Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death-Chapter 120: Carved Into Stone

"ATTACK!"

The smarter, more experienced ones quickly raised their shields, blocking out most of the projectiles.

The weaker, dumber, and naive ones? The ones who were still a little wet behind their ears?

They stared at death itself.

"SHIELDS UP YOU MORONS!!"

Ali Baba’s desperate shout roused some of them. Yet. it wasn’t enough.

Half of them faced the same fate the guard before Malik had.

One of the younger guards, likely only a few years older than him, gawked up at the sky—eyes wide in terror—before an arrow pierced through his head.

He collapsed, blood soaking his tunic.

What followed was worse.

A steed shrieked, an arrow buried deep in its flank, buckling beneath its rider.

The man barely had time to scream before he was trampled into the dust.

Another man fell from his saddle, an arrow buried deep in his throat.

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Another screamed, clutching his leg where a jagged shaft had punched through.

The carriages groaned as they took arrow after arrow, splintering.

Death was all around them.

...It was a trap.

They’d walked into a neatly crafted one.

Ali Baba, still struggling to stand, took out a blue gem from his left sleeve, shattering it.

A dome of Aether suddenly surrounded them from all sides, standing between the caravan and death.

"Nononono—This—"

"An ambush?!"

"…"

The surroundings were filled with such thoughts. Then—

Crack!

The dome shattered.

One-time use? Time limit?

Such thoughts roamed around the golden-haired child’s mind.

Ambush. Calculated. Elemental attacks breaking through.

The rain followed right after.

’…Might take a blink. But… let’s figure this shit out first.’

Malik’s grip on the reins had tightened, his curved sword raised high.

He needed just a second to activate his ability but even that he wasn’t given.

Layla, behind him, sat frozen—her hands gripping his cloak, fingers trembling. Again.

She was terrified.

In the beginning, he seemed to have it under control but then came another three-pronged arrow.

One that targeted them and only them.

It hit hard and fast, rumbling his entire body and shooting off his steel into the ground.

Now... he had nothing to defend himself with, and more were still coming.

"Malik—!"

She didn’t even get to finish; his sudden movement pausing her words.

With instinct, not thought, he twisted in the saddle, yanked her into his arms, and wrapped her in his cloak.

Just as he did that...

THWIP!

A single tracking arrow—meant for her throat—sank deep into his shoulder.

"Ugh..."

A burst of burning pain radiated through his body, and yet, he didn’t flinch.

He had to keep her safe. That was the only thing that mattered. His pain? His body breaking down? None of that meant shit.

"Malik!"

Layla’s scream was muffled against his chest, her hands clutching him, desperate.

And still—the arrows kept falling.

One.

Two.

Three.

Each one punched through flesh, sinking deep, rattling against bone.

By now, he looked ridiculous—like some cursed, half-dead porcupine.

And yet death wasn’t coming for them. At least not yet.

Ali Baba raised his staff high into the air.

"DEATH WALL!"

The words boomed like thunder, and a pulse of black Aether exploded outward, a wave of decay ripping across the land.

Incoming arrows withered midair, their wood rotting into dust, their steel tips crumbling into blackened fragments.

But not all enjoyed such a fate.

A few arrows made it past the wave, striking wagons and grazing flesh.

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Right after that, a second horn resounded, breaking an... illusion?

The "rock formations" ahead rippled and shattered, revealing the truth.

Dark figures. A horde of them. Masked, armored in scavenged gear, sprinting towards them with weapons drawn. Swords, axes, spears—all catching the last light of the dying sun.

Their stomps deafened the ears, and the caravan soon found themselves encircled and pounced upon—predators upon a meek herd of deer.

The only difference between the meek herd and them was simple.

...This herd knew how to fight back.

"WE MEET THEIR CHARGE!"

Ali Baba’s roar shook the battlefield.

The guards who still had their spines left gritted their teeth and fell into position. Weapons raised. Their caravan was under siege, and they would ensure its survival.

But Malik could already see it. Fear. Doubt. And... cowardice.

Not all were honest men. Rather, most of them weren’t.

Those who had sworn their steel to the caravan looked at the swarm of bandits and made their decision, bolting without a second thought.

Some even tossed aside their weapons.

They just ran. Leaving the caravan to fend for itself.

"Worthless bastards..."

Malik snarled.

He swung off his steed and grabbed Layla, ignoring her yelp of protest.

"Malik, let go! You’re injured!"

She thrashed, trying to plant her feet while he dragged her to the nearest carriage.

"You can’t do this to me!"

He yanked the door open and shoved her inside.

"Malik—!"

The door slammed shut.

Click.

He locked it.

"STAY HERE."

His voice was cold, final.

Fists pounded against the wood.

"MALIK, I CAN HELP!"

"You’re not a fighter."

"NEITHER ARE THEY!"

That made him pause.

He looked at the scattered remains of their defense. At the few remaining fighters, standing firm but horribly outnumbered. At the merchants—the ones who couldn’t fight.

Their children were shoved in carriages, behind crates. Women clutched whatever they could find—knives, skewers, even their own fists—joining their men.

And the guards who were paid to fight? Mostly all were running.

Willful traitors… all.

"Fucking cowards."

One of them—the same annoying mercenary he never bothered to learn the name of—grabbed his arm.

"LET’S GO, BROTHER!"

He was frantic; his eyes were wild with fear.

"..."

Malik didn’t move.

"LET’S JUST GO, MAN! THIS SHIT IS A LOST CAUSE!"

The guard shook him violently, pleading.

"WHY EVEN BOTHER WITH THESE HEXBLOODS?!"

Ah... he shouldn’t have said that. He really shouldn’t have.

It snapped something inside Malik.

He didn’t know the exact meaning of those words but he had a solid guess.

That was enough.

Schwing!

His curved sword flashed.

A wet, gurgling choke... silence.

The man staggered, his hands flying to his throat—fingers weakly grasping at the deep wound. Blood spilled in thick, bubbling streams. His eyes—wide, unfocused—were no longer looking at Malik. They were looking through him.

Then, he fell.

Malik exhaled slowly and turned to the battle.

Ali Baba was at the front, alone. Locked in a fight with bandits twice his size, Magi, staff flashing, deflecting, countering, killing one after another—but for how long?

Malik swung his left hand to his back and pulled out all the arrows.

Without a single grunt, he stepped forward.

"...I’ll kill you all."

***

{Outside The Projection}

Not a whisper sounded as the projection paused—Malik standing there, sword dripping, his voice like steel grinding against stone:

"...I’ll kill you all."

And the crowd? They were frozen. Staring.

Then, like a flood breaking through a dam—"Damn, cowards!"

"The Sultan should’ve rock-stomped his head!"

"Deserters deserve worse!"

A hundred similar opinions clashed in the air, voices overlapping.

Not a single one of them even mentioned the whole porcupine fiasco.

Such a level of pain wasn’t noteworthy in comparison to what they got used to seeing.

A few dumbasses shook their heads, muttering about his brutality, but most grinned, excitement in their eyes, as if they were watching the making of a legend.

"Layla."

The front wasn’t so excited, though.

"Layla. Answer me."

Safira’s voice was soft. Careful.

"..."

She received no response.

Layla just didn’t seem to hear her.

She was staring at the Malik in the projection.

She felt like she was there... with him.

But she wasn’t. Not really.

She never was.

Her past was different.

She didn’t remember this.

’Heh...’

A sad smile tugged at her lips.

They battled those bandits, but not like this.

They were prepared. Malik knew they were coming.

His "instinct" told him of their attack. Right. His instinct.

That obviously meant one thing and one thing alone.

Malik had used it again.

Return by Death.

God knows how many times before he finally reached the outcome she knew.

She swallowed hard.

The thought made her sick.

How many times had he died?

How many times had he relived this nightmare until he got it right?

Until he killed her father? Was it perhaps the key to their survival? Was that the only way Malik saw them surviving?

Her fingers curled into fists.

Back then, in their final battle against the bandits, she had wanted to go.

She begged to join them, to fight alongside him. But she wasn’t ready. She would’ve been a burden.

Layla had only Ascended and learned a few basic spells.

After that, well, she cultivated at random and never learned any combat skills.

She didn’t see it as something she needed. Her guards were there for a reason.

That all changed with his betrayal, however.

That was it.

The point of no return.

The moment everything—her future, her choices, her very existence—got carved into stone, whether she liked it or not.

’Do you remember?’

Safira had been biting her tongue this whole time, itching to ask that.

Maybe for the tenth time.

But then she saw it.

That look.

So... Safira shut up.

Some things didn’t need to be said.