Malik barely heard the final whisper, barely caught that last, broken word.
Then there was nothing. No breath. No pain. No more fights left to fight.
He didn’t move.
His hands still gripped the sword, fingers locked around the hilt.
It was a dead man’s grasp.
He stared down at Rehan’s body, at the way the blood pooled too quickly, at the stillness that settled too fast.
It wasn’t supposed to be this quiet.
Where was the next breath? The next heartbeat? The next damn argument?
Rehan always had something to say. Always had a quip, a joke, a curse, a knowing fucking smile. But now—
“…”
Now, there was just silence.
A sob ripped out of Malik’s throat before he could stop it.
He threw away the sword, let it clatter to the sand, and let his hands bury themselves in Rehan’s clothes as if that would stop his soul from slipping away.
“Hey…”
His voice cracked.
“Hey, come on, wake up…”
No answer.
“Rehan.”
Still nothing.
He shook him once, twice—desperate, angry, refusing.
But Rehan wasn’t there anymore.
His head still rested at that awful, final angle.
There were no miracles.
There were no more blinks.
This was it.
This was the end.
Malik let out a ragged, shaking breath.
“You stubborn bastard…”
His shoulders trembled.
“You won.”
He had accepted his failure.
None of this felt real. But it was.
Even if his own body felt like it was floating.
Even if his own body felt like it was detached.
All of this was Karma.
Karma for what he did to Layla.
So he sat there, feeling the last traces of warmth slowly fade from Rehan’s body.
He thought it’d feel different. He thought he’d feel something more than just this hollow emptiness gnawing at his insides. But there was nothing.
Just Layla—Layla?
Ah.
She was here.
Alive.
Standing among the few who had crawled out of this battle still breathing.
Her eyes locked onto his—wide, trembling, full of something raw and shaking apart at the seams. Like the world had just cracked open beneath her feet, and she was only now realizing there was no ground left to stand on.
She was hyperventilating. Frozen in place, shoulders jerking with every sharp, uneven breath. Her hands twitched at her sides like she wanted to move—toward him, away from him—like she didn’t know which instinct to trust.
That disbelief carved onto her face?
It was vicious. It cut deep, deeper than any blade ever could.
She was looking at him like he was something else entirely.
Like he wasn’t Malik.
Like he wasn’t the same man she had known for all those months.
Like she had just woken up to a nightmare where he was the monster.
Maybe she was right. Maybe she had always been right.
Maybe this was what he was.
Maybe this was all he had ever been.
He didn’t know.
Didn’t care to know.
Because none of it mattered now.
Thud.
Her legs gave out.
No warning… she just… crumpled.
Collapsed onto the bloodstained ground, body slack, breath hitched, mind overloaded.
“Shit.”
Malik’s hands twitched towards her but hesitated.
The others didn’t allow him to get close to her.
They had their weapons up, on guard.
He looked at them and then sighed.
“Help her.”
Someone moved.
He didn’t even register who, gaze no longer on them.
Malik didn’t move. Didn’t unravel this misunderstanding.
Couldn’t.
Because right now, in this moment, with Rehan’s blood still drying on his hands—
What the Hell could he even say?
He looked down.
Rehan’s lifeless body.
The man who had laughed with so much warmth, who had spoken of dreams like they were tangible things.
Gone.
Because Malik had chosen, and Layla was still here.
He had made his choice, and now he had to live with it.
“Sorry if I get rough, Rehan.”
***
{Outside The Projection}
The projection had finally paused.
Finally.
Breaths were released as a response.
But that was all. No one spoke. No one moved, and it wasn’t only the hall.
The entire world had gone still.
Not a single soul had reacted.
Not to Malik’s meeting.
Not to his fuckup.
Not to his return.
Not to his battle.
Not to his decision.
Not to his million failures.
Not to his intense speech.
Not to that final battle.
The one that displayed how he became their Sultan.
A battle that went way beyond flesh and steel.
Not to Ali Baba’s—no, Rehan’s—sacrifice, one that had burned his name into their souls.
And yet, despite all of this, the volume ended, and the next began, seamless, unrelenting.
Still, no one reacted.
Not because they didn’t care. Not because they weren’t moved.
It was because it was too much.
Too raw.
Too fast.
Their emotions simply couldn’t keep up.
So the world outside the projection became something else.
Something hollow.
Suq Al-Khamis, a marketplace always lively with shouting merchants and bargaining, had, for the first time in its operational life, become silent. The winds that carried the scent of spices and sizzling meats had stilled. Conversations that had once layered atop one another had died before they could begin again.
Eyes stared upward. Breaths were held, chests unmoving.
There were no murmurs, no whispers of disbelief, no gasps, or sharp intakes of breath.
Just the weight of something heavy and unseen pressing down on them all, a stillness that had wrapped itself around their throats like a noose.
A storyteller sitting amongst children remained unmoving, hands trembling against the edges of her shawl.
Her voice had long since failed her, her throat too tight, too dry, to utter another word.
A child, barely old enough to understand, sat on their mother’s lap, their tiny fingers clutching the fabric of her robe.
The mother didn’t answer her child’s silent call; she just pressed her lips to the top of their head, squeezing her eyes shut.
A preacher known for his booming voice and silver tongue wiped at his face with unsteady hands… he had no speech to give.
A warrior standing guard outside a village, arms crossed, stared at the ground, his jaw clenched so tight it might’ve turned to dust. Your adventure continues at My Virtual Library Empire
In a red-light district, a woman, her veil trembling from the force of her hidden sobs, bit her lip until it bled.
In a dimly lit tavern, a barkeep with arms thicker than tree trunks stopped mid-pour, ale spilling over the rim of a wooden mug. He didn’t bother wiping it. His lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes fixed on the projection as if staring hard enough would make the story change.
A gambler in a smoke-filled den clutched his dice so hard his knuckles turned white. His winning streak forgotten, his pile of coins untouched.
He had watched it all, cheered at fights, and laughed at funny moments. But this?…
In a noble’s lavish courtyard, a silk-clad woman holding a glass of date wine let it slip from her fingers, shattering against the marble floor.
She had never met either man, but she knew loss.
Oh, she knew loss… but not this. It wasn’t this. Never this.
In the back alleys of a slum, a street urchin curled up against a crate, knees drawn to his chest. His hands clenched around a stolen scrap of bread, uneaten. He had never known a father, but he understood hunger—the kind that had nothing to do with food.
A scholar in an ivory tower let his quill still, ink blotting against parchment. He always sought knowledge, always prided himself on being detached. But words failed him now. There was no analysis for grief like this.
A blacksmith, hands calloused from years at the forge, gripped his hammer with white-knuckled force. He turned away from the projection, but the ringing in his ears remained—Malik’s words, Rehan’s words, the unspoken weight of it all.
A priest outside a church turned his gaze skyward to the disappearing twelve moons above. He exhaled, long and slow, before muttering a quiet prayer. Not for himself. Not for wealth. But for a man who had died a million times and a son who had failed a million.
No one spoke.
Not really.
Because it was too fast.
Because the weight of what had just unfolded was too much.
Because grief—real grief—did not come in a rush of tears or a wail of despair. No, real grief settled in like sand in a storm, filling every crack, every empty space, until it was all-consuming. Until it became a part of you.
And so, they stood there, outside the projection, in a world that felt like a funeral.
The story had not given them time to react.
But it had taken everything from them nonetheless.
Inside the Sultan’s Hall was a similar story.
The heads of many had lowered.
Eyes had shut. Bodies had trembled with sobs.
They looked hurt… thinking hurt… feeling hurt.
Those in the front would’ve been the same if not for Layla.
All their gazes were stuck on her. Unable to be pried away.
And the girl herself?
She wasn’t still.
She wasn’t silent.
Her whole body was trembling, sobbing loudly. Her hands hide her face, clawing at it.
Her chest rose. Fell. Rose again—too fast.
She tried to breathe, tried to steady herself, tried to think, but nothing made sense.
Because this wasn’t a story to her.
It wasn’t a lesson, or a legend, or something to be analyzed, debated, dissected.
This was him.
This was her father.
And he was gone.
She swallowed, but it didn’t help.
Her throat was too tight, her lungs too small, her heart beating so fast she thought it might break her ribs.
Her mouth opened, and this time, the word came out.
Only she had dared to react. To speak.
It was small. Shaky.
Weak in a way that had nothing to do with strength.
“…Baba.”
Layla couldn’t breathe.
Her voice had broken on that single word, and now there was nothing left.
She had spent centuries hating Malik. Despising him. Calling him a murderer, a usurper, a betrayer. She had cursed his name in the quiet of night, let her anger fester like rot in her bones. Even when he tried—God, he had tried—to explain, to tell her the truth, she had turned away. Called them excuses. Justifications. Lies.
But they weren’t.
They never were.
Her father had chosen his end. Rehan had chosen. He had won. He had sacrificed himself, left Malik behind to carry the weight of it alone. And Malik, that stubborn, broken fool—he had taken it all. Without protest. Without hatred. Without ever blaming her for how she spit venom at him every time she saw his face.
Oh… what had she done?
What had she done?
‘You should’ve picked me… h-husband. You should’ve picked me…’