Chapter 200: Knife To The Throat

Words : 1202 Updated : Sep 23rd, 2025

Dive into Chapter 200 of "Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death": *** {Outside The Projection} The moment IT was mentioned, the hall shifted. Not in any way one could... Find out more!

*** {Outside The Projection} The moment IT was mentioned, the hall shifted. Not in any way one could point to and say, "Ah, see, that's changed." Yeah, no. This was different. Like a soft whisper in the wind, something stirred in their minds. A ripple of memories, blurred and distorted, came and went so fast it might as well have never been there. Yet they all felt it. A prickling at the nape. A tightness in the chest. A moment of weightlessness. They felt like mortals standing on the edge of a great height with no railing to catch them. And then—gone. Like a breath exhaled. Like nothing had happened at all. There was no, "...The fuck was that?" No. It was gone. All it took was a beat. The hall snapped back, pulling them away from the abyss and into the moment. "Guess I'm in the war business now." "Pfft—hahaha!" Azeem snorted, shaking his head. "A break, huh? Oh, he just walked right into that one." Duban smirked on-screen, mirrored by the older one standing nearby. "Yeah, well, the bastard was never good at staying out of trouble." "I don't get it." One of the younger spectators frowned. "Why would he just accept? Isn't it kinda... I dunno. Stupid? Aligning himself with them would only make him more enemies." "Yeah? So, what did you want him to do? Leave empty-handed? No gold, no favors, just a wasted meeting and a new enemy? Ain't no way he was gonna let that happen. It's a better path for him, even if it's reckless." "Reckless?" A scoff. "It's the Sultan. That's basically his middle name." "And YOU think he had a choice?" Another voice cut in, laced with amusement. "Nasir practically cornered him." "Psh, please." The scarred woman—who had clearly seen far too much—raised both hands in exasperation. "That wasn't a corner. That was a damn throne wrapped in silk and studded with rubies." A ripple of agreement spread through the hall. "I still say he got the better end of the deal." "Oh? And how's that?" "Twenty-four gold pieces, my friend. That ain't chump change." "Yeah, but a war, man. A war. You think gold's worth all that?" "To him?" The silver-bearded man tilted his head. "Maybe." "Besides! Do you lot really think this Nasir fellow would let him go with just that?" Azeem, clearly enjoying the Hell out of this—enough to forget everything that went down for a moment—interjected. "If he walked away, Nasir would've found another way to keep him in the loop. Might as well be upfront about it." "Smart man." "Dangerous man." "Same thing." A lull. Then— "Okay, but real talk?" Another of the younger ones leaned forward. "That whole 'Banū Sulaymān' thing? Gave me chills." "You too?" A third shuddered. "It just... I dunno. It felt old. Like, older than anything else we've seen so far." "Well, yeah." Someone gestured broadly. "The Sun ain't just a title, you know. Solomon was—he was something else. To claim his bloodline ain't light talk." "Mm. Makes you wonder." "Wonder what?" "How much of that legend is real." "Tch. More than you'd like to know." "You think the Sultan is a Banū Sulaymān, too?" "No way. His bastard father? Nah, no way." "I dunno, he seems more like an Al-Assad to me." "Heh, I see it. A family somehow even older than the Sun." What followed those words was laughter—no one there could even pretend to take that seriously. The banter kept rolling, and just like that, the weight of earlier moments faded, buried under easy conversation. "You know, I kinda respect it." "What, the deal?" "No. The whole thing. Sultan knew the game, and he played it well. He ain't some clueless Jinn taking scraps. He sees the board." "And he moves." "Damn right he moves." Someone else clicked their tongue. "Yeah, but the real question is—what made him kill them this time?" The thought settled among them. The projection was paused. The tragedy was not. "Guess we'll find out soon enough." Safira internally begged for that 'soon enough' to arrive quickly. She'd skip to it if she could, ignore the build-up, jump straight into tragedy. That'd have her better off. Honestly, anything to act like that didn't happen. She could not have the world see any of it. Shame would be the least of her troubles. *** {Inside The Projection} As a beggar, Malik had been in plenty of war rooms before—so many, in fact, that he considered himself something of a veteran. Strategic discussions, tactical debates, the weight of life-and-death decisions... all of it deeply familiar. Of course, in reality, those 'war rooms' had been nothing more than a bunch of pissed-off bastards huddled around a dying campfire, arguing over whose turn it was to slit a throat, burn a house, or rob a traveling merchant blind. The only battle plans they made were about who got first pick of the loot and how fast they could get away before the Faraja came looking. Malik had never been one of them, not really. He always sat at the edges, listening, memorizing, learning who was about to get hit next. Because the only thing worse than starving in the streets was getting caught in the middle of a raid, and Malik had made damn sure that the 'someone' whose night was about to get ruined was never him. It hadn't always worked. He'd taken his share of hits, gotten caught up in more messes than he cared to count. But he was still here, wasn't he? And them? Well... They'd have likely died by now, or perhaps they had finally struck gold. Either way, those slavers and their kin weren't on his mind right now. They'd pay their price eventually. Of that, he was sure. But today? Today, there was a different war room in front of him. One that actually mattered. "Alright." Nasir clapped his hands. "Let's get this shit over with. Oh, and Stranger, you'll have the first floor of Last Stand for yourself; don't annoy the neighbors too much." A few chuckles resounded in response. One guy—the biggest in the room, scars all over his arms—just grunted. Malik smirked. "Sounds cozy." Nasir snorted. "Enjoy it while you can. The war's picking up pace." That wiped the smirk right off his face. One of the older guys—gray beard—leaned forward and tapped the map. "We both got numbers and weapons. But the Holy Kingdom's got two things we don't." "Money and glass." Malik guessed, and Graybeard nodded. "Exactly." Another guy, younger, impatient, waved a hand. "The glass mines are the real issue." Malik turned towards him. "Explain." Nasir cut in: "You ever fought against a bastard holding a knife to a kid's throat?" Malik shook his head, and Nasir leaned forward. "You move too fast? They cut. You push too hard? They cut. You do anything they don't like, and—" He made a slicing motion across his neck. "Gone. Just like that."

Chapter 200: Knife To The Throat

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