Malik’s vision was still adjusting to the fancy hall he found himself in, confused as to what the Hell had just happened.
But even then, when he didn’t know right from left, he heard the man’s voice loud and clear.
“I, Zafar, announce that this VILLAIN is defeated!”
He was a villain? Since when? And who the fuck was he to—
‘I know him.’
Malik joined the trend and cut his own thoughts off as information; no… memories about this twink of a man resurfaced.
Zafar Al-Nadir.
A figure he could only describe as obnoxiously heroic.
A goody-two-shoes, an ignorant hypocrite, a naive and incredibly lucky bastard that had all his shit handed to him.
The very antithesis of Malik.
Truly, a fitting “hero” of this story.
His looks weren’t too bad either, unlike a certain someone.
He was lean, dressed in layers of vibrant fabric with golden embroidery, mimicking a people of old.
A curved blade, far too fancy for proper combat, was strapped to his hip.
His face was decently handsome, eyes a soft brown, his hair white, reaching his neck.
He held his head high, looking down at Malik, his smile annoyingly perfect.
‘This guy’s definitely the main character of whatever mess I’m in.’
Zafar was the head of a grand coalition, a patchwork of different guilds united for one single purpose: to kill the “Villain.”
And judging by the state of Malik’s body—or what he guessed was his body—Zafar had succeeded.
But Zafar wasn’t the only one of importance… he wasn’t the only ‘character’ in this ‘play.’
And that was to be expected; after all, what was a “hero” without his “heroines?”
Standing beside him, fuming with resentment, was Huda.
His own fucking sister.
Her pink eyes twitched repeatedly as she barely stopped her tears from flowing.
She was just that angry, giving Malik a look that would kill him a million times over if it could.
Huda was a petite girl, her hair crimson, long enough to reach her waist.
It blended quite nicely with the royal pink dress she wore.
‘…Why?’
As Malik took in her appearance, his stomach twisted.
Memories bubbled up again, like a half-forgotten dream, unbidden and painful.
She wasn’t just some Noble. She was the head of a family of Sultans, Al-Sayf, rulers of sand and sun, wielders of an unfathomable number of Magi.
And now, she stood against him.
Against her own brother.
The next figure had a presence that was impossible to ignore.
She was the only one sitting, and her throne wasn’t even on the ground.
It was high up, near the hall’s ceiling, looking over everything.
Noor Al-Ayan, the reincarnated princess.
Unlike the others, she carried herself with an air of detached amusement, like this entire scene was a play staged for her entertainment.
It was a mask, sure, but the others couldn’t even manage that.
She wore a Bedlah, a fitted top, a hip belt, and a full-length skirt.
It was wildly out of place among the shared aesthetic.
Her dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, her eyes hidden by a veil that covered her face.
Malik remembered her too.
She was once a student of his; now? The owner of the most famous company on the planet, an empire that dwarfed kingdoms in influence and wealth.
A system came with her reincarnation—a gift from whatever cosmic dice roll had landed her here—made her untouchable. Unstoppable.
Well… at least to anyone except Malik.
The fourth figure made him feel an unplaceable emotion.
Roya Al-Ra’i, the broker of secrets. A regressor, and also an ex-student.
She didn’t shine like the others, didn’t radiate power or royalty.
Instead, she was quiet, almost unassuming, her blonde hair typical, her white robes making her out to be like any other person there.
But her blue eyes… they were sharper than anyone else’s.
Malik remembered them vividly.
After all, she was the one who brought everything together, the one who ensured his chains were unbreakable, a Holy Relic, one of the Ten Commandments.
Roya wasn’t just an information broker; she was THE information broker.
Her guild spanned the entire planet, her web of spies and informants unrivaled.
Nothing happened on Fam Iblis without Roya knowing about it.
And now, she stood against him too.
Finally, there was Safira Al-Hayat, a transmigrator.
If Roya’s presence was a quiet storm, Safira’s was a gentle breeze.
She stood with an air of kindness, motherly almost, her soft features and flowing green dress almost at odds with the cruelty of the world they lived in.
Her long ginger hair shimmered, making Malik remember the countless people who had called her the “Fairy of Devil’s Maw.”
Unlike the others, she wasn’t only his student; she was his sole disciple.
That thought hit Malik harder than he expected.
She had once looked up to him, trusted him, even admired him… but now?
Now she stood with the others holding a blade above his neck, her green eyes filled not with anger but with pity.
‘I don’t need your pity.’
Malik clenched his fists—or at least, he tried to, but couldn’t.
His body was chained, knees dug into the ground, his arms spread out like a sacrificial lamb.
The chains covered him from head to toe, originating from a broken fabric of space.
He tried to move, struggle, and push against them, but his body felt dead as if he had zero control over it.
Malik could only breathe, blink, and look, like a man on his deathbed.
But then, just as he was about to pause his thoughtless attempts at escape, like a ghost rising from the grave, a man appeared.
Malik’s eyes immediately tracked him, but none of the others before him did, quickly making him realize that only he could see him.
The man had an appearance similar to Malik’s, though taller, much more handsome and scar-free.
He had ear-length golden hair with flicks of red and a tail-like end that reached his lower back.
His eyes were a bright gold, not the beautiful kind of gold, but the kind that made your very soul shiver.
Though Malik wasn’t as affected by them, likely due to the man’s current state, appearing like a faded photograph, his body translucent.
‘You’re in my body.’
Malik blinked, unsure how to respond.
‘Uh… yeah, I kinda noticed that.’
The man chuckled, his voice weary.
‘I’ve been hanging on for a while, but I’m done… Now this is your problem to deal with.’
‘Wait, what?’
Malik stared at him.
‘You’re just… handing your body over? No fight? No big plot twist? Like, ‘Here you go, buddy, enjoy the mess’?!’
The man shrugged, his form already starting to dissolve.
‘I’ve had enough… I just want to rest. But don’t worry…’
He paused, a faint smile playing on his lips.
‘You’ll remember everything when I’m gone.’
Before Malik could protest, the man’s body shimmered, breaking apart into tiny specks of light.
Some of those lights drifted toward him, sinking into his chest.
What he didn’t notice, though, was a few stray ones—pink and black—slipping into him too.
And sure enough, the floodgates opened.
Memories surged through him—images, emotions, knowledge—all crashing into his mind like a tidal wave.
He saw everything the man had experienced, everything he had done, everything that had led to this moment.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over.
Malik was no longer just himself. He was someone else too, a ‘Villain.’ A man contradictory to himself.
He looked back at the five who stood before him, the ones who killed the original owner of this body.
Slowly, something dark and visceral bubbled up inside him.
Rage.
Unforgiving, unrelenting rage.
His gaze bore into them, his body trembling.
He wanted to scream, to shout, to curse them all.
‘I WON’T FORGIVE YOU!’
But unfortunately, his roar was heard only within his mind.
Malik wanted to end their lives right at that very moment, but, again…
He was trapped, powerless.
Yet his eyes did show helplessness, not even close.
‘…Just how can I get out of this?
And then, as if answering his very thoughts, a voice resounded.
It was deep. Dangerous. Alluring.
{Would you like to witness your real history, your Path?}
Malik’s breath hitched.
The voice’s power was intoxicating, impossible to resist.
{Would you like to make it past your Promised Day?}
‘…I do.’
{Would you like to become a True King?}
‘I DO!’
{If so, repeat after me…}
{Bassorāh1.}
‘BASSORĀH!’
{…}
“…”
{…}
“…”
{…}
“…”
Many paths came together.
The world paused.
Bassor-Āh means “where many paths come together.”