***
{Outside The Projection}
“What the hell?! What happened?!”
“Why’d the memories just cut off like that?!”
“Did he pass out?! Or… or did someone take him out?”
“But who?! There was literally no one else there!”
The crowd blew up like a volcano, each Magi shouting over the other.
“Maybe that bastard had a Scroll or something.”
“Scroll? No way a fucker like that could afford one.”
“Then how the fuck do you explain it, huh?!”
“He’s right. That’s the only way this makes any sense.”
“True. That Seeker lost the fight.”
“Guess all the training in the world doesn’t mean jack when you’re leaking like a sieve.”
Even those in the front weren’t safe from the mood boiling over.
Malik’s desperation was there for all to see.
And it was visceral—raw. Ugly.
Like a monster stuck in a foot trap, throwing everything it had left at its hunter.
None of them could look away.
Because, deep down, they all knew—this wasn’t something just anyone could do.
Even those many tens of times older.
That kind of determination? That single-minded, ice-cold resolve?
It was on a whole different level.
The way he sat there, watching Rafiq struggle like a dying fish on sand.
No pity, no hesitation, just cold eyes…
Yeah, that was when they saw it.
The kid who’d fought like hell wasn’t just some scrappy little punk anymore.
They saw the Sultan.
Layla’s heart broke a little at that sight.
‘It… started.’
This was it—the beginning of his change.
The start of him becoming the man she’d eventually know as her husband.
And unsurprisingly to all, the one who was hurt the most by that was Huda.
She remained on the ground, curled up, tears blurring her vision, whispering, “I’m sorry,” over and over, blaming herself for everything.
***
{Inside The Projection}
Malik awoke to unbearable pain.
Every inch of his body screamed, protested, begged for mercy he wasn’t going to get.
He couldn’t even see straight, his world spinning, dizzying, and dark.
It felt as if a thousand tons pressed down on him with each ragged breath.
‘I… have to move… get back to them. Sinbad… Huda…’
He needed to…
Rafiq wasn’t there!
But his legs?
His legs felt like they were made of lead.
He tried to push himself up, but his arms were weak, useless.
Not wasting a moment to think of alternatives, he began to crawl, dragging and pushing himself forward.
Inch by agonizing inch, his fingertips scraped against the dirt, leaving trails of blood in their wake and drenching his robes.
Each drag of his body sent searing pain from his legs to his spine.
His thighs were on fire; his knees burned with every single motion.
His arms neared their breaking point and he could barely feel his hands anymore.
His head felt like it was split in two, cut by a rusted chainsaw.
But even then, even with all that unbelievable pain, he didn’t stop.
It didn’t matter that he was running on fumes, half out of his mind, lost, and directionless.
Rafiq’s breadcrumb-like trail of blood was before him, and Malik latched onto it like a drowning man grabbing a rope.
Somehow, by sheer fucking will, his hands continued to dig and pull into the earth, increasing in speed as time passed.
Yet… it was still so slow. Too damn slow.
His muscles screamed, begging him to stop, to rest, to just give up already—but he couldn’t.
He couldn’t leave them, not after everything.
Not when he was this close.
Every pull of his arms, every weak kick of his legs seemed like it might be the last.
His throat burned with each desperate breath he took, and his mind, fuzzy and fading, whispered doubts he didn’t want to hear.
‘D-Does this mean anything?’
He, in what felt like years, had finally reached the patch of trees.
‘How far I’d gone… Would they even know?’
Relief didn’t wash over him.
‘Would they remember?’
There was a lot more crawling left to do.
‘…N-no. It doesn’t matter.’
His hands shot out, grabbing at the trunks, using them to haul himself forward with a speed he didn’t think he had left.
His legs kicked weakly against the bark, pushing him just a little farther each time.
Closer.
Closer to the cave.
‘I’ll remember…’
His bloodied lips pressed together.
‘I will.’
But then, just as he dragged himself into the clearing…
‘No… please.’
A feeling of dread smacked him across the face.
The air felt off—too still, too quiet, the kind that sank its claws into his bones and refused to let go.
However, it wasn’t just silence.
The smell.
That damp, earthy scent you’d expect in a cave? Gone.
Replaced entirely by one thing—blood.
Heavy, thick, metallic blood.
Malik didn’t need to think too hard to figure out what had happened.
Deep down, he already knew.
But still, he had to confirm. He needed to.
He pushed forward—one pull, then another, until he tumbled inside, rolling across the cold ground and crashing into a protruding rock.
Then… he saw them.
“…Sinbad.”
His voice barely came out—cracked, trembling—like it didn’t even belong to him.
Tears spilled down his face before he even realized it, his whole body locking up, every muscle seizing as if they already knew the truth his mind refused to process.
The world felt as if it had paused for a second and refused to move.
There he was.
His little brother.
Sinbad.
His small, lifeless body was sprawled on the ground.
His throat… his throat was cut open, the gaping wound still dripping blood.
Malik’s heart pounded like it was trying to tear its way out of his chest.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see straight.
It felt like the blood in his veins froze alongside the world.
His body wouldn’t stop shaking, his mind refusing to make sense of the scene in front of him.
Sinbad… he was gone.
His face was in obvious agony, eyes glassy, void of life.
Malik’s gaze shifted, almost unwillingly, catching sight of Rafiq’s body not far away.
The snake bastard had bled out, his twisted corpse a mess of blood.
And Huda?
She was still breathing. Still alive, still sleeping.
But none of it mattered.
Not her.
Not the monsters deep in the cave.
Not even that piece of fucking shit Rafiq.
Sinbad was gone.
Nothing else in the entire world could matter more than that.
Malik couldn’t continue ‘this’ life anymore.
He had to ‘reset.’
Dragging himself toward Sinbad’s body, he collapsed onto it, every ounce of his strength drained.
His arms wrapped around the boy, pulling him close as if he could somehow will the warmth back into him.
But Sinbad was cold. So very cold.
“Hah… hahaha…”
A broken laugh slipped out of his lips, sounding more like a sob.
Truly, Malik didn’t care anymore—not about whether he was dying or if he was already dead.
Rocking back and forth, he held Sinbad tight, cradling him like his hollow little shell wasn’t already gone.
“…”
The words wouldn’t come.
He couldn’t even name what he was feeling.
Grief? Anger? Despair?
It wasn’t just one thing—it was everything.
All of it crashed down on him at once, like his chest was being ripped open and crushed repeatedly.
The pain was too much, too big, too… loud.
‘…I have… I have to.’
Malik’s tear-filled gaze drifted to the shamshir lying on the blood-soaked ground, its blade glinting faintly in the dying light.
The same blade that had stolen Sinbad’s life.
His hand shook as he reached for it, fingers curling around the hilt.
The cold steel felt heavier than anything he’d ever held before.
Bringing it close, he pressed the edge to his throat, the sharp bite of the blade sending a shiver through him.
He didn’t want to die. Not really.
But living?
Living like this?
That wasn’t an option.
Did he know his “return by death” would work?
No.
But again, right now, he didn’t care.
Not about the risks, the uncertainty, not even the faint, desperate hope buried somewhere deep inside him.
All he knew was that the pain had to stop.
He needed to make it end.
And so, without a second thought, Malik dragged the blade across his throat.
The sharp sting was immediate, followed by blood rushing out in hot waves, spilling down his chest and hands.
He could feel the burning pain dissipating, his body growing cold and numb, his vision narrowing into a pinprick until there was nothing left but…
Thud.
Darkness.