***
{Outside The Projection}
“WOAAAAAAAAAAHH!”
“HAHAHAHAHAH!”
“WOOOOOOP! WOOOOOOP!”
“LET’S FUCKING GO!”
“LET’S GO SULTAN!”
“HOLY SHIT!”
“THAT WAS SO INTENSE!”
“ALL HAIL!”
Such screams drowned out the hall, a chaotic mess louder than any before it.
Magi were hollering, laughing, slamming fists, and even tossing drinks into the air.
Some of them celebrated so hard you’d think they themselves had just pulled off the impossible instead of Malik.
Hell, a few looked more hyped about his win than they’d ever been about their own success.
These reactions weren’t all surprising, though.
Context mattered.
And for the Sultan?
Oh, this context had them all losing their minds.
A beggar with a hidden past turned Magi, facing off against a being so gargantuan, coming out on top like it was written in the stars—how could anyone not be amped?
Well, actually, some couldn’t be amped.
Not everyone joined the party.
A chunk of the crowd stayed silent, looking like they’d seen a ghost.
A few just shook their heads, muttering to themselves like they couldn’t wrap their brains around what they’d just witnessed.
And then there was Safira.
“Goddamn it…”
Her voice came out in a hiss, unheard by most.
The woman was a standout among all that was around her.
She paced back and forth, her feet pressing against the ground so hard like they were trying to punish it for existing.
“So useless… I’m so useless… I didn’t even notice a thing!”
Layla, who stood next to her, gave her an annoyed look.
“Relax… just who’d expect you to figure it out? You’re no mind reader.”
Pausing her steps, Safira turned towards her friend.
“Yeah? Well, I wish I was. Like, what if his next Blink was his last? What if—”
“What if, what if, what if.”
Layla rolled her eyes.
“It happened. It’s done. There are no what-ifs. They’ve killed my husband. Your mas—teacher. The past doesn’t matter any—”
“It does.”
Safira cut in.
“You don’t understand it now, but when your turn comes, you’ll realize…”
A shivered breath left her lips.
“You’ll realize just how much regret a heart can hold.”
Layla looked at her for a long while, then turned to her camp.
‘Regret? More than what I feel now?… I don’t think that’s possible.’
As she did so, the “hero” muttered under his breath:
“Fucking shit.”
He so absolutely despised how they cheered for the “villain.”
What envy he felt before was now nothing but a joke.
The feeling gnawed at him, festering like an open wound.
It wasn’t just the usual pang anymore—it had grown, multiplying tenfold.
Each cheer of the crowd stabbed deeper into his pride.
If his hair hadn’t already been white, it would’ve been after this.
No doubt he’d be sprouting a few stress-induced greys by the end of the day.
All thanks to how much shit his mind was going through.
Of course, all that ‘shit’ was self-made and self-inflicted, but still stressful either way.
So, he stood there, trying to play it cool, nonchalant, pretending he wasn’t fazed.
But anyone giving him more than a passing glance could see right through it.
His arms were clenched so tightly that blood spilled.
The remnants of his entourage, his ever-loyal yes-men, stayed quiet as well.
Normally, they’d be the first to jump in with a snide comment to back his image.
But right now?
They knew better.
And though they secretly enjoyed the spectacle, they had to toe the line.
Their Lord’s desires came first, and right now, he had only one:
Make Malik look bad. By any means necessary.
A goal that seemed as laughable as it was impossible.
The crowd had already made up their minds.
The Sultan within the projection wasn’t the same one sitting on that throne, chained up.
No, this Malik?
He’d clawed his way out of the dirt.
Fought and went through things they’d never have imagined before today.
Whether they liked him or not, he was commanding their respect.
That realization burned hotter than anything else.
Zafar certainly was going through it, but he was not the only one.
Azeem sat in his usual lotus position, quiet as a mouse.
A word one would never expect to be used to describe him.
Noor was the same, leaning back on the throne.
She seemed lost in thought.
Roya, meanwhile, was busy with her camp, likely still buying up Aether Cores.
A few belonging to Layla’s merchant group were with them, negotiating prices.
The Thousand Nights Caravan held many cores in stock, after all.
Business… pretty boring.
Not something that’d be said about the current state of the crowd, however.
“That actually… worked?”
“He killed it. That madman actually killed it.”
“Yeah, after, like, what, ten deaths?”
“Still counts, bro. Still counts!”
Someone in the back let out a low whistle.
“Man’s built different, huh?”
“Built stupid, you mean, ’cause who the Hell fights a Roc at that rank?!”
“Shut up, he had no choice but to… what? You wanted him to leave behind Lady Safira?”
“D-Didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you trying to say? Hm?”
“Just sayin’ that it’s insane.”
Amidst the back-and-forth, a group near the center stayed eerily quiet.
They weren’t the loud, rowdy type.
These were the old Magi.
The same ones that always discussed the interactions of what was before them.
Analytical to every degree.
“He knew exactly what he was doing.”
“What do you mean?”
Some junior leaned closer like they didn’t want to miss a word.
“His first attempts were never to kill it—it was to figure out its weak points. Obvious, I know, but the execution is what matters here, not the idea.”
“Indeed, every move he made was all part of his plan. He wasn’t just dying—he was learning.”
The group murmured in agreement, though a few skeptics rolled their eyes.
“Yeah, but what about that last move?”
A young dumbass piped up.
“That wasn’t strategy. That was pure dumb luck; no way he wanted its beak that close.”
A scarred woman smirked, crossing her arms.
“Luck? Maybe. But he made that luck, didn’t he?”
“Or would you dare call a cursed man lucky?”
While those Magi dunked on the now quiet young dumbass, a few others focused on Malik’s technique.
“You catch what exactly he did with the shamshir back there?”
“Wasn’t it just using the blade as a medium for his flames?”
“No, not just a medium, you idiot. He infused it. That blade wasn’t just on fire—it was burning with Aether.”
“Hold up, you sure that’s what he did?!”
“Yeah… He poured Aether straight into the blade!”
“But that’s impossible, right? I mean, infusing Aether into a weapon takes years to master. And even then, it’s dangerous as fuck for any beginner!”
“Exactly.”
A grizzled older man chimed in, stroking his beard.
“Aether is volatile when in conversion, even more so when it belongs to the fire element.”
“One wrong push or pull, and the weapon would’ve blown up in your face.”
“Most people who try it end up dead or with nothing but shards in their hands.”
“Then that’s probably why the shamshir broke.”
“His technique was rough as hell, but…”
“But it worked!”
The scarred woman interrupted, her tone sharp.
“You saw what happened. The flames bit into that Roc’s flesh like nothing else could.”
“Yeah… though how do you even figure that out mid-fight? That’s not something you just… wing.”
“You don’t.”
An old man replied, a hint of admiration in his voice.
“You learn it the hard way. Trial, error, and a lot of pain. My guess? He’s been trying to crack Aether infusion for a long time during their journey; it’s just that we didn’t see it, his mind not deeming them important memories.”
“Long time, my ass. Sure, he could’ve reset a few thousand times, but… that’s still considered incredibly fast, especially for someone with no mentor. Just how did he even manage it?”
The question hung in the air for a little while, unanswered.
Then finally, the scarred woman spoke again, her voice firm:
“Does it matter how he did it? What matters is that he did. He took a technique that almost all of us were taught and turned it into a weapon when he most needed it.”
Her group fell silent, the weight of her words sinking in.
“Even if it was rough, even if it destroyed the blade, it saved his life. That’s what makes him dangerous. He’s not just a fighter—he’s a problem solver.”
“He’s born to be a Sultan, alright~?”
As they came to that conclusion, a group at the furthest back whispered amongst themselves, acting like thieves in a jewelry shop.
“Hey, where’s the guy who bet he’d die fifty times?”
“Oh, he left after the ninth blink.”
“Guess he already realized the Sultan had it in him.”
“Kekeke~ guess I win ten gold~!”
That last voice was a familiar one.
It was Azeem’s.
Right, Azeem was among them.
And judging by the glow of the black stone ring on his finger, his body in the front was an illusion.
“Indeed you have, Sir! Guess it wasn’t enough for you to massacre us but also steal our money.”
Azeem’s smile died, and he looked at the man who held out a pouch of coins.
Slowly, he raised his hand, reaching out for it.
Just as he got close, the man pulled away, making Azeem pause.
They glared at each other and then…
“AHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!”
Laughter rippled through the group.
Even the Magi listening in let out a few chuckles of their own.
It seemed that even death couldn’t stop them from having a good time.
But, before they could continue their banter and exchange, their mood suddenly died down.
Their eyes had turned towards the projection.
It resumed, displaying the night.
First, it zoomed in on Malik’s face—eyes closed, blood smeared across his face like war paint.
Jasmine and Safira were on either side of him, tightly holding his hands.
“God, I still can’t believe he survived that wing slap.”
“Survived?”
A snarky guy from before laughed.
“He’s probably half-dead, even with that Scroll. Bet he’d cry about for a week.”
“You forget that Lady Safira has another Scroll?”
“Eh. She still didn’t completely memorize it; he won’t use it yet.”
Azeem turned to them with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Men… whatever you think of him, one thing’s clear. The Sultan’s got more guts than anyone else here. So how about you show some damn respect? I don’t wish to repeat Lady Noor’s words.”
They fell quiet, save for a few muttered apologies.
Then, just as the hall’s atmosphere started to settle, Malik opened his eyes.
The projection flickered again.
It showed the Roc’s carcass, massive and imposing even in death.
And then…
The faintest movement.
A twitch.
