***
{Outside The Projection}
“THERE’S NO GOD BUT THE TRUE SULTAN!”
Some fanatic shouted, breaking a breath-long trance, and many followed.
“THERE’S NO GOD BUT THE TRUE SULTAN!”
“THERE’S NO GOD BUT THE TRUE SULTAN!”
“THERE’S NO GOD BUT THE TRUE SULTAN!”
“THERE’S NO GOD BUT THE TRUE SULTAN!”
It seemed that witnessing Hell on Fam Iblis had reminded the religious factions, mainly Templar, of their mouths’ existence, prompting roars that were long from reaching an end.
They weren’t the only ones, as the rest of the crowd had also erupted.
“Did you see that?! Did you SEE that?!”
A broad-shouldered man turned wildly to those around him, face twisted in shock.
“He actually—he actually—”
“He ran through No Man’s Land like a mad dog!”
“By the Divine, I thought he was dead five times over!”
“A hundred! No, a thousand times! Look at him!”
“The Sultan’s half a corpse, and he just—he—jumped straight into the Edge.”
That single statement sobered some of the noise.
A wiry, older man let out a breath.
“May the sands be merciful.”
His eyes were still fixed on the projection above, where the image of Malik vanishing into darkness remained frozen.
“No mercy to be had.”
Someone muttered, a young merchant, arms crossed.
“The Sultan just threw himself into the deepest of chasms without any preparation.”
“And yet here we are…”
A woman in veils, rings glittering on her fingers, scoffed.
“It went dark, but I doubt he died.”
“True. It didn’t blink yet, so I’m sure he’s still alive.”
“I can’t believe it. He did something that no one of us, even now, would ever dare to do…”
“I guess the curse is affecting his thinking a lot more than he lets on.”
Both of those Magi were right in saying that.
None of them had dared to dive without preparation, and that didn’t change, even now.
Not without protection. Not without a caravan lined with Holy Relics, with Men Of God whispering prayers, with layers upon layers of enchanted cloth to shield them from the Shams’ wrath.
Malik had done it with nothing. No relics. No caravan. No companions.
He was tortured as a result.
Burnt. Peeled. Melted.
Yet, he still moved forward.
Still pushed through.
Alone.
And he succeeded.
“That…”
A scarred woman rasped, adjusting the scarf around her neck.
“Is the mind of a Sultan.”
A few nodded. Others just stared at the projection.
For all of Malik’s strength, for all of his sheer, unstoppable will…
He had just thrown himself into the Edge.
There, he’d be met with dreams that shatter.
Who would he lean against? Who?
Would he survive what awaited him in that darkness?
Or were they about to witness another nightmare of death?
“May God guide him.”
The crowd murmured similar sentiments, some with genuine reverence, others simply because there was nothing else left to say.
But for all the talk, for all the words, one fact remained:
None of them could look away.
They wanted to see what happened next so badly.
The same applied to those in the front, though most of them were more preoccupied with internal thoughts, lost in a somber world.
Especially Layla, Huda, and Safira, still stuck in that whispered dream.
But then, the voice of the one man who, despite everything, just had to be that guy, returned.
“Are you all blind?! That wasn’t impressive! That was STUPID!”
Heads turned. Eyes rolled. Some sighed, already bracing themselves for the nonsense about to spew forth.
The dumbass—his name unstated, because who actually cared—puffed out his chest, hands flailing wildly as he struggled to reclaim the attention of the crowd.
“No, no, NO! You can’t just watch that and think, ‘Oh wow, what a great man!’ HE’S A FUCKING MORON!”
He was seething, nearly foaming at the mouth, eyes bulging with the force of his indignation.
“A CERTIFIED, GRADE-A, SAND-BAKED MORON! Did he prepare? NO. Did he bring any Holy Relics? NO. Did he even bother to listen to one thing the elders said? NO!”
This was his moment. Finally, after all the suffering, he was given a chance to lash out and he took it without hesitation.
“He went in with no backup, NO PLAN! That wasn’t bravery—that was the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life!”
He turned in a slow circle, waiting for someone—anyone—to back him up.
“…”
“…”
“…”
Silence.
A few people coughed. Others stared at him like a particularly persistent fly buzzing around their food. One man idly scratched his beard, giving a drawn-out, unimpressed sigh.
Though his points held some merit, that was only on first glance; any dissection of his words would cripple them.
There was no need for any to even be mentioned.
Undeterred, the dumbass doubled down.
“You all don’t get it! He’s not a Sultan! He’s an idiot! A reckless, brainless, self-destructive madman! Just because he pulled it off doesn’t mean it wasn’t stupid! Are you all seriously impressed by that?! Are you all really just gonna sit there and act like—”
“Brother.”
His once dumbass in crime finally interrupted, voice laced with exhaustion.
“I don’t know what he did to you, but… Let it go.”
“NO, I WON’T LET IT GO!”
The dumbass king screeched, veins popping in his forehead.
“That was the most asinine, imbecilic, death-wishing nonsense I’ve ever seen! And you’re all applauding it?!”
He turned to an older man, someone clearly seasoned by years in the dunes, expecting at least some agreement.
“You! You’ve been here longer than most of us! Would you ever do something that insane?!”
The old man scratched his chin, seemingly pondering. Then, after a long pause, he shrugged.
“No. But I also am not the Sultan.”
The crowd murmured in agreement.
“Yeah, exactly.”
“The Sultan is different.”
“Above us by leaps and bounds.”
“A madman, sure, but still a legend.”
The dumbass sputtered.
“You—you—you’re all insane.”
No one even looked at him anymore.
The conversation had already moved on, people discussing Malik’s endurance, his sheer will, and how the Shams itself had failed to stop him.
The dumbass stood there, fists clenched, shoulders heaving, absolutely alone in his war to smear Malik’s image.
No matter what they said, he would never let this go.
Never.