Chapter 150: In Another Life

Words : 1943 Updated : Sep 17th, 2025

Chapter 150 of "Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death" opens presenting twists: Time passed. It passed quick. Because time didn't give a damn. Time never did. It didn't stop for grief. Didn't... Keep following!

Time passed. It passed quick. Because time didn't give a damn. Time never did. It didn't stop for grief. Didn't slow down for broken hearts. Didn't care for shattered souls. The world had just ended for someone, yet everything kept on moving. The Shams still dragged itself across the sky. The Twelve Moons still traded places with their light's origin. No grand pause. Just... moving forward. Because that's what time did. It dragged you with it, whether you wanted to go or not. And the caravan? The caravan didn't stop either. One Thousand Nights had to go on. That was the way of things. Malik followed, keeping his distance, a ghost trailing behind the living. After ensuring the village paid up what the caravan was owed, he hunted. Not for coin, not really. Coin was just a byproduct, a necessity for his goodbye. What he hunted for was purpose. Something to keep his hands busy. Something to keep... them from sinking into his bones and dragging him down under. The caravan needed him, even if they never said it. Even if they didn't realize it. When the path was blocked by boulders too heavy even for a bunch of Nadhir to consider moving, it was Malik who stepped forward. He cleared the way, sending massive rocks tumbling off the path like they were nothing but pebbles beneath his grip. When the carriages hit deep patches of sand, wheels sinking, steeds groaning under the strain, it was Malik who ensured the chance of it happening again was close to null. When supplies ran low and the hunters returned empty-handed, it was Malik who ventured far into the wilds, slipping into the blackened night. And he returned, always, dragging beasts many times his size behind him. Creatures with claws the length of his arm, with fangs meant to tear hill from ground. He slew them all the same. Of course, these weren't what the caravan ate. Big meat tasted bad. Tough. Too meaty. So these monsters were just for show, to ward off potential predators. Small ones came alongside them, still monsters, sure, but good ones. Some nights, they whispered about him. But no one actually asked about him. No one wanted to know the answers. And Malik? He didn't offer them. He was preoccupied with a certain someone. Dunya. Old tongue for "World." Malik kept his eye on the girl—the one who didn't speak. The kid barely existed at first, lingering at the edges of camp, watching people like they might lunge at her. He had... seen that look before. That was the look of someone who'd already learned that the world wasn't kind. That trust was a risk. That people hurt. So she made sure no one could shove her aside. At first, no one really noticed the kid, not even Layla. Rather, especially not her. She treated that kid like the plague. Busying herself with something not quite healthy. Dunya was a shadow, staying out of the way, out of reach. But campfires had a way of pulling people in. A kind woman handed her a chunk of bread one night, didn't say a word—just pressed it into her palm and walked away. An old man sat with her by the fire, muttering stories to no one in particular, as if this little girl wasn't even there. A few kids kicked a ragged ball toward her, laughing, telling her to join. She didn't, not at first. Just stood there, staring like they were speaking a language she didn't understand. But slowly, something began to shift. The next night, she sat closer to the fire. A few days later, she was eating with them. By the time they'd reached their destination, she wasn't walking alone anymore. Dunya grew to be one of them. That was enough. ... Malik lingered outside the village gates, watching the others filter inside, disappearing into the streets. With them was Layla. She... she barely looked human anymore. Her face was hollowed out, her skin stretched tight over bones. She was thinner. Like grief had carved her down, stripping her into something jagged. And she was drunk. Again. Malik had seen it spiral. Had watched her, night after night, finding a bottle the second they stopped moving. It didn't matter where they camped, didn't matter how far they had to go—she always found it. She never got loud. Never got messy. She just drank. Drank until her hands stopped shaking. Drank until her eyes glazed over, and she could pretend for a few more hours that she wasn't living in the same world that had stolen everything from her. Malik never stopped her. Not once. Because he understood... oh, he understood. Now, she walked toward an inn, steps too steady to be sober, too practiced to be fully gone. Layla muttered something to the keeper at the door, slipping a few coppers into his hand before disappearing inside. She never looked back. She had no reason. ... The inn reeked of spilled liquor, sweat, and bad decisions. Malik stood in the corner, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Watching. He wasn't the only one. Dra and Bashier were watching her too. Layla was at the counter, hunched over, shoulders curled inward like she was trying to make herself smaller. Like she was trying to disappear. She wasn't sipping at her drink—no, she was drowning in it. One mug. Two. Three. She knocked them back like they were nothing, like they didn't burn, like they weren't eating away at whatever was left of her. That was the worst part. The smooth, practiced movements of someone who had long since made drinking a habit. Again, Malik didn't move. He didn't interrupt. He just waited. Waited for what exactly, he couldn't say... he didn't know. He truly didn't. It didn't take long for trouble to find her. A couple of men hovered nearby, circling like vultures. Not the violent type—no, they weren't that stupid—but the persistent, sleazy kind. The kind that acted like a lone drunk woman was an open invitation. Layla ignored them at first, eyes locked on her drink, but they didn't take the hint. One of them reached for her shoulder. "Come on now, sweetheart, no need to be so cold—" Layla turned and the look she gave him could have turned a man to stone. "Touch me, and I'll tear off your damn fingers—then shove 'em right down your throat." The idiot hesitated and thought about pushing his luck. Malik's fingers twitched at his side, barely able to stop himself. Letting out a long sigh, he glanced at his friends. Dra and Bashier. Before they could move, he waved them down. They stared at him for a moment, then complied with a soft nod. He didn't want any of them to step in—not yet—but if these dumb bastards made him, he wouldn't hesitate. Fortunately, the barkeep intervened first, shooting the dumbest bastard a sharp glare. The kind that meant 'Get out before you regret it.' "Whatever... it's what I get for giving a Hexblood a chance." "Yeah, she's ugly anyway." The vultures backed off, grumbling. Even they knew not to threaten the guy who poured the drinks. Ignoring their words, Layla exhaled, pressing her fingers against her temple like the whole ordeal had given her a headache. Then, as if she could still feel the weight of their stares on her skin, she slammed back another drink, stood up, and stumbled for the exit. Malik moved. He weaved through the crowd, slipping past drunks and barmaids. By the time he reached the door, Layla was already outside, leaning against the wall, head tilted back as she took a deep breath. She was exhausted. Drunk and exhausted. Her hands moved to her belt, fingers brushing over her pouch—only to find it gone. When did she lose it? What was she to do? She had so— "Hey." Malik stepped forward. "You dropped your pouch." He reached into his belt and pulled out a pouch heavy with coin. "Here." He held it out to her. It was bigger, having something a little extra. Everything he had scraped together. A farewell. Layla blinked at him, sluggish, her mind trying to catch up. She looked at the pouch, then at him, suspicion flickering across her face before it softened into something else. Something grateful. Layla took the pouch, turning it over in her hands before nodding at him. "Heeeyy... not many good Samaritans like you 'round... y'know that? World's a real... shitty place... but you... you're alright..." Malik just nodded... "It's fine." And then he smiled. A happy smile. A sad smile. A foolishly bright, foolishly kind smile. Layla blinked slow, sluggish, like her brain was stuck wading through molasses. Everything was blurry—faces, lights, sounds—all blending into one big, swirling mess. But him? Something about him stuck. Like an itch in the back of her mind, like a name on the tip of her tongue that refused to come out. Her gaze sharpened—well, as sharp as it could get in this state. Her head tilted, brows furrowed, trying to place him. Why did she feel like she should know him? Who was he to her? Malik didn't move. Didn't turn. Just stood there, still as a statue, letting her stare. Letting her almost get it. And then, before her drunk, drowning mind could crawl its way to an answer— He finally turned. Walked away. Like a ghost slipping through the cracks of a dream. Layla wobbled, eyes tracking his back, frustration tugging at her expression—like she had something to say, something important, something right there—but the words never made it past her lips. The weight of the moment pressed into her chest, unfairly heavy, unfairly final. Her lips parted—maybe to call him back, maybe to curse him out, maybe just to say something, anything— But all that came out was a breathy, slurred: "Good man..." And that was it. Dra grabbed her elbow before she could tilt straight into the sand, steadying her with an amused grunt. She barely registered it. Barely felt anything except the strange, quiet emptiness curling in her gut. She didn't chase him. Didn't fight it. Just let him go. And Malik? He never looked back. Not once. This was goodbye. A ghost in her life. A name she would despise. A love story that never was. *** I don't know what to feel. Maybe I never will. Guess that's the price of knowing, that no matter what, I'd never be enough. Not enough to save you. Not enough to save us. So I'll collect the broken pieces, carry them as I do, wear them like scars that never fade. I hate that moving on, means leaving things behind. Like I'm walking forward, but only half alive. And in another life? Maybe things will be different. Maybe when I look into your eyes, I'll see a beautiful dream... A perfect paradise. Something we can hold onto. Something that doesn't slip away. But it's not meant to be this time. Not this life. Not even if I die a million times. ...If you ever find it in you to love me again, then let it be somewhere else. Somewhere far from here. Somewhere where none of this ever happened. In another life.

Chapter 150: In Another Life

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