Ali Baba leaned forward.
“Now, let’s talk coin—”
“230.”
Malik cut in.
Ali Baba blinked. So did Layla.
Malik kept his expression firm.
“That’s my price.”
He leaned back, settling in, eyes watching every little shift in Ali Baba’s face.
“You need good fighters. Trusted fighters. The road south is rough, worse for a group like yours.”
Ali Baba tilted his head.
“A group like ours?”
Malik shrugged.
“One Thousand Nights aren’t exactly welcome everywhere, are they?”
His tone was casual, but he saw how Ali Baba’s fingers twitched slightly.
“Merchants from the Dark Continent? Half the cities here try to tax you harder; some won’t even let you camp near their gates. If trouble comes, you need numbers. Trusted numbers. And from what I’ve seen, you’re a little short on that.”
Layla’s arms tightened over her chest, but said nothing.
Ali Baba, though—he just chuckled, low and thoughtful.
“You see much, my friend.”
“I see enough. You don’t want to seem desperate. But again, you need fighters, and that means paying for them… If you accept my offer, I’ll swear on my mother’s name that I’d die to protect you.”
Ali Baba raised a brow, surprised at how his opponent was going about this, and drummed his fingers on the table.
“225.”
Malik acted like he was considering it.
“…235.”
“Bastard.”
Layla cursed under her breath, clearly frustrated.
Ali Baba waved her shut and sighed, rubbing his temple.
“You drive a hard bargain.”
Malik smirked…
‘This time, I win.’
But then froze.
He saw it—the tightness in Ali Baba’s jaw, the way his shoulders squared just a little… and the obvious hit him.
‘This man already gave me the best he could afford.’
Last time, he had gotten two hundred and fifteen. He believed he was conned out of getting what he was worth. But now, watching Ali Baba’s face, he knew the truth.
One Thousand Nights couldn’t afford more. Not without putting strain on the caravan. Not without taking from someone else. Ali Baba hadn’t lowballed him. No, he had done his best.
‘…Fuck. I’m a bastard, aren’t I?’
For a long moment, Malik just looked at the man across from him.
‘Not everyone’s out to bleed you dry. Some people just have limits.’
He seemed to have forgotten that.
‘You don’t want to seem desperate… Huh. Sure.’
Yeah. He had gotten that.
“215.”
Ali Baba’s head snapped up. Layla did too, her brow furrowing.
“”What?””
Malik shrugged, voice easy.
“215. That’s fair.”
Ali Baba studied him long and careful, then nodded.
“Done.”
That word came quick—like he was afraid of giving him a chance to reconsider.
Layla, though, was staring at Malik like he had just grown a second head.
“You had baba… Why step back?”
“…”
He didn’t answer.
Seeing that, she lowered her head.
“Thank you.”
Malik waved her off.
“No need. Pleasure doing business with you…”
He stood, stretching.
“And I hope we have a peaceful journey ahead.”
Layla didn’t move, still looking at him like he had just done something she couldn’t understand. Like he had done something stupid. Or something kind.
She couldn’t exactly decide which.
Either way, with that, their journey to the South began.
Hooooooooooooooooooooooooot!
But it didn’t come without interruption.
Though it was the first time Malik heard that sound, he immediately knew who it belonged to.
He thought about ignoring it, pretending he never heard it, but his legs moved before he could think.
The moment he was out of Ali Baba’s and Layla’s sight, he bolted.
His boots barely made a sound against the ground as he wove between the tents and carriages, slipping past resting merchants and dozing guards.
Malik didn’t know why he was running like this, with such desperation, but something deep in his gut told him—he had to see it.
And then, there it was.
Perched atop a weathered wooden post, bathed in the glow of the Shams.
The crimson owl.
Unlike last time, it was small, round, and ridiculously fluffy, but one thing remained unchanged.
There was nothing cute about the way it stared at him.
Malik slowed to stop a few feet away, panting slightly.
He stared at the owl.
The owl stared back.
Silence stretched.
Then—Hoot! Hoot! Hoot?!
Malik tilted his head.
“….What?”
Hoot… Hoot! Hoot! Hoot?!
“Are you… asking why I did that?…”
His voice came out even, though the question itself felt insane.
“Why I killed myself?”
The owl’s feathers ruffled slightly.
Hoot!
“Well…”
Malik ran a hand through his hair, exhaling.
“Just felt like I could’ve had a better entrance, y’know? Maybe squeeze a bit more coin out of the deal.”
Hoot?
“Yes, that’s it.”
He shrugged.
Continue your journey on My Virtual Library Empire
“Something wrong with that?”
The owl stared… harder? Right.
A long, unblinking, soul-piercing kind of stare.
…Hoot.
Malik narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t think you’re better than me… if you had the curse you’d abuse it too.”
Hoot!
It let out a “hmph” of sorts and looked away.
“Whatever… and wait. Are you God? Or ‘Their’ messenger?”
The owl looked at him weirdly and then shook its head.
Malik’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“Then how the Hell do you know about my Return by Death? And why did you help me?”
“…”
It didn’t answer. Instead, it did something even weirder.
Flapping its wings, it hovered for a moment, approached him, then gently pressed one against his back. Just for a second.
Then it was gone. Vanished into the light like a ghost, leaving behind nothing but silence.
Malik ran a hand down his face.
“Weird bird.”
For some reason, the owl, knowing of his curse, gave him no surprise.
Rather… some part of him felt that it was natural.
He didn’t know why, but that was what he felt.
It was weird, as weird as the bird itself.
“Maaaaaaaalik! Come here! We’re moving now!”
A voice snapped him out of it. Layla’s.
He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he turned back toward camp.
“Let’s hope this deal ain’t a bad one…”
***
{Outside The Projection}
“The fuck did I just watch?”
A younger man whispered first.
His words shattered the stillness.
“He—he was talkin’ to it. Like… like it was normal.”
“You saw it… The bird. It knew.”
“It really did.”
Someone repeated, this time louder, almost awed.
A ripple spread through the crowd, echoing more by the second.
Many of them had gone after the Sultan for so long, yet… none had known about his curse until yesterday.
The owl now in their midst had preceded them by hundreds of years.
“That owl ain’t normal.”
“Of course not, idiot. He’s Crimson. We’ve always known he was something different.”
A man in the back scoffed.
“Hah. And here I thought it was just a spoiled oversized chicken.”
A few chuckles escaped, but they died quickly.
Because at the front, Crimson sat, still as stone.
Eyes locked on the projection.
Unblinking.
…Hoot.
Soft. Almost trembling.
Tears welled in his massive pink eyes.
That was when Huda, who had been silent this whole time, finally moved.
She slowly got closer to his head, staring at him with a new, gnawing feeling in her chest.
Her movements were almost hesitant. Like she was approaching something sacred.
“…Crimson.”
The name came out barely above a whisper.
The massive owl didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t acknowledge her.
It just… stared at the projection.
Huda brought her hand to his face, patting the fluff.
“How did you know?”
The crowd quieted, all eyes snapping to her and the bird.
Even the wind seemed to hush.
“…”
Yet Crimson didn’t answer.
Didn’t even turn.
“You knew about Malik’s Return By Death, right? From the very start.”
“…”
Still, nothing.
She opened her mouth again, but before she could say another word—
Crimson replied. Though not with its usual hoots. Instead, it moved its massive head—slowly, gently—and rubbed it against her, the way an old creature would soothe a crying child.
Then, as if nothing had happened, it turned back to the projection.
And let its tears fall.
…Hoot.
A shiver ran through the crowd.
Because somehow, without words, they all understood.
The owl—Crimson—was mourning. For what exactly, none of them knew.
None of them had Malik’s inexplicable hoot knowledge. But the weight of it was heavy.
And for the first time, even the most skeptical among them didn’t see him as just an owl.
Not anymore.
***
{Inside The Projection}
The journey south had begun.
One Thousand Nights caravan rolled across the land with the rhythm of hooves and creaking wheels.
Malik, having absolutely no idea how to ride a steed—despite Layla’s many pointed remarks—found himself inside a carriage instead. It was one of the larger ones, filled with colorful cushions and a small brass lantern swaying from the ceiling.
Across from him sat Ali Baba, lounging with the ease of a man who knew his worth. Beside him, Layla sat cross-legged, flipping a small silver coin between her fingers. Glancing at his face every now and again.
Apparently, Ali Baba was quite the talker. The man had barely let the wheels turn for a mile before launching into a story and he went on until nightfall arrived, flowing from one topic to another. The whispered name of a supposedly dying God, the taste of a spice that no man had yet named, the location of a ruin that swallowed all who dared enter. Kingdoms that fell over a single misplaced sentence. A king without the right whispers. A thief without the right map. There was a library of rumors and knowledge inside that noggin of his.
“Ah, the Dark Continent…”
He sighed, leaning back.
“Your folks call it a wasteland… but that’s so far from the truth.”
Malik raised his chin at him.
“Then what’s the truth?”