was forcing him through these scenarios, making sure he passed every single one before moving on. Learning from them.

And if that was true… What made this different?

Well, if it sent him this far back, then maybe… just maybe… he needed this time to pass.

That meant preparation was necessary; otherwise, he would not survive.

’...Fucking Hell.’

Malik sighed slowly, rubbing his face.

Alright. Fine. He’d take the damn hint.

This time, the caravan was going to be ready.

They’d welcome the attack with open arms and dominate.

’Now... how do I—’

"Malik?"

Ali Baba’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

The older man peered at him from his steed, purple eyes sharp.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost." Read new chapters at novelbuddy

Malik took a breath, coming to a decision.

"We’re going to be attacked."

Ali Baba blinked.

"What?"

"Bandits. This evening. I trust my instincts, and they’re screaming at me. If we don’t prepare, we’re dead."

Ali Baba opened his mouth, no doubt to question him, but then he saw Malik’s face.

The way his eyes burned with something fierce. Something alive.

"…Alright."

No hesitation. No argument. Just trust.

Malik nodded.

"Good."

"What’s the plan?"

"Quietly let everyone you trust know—we’re meeting during the next tea break. We’ll talk then."

After that, the caravan moved forward like before, with Ali Baba making his usual rounds, checking on the traders, exchanging words with the guards, and generally keeping everything running smoothly.

This time though, there was something extra in his steps—a hidden message passed between trusted hands.

Malik watched it all unfold, staying quiet as he let the pieces move into place.

There was no need to act differently than before. Everything had to play out nearly the same as it had the first time, up until the moment they could change it.

Eventually, one of the scouts far ahead came back, pointing toward a jagged rock formation jutting out in the distance. It provided a good amount of shade, enough for them to rest and have their usual tea break without the brutal Shams beating down on them.

Ali Baba gave the order, and the caravan slowly came to a stop under the natural cover.

Malik took in a breath. This was the moment.

As the traders settled, brewing tea over small fires and stretching their legs, Malik found himself sitting with Ali Baba, Layla, and a small group of trusted guards.

Their cups were full, but nobody drank yet.

"Alright, let’s get to it."

Malik set his cup down.

"You see the men not here? They’re going to run the moment things turn bad."

One of the guards, a broad-shouldered man with a curved sword on his back, frowned.

"And how are you so sure of that? And about this attack? Where’s the proof?"

"Instinct."

The guard scoffed.

"Instinct? Really?"

Before Malik could reply, Layla leaned forward, her eyes practically glowing.

"You don’t get it! Malik’s instincts are amazing! Every time something dangerous happens, he just—he just knows!"

Malik shot her an appreciative look, but she was too caught up in defending him to notice.

Honestly? He felt kind of bad for lying to her all the time. But what was he supposed to do? Tell her the truth?

"Hey Layla, I actually killed myself a few times to get that information. Neat, huh?"

Yeah. That’d go over well.

Sure, not every mission ended with him offing himself. His instincts and intuition had actually solved a lot of things. But when it came to the perfect outcome? The absolute best result?

He always blinked a few times.

His greed took hold.

Because if he was going to die anyway, if his life was already under a countdown, then why the Hell shouldn’t he squeeze out every last advantage? What was one more step toward death when he’d already been living on borrowed time?

’Even if I can’t avoid the gallows... I’ll choose how to climb the steps.’

"She’s not entirely wrong."

Ali Baba, on the other hand, hummed in thought, rubbing his chin.

"But it’s not just instinct, is it, Malik?"

Malik raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

Ali Baba sipped his tea before answering.

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"Some people think of it as instinct, but it’s more than that. Your mind isn’t guessing; it’s recognizing patterns, processing variables, even if you don’t consciously realize it. The way people move, the tension in the air, the way certain things just feel off—it all adds up. You’re not ’feeling’ it; you’re reading it without knowing."

Malik blinked, considering his words... It made sense in a way.

"Alright. But let’s not get sidetracked.

He nodded, keeping note. It was a good excuse he’d use in the future.

"The point is, some of the men will run, and that’s fine. Let them."

That got some raised eyebrows.