Misunderstood Hero: My Family Are All Villains

"My Sultan!"

Azeem kneeled at the bottom of the stairs leading to the throne.

"Three of our northern underground bases have come under strong attack from invaders!"

His voice was urgent, and his body dripped what appeared to be fresh blood.

"We suspect a group of our enemies hastened their plans upon hearing of your return and attacked us with full force, hoping to achieve victory while we were busy welcoming you back!"

Malik inwardly sighed, his face remaining calm and composed despite the frustration building in his chest.

’Just when will I be given an uninterrupted moment to myself?’

He had barely sat down, barely had a chance to process everything that had happened—the East, the sword, the memories, the truth about his own nature—and already another crisis demanded his attention.

Taking his silence as permission to continue, Azeem did just that, his words tumbling out in a rush:

"Sinbad already went to confront and defend one of the bases. I am soon to go defend the second. The last base, meanwhile, is defended by your Lucky Soldier, Zafar."

Malik slowly nodded at him.

"Are you going to ask if I could go help him?"

Azeem stuttered, his confidence faltering, and he knelt further, pressing his forehead to the floor.

"I know that you have only just returned, but our forces are spread too thin! I implore you, my Sultan! We cannot lose that base! A significant number of supplies run through it from the West. If it falls, the entire northern front will collapse within a month."

After a bit of staring at the begging man, his golden eyes unreadable, Malik asked an... interesting question:

"How did information about my return reach them so quickly? I am sure not all the factions are on speaking terms. They are competing for my land; competition does not share information. Someone must have informed them directly."

A ’question’ that led to a conclusion

"In other words, what have you learned from our assassin?"

Azeem’s eyes widened before his Sultan’s deduction ability, and for a moment, awe flickered across his bloodied face.

This was his Sultan, cutting through the noise and finding the heart of the matter in moments!

It was a scene that had his Right Hand reminisce for a moment, lost in some old memory, before forcing himself to focus back on the present.

"Yes, my Sultan, you speak correctly."

Azeem straightened slightly, his expression turning grim.

"You must know, the assassin was not alone. He was simply the only one able to successfully get past our defenses. The others we caught as well, but unfortunately, they died before we could extract much information from them."

He sighed in annoyance, running a hand through his dark hair.

"So while we cannot confirm his words, we can at least use them as a basis for action. A Southern Kingdom, Aram, was what he pointed at. Apparently, these assassins were rogues kicked out of the Hashashin faction and were bought off by the kingdom."

His ’annoyance’ turned into raw anger.

"Naturally, that makes me believe that Aram’s king was the one who informed the invaders of your return. Perhaps directly after your meeting earlier today. I believe he took my little... push to heart."

Malik did not remember their faces or their names from the gathering of lords—there had been too many, and he had been too focused on maintaining his composure—so he did not have a clue who this king was.

But in any case, despite their inability to verify the information, he found it pretty believable.

Kings often liked to... keep their power.

To hold onto what they had accumulated over years of rule, even in their own people’s detriment, or rather, usually in their own people’s detriment.

Malik’s return threatened that greatly.

After all, he would use them until they bled in order to win against his enemies. He held no mercy for those who stood before him and also for those who crept behind him.

"For now, keep this information under wraps."

Malik’s voice was as cold as his subject.

"Let us first get rid of the pests."

"Understood, my Sultan!"

Azeem bowed one more time, then rose and left, his boots echoing on the stone as he rushed out the hall.

In his place came no other than Malik’s wife, Layla, followed closely by his maid, Dunya.

They walked in together, and Malik noticed immediately that something had changed.

Layla’s posture was more... combative.

"Husband... Are you going out to fight at this time of night? Even though you have only just returned? Why don’t you go to sleep? Dunya and I can take care of it."

Malik stared at her for a moment, noticing that she no longer wore a mourning dress—the dark fabrics that had draped her frame for years were gone.

Rather, she was not wearing a dress at all but tighter clothes suited for war, the kind that allowed for movement, with daggers belted at her hip.

"I must go."

Malik stood from the throne.

"The world must know of my return."

Layla stared at him, her purple eyes trembling with an emotion that Malik could not quite accurately name.

"Must you always sacrifice yourself?"

Fear, perhaps, or grief.

"Even now?"

She was wrong.

This was not him sacrificing himself.

In fact, it was in his best interest to go.

He needed more Fear Points, needed to spread his name and his legend across the world.

But of course, he could not say that, could not explain the system or the mechanics of his new power to her.

So instead, he said his new favorite line, the one that had worked with all those who questioned him or his motives:

"This is my duty as your Sultan and husband."

A ’line’ that Layla seemed to hate.

Her hands clenched at her sides so tightly that her knuckles turned white, and for a moment, Malik thought that she might argue further.

"...I understand."

But then she looked away, her shoulders slumping in resignation.

"But at least let Dunya send you there!"

Malik barely stopped himself from smiling.

That was exactly what he was going to have her do, and this saved him from asking!

"Hee!"

Dunya stepped up, her small hand extended towards him, palm open and waiting.

Glancing at that hand, Malik smiled and stepped off the throne.

"Let us go, then."

The moment the two disappeared, vanishing into the shadow of the grave, Layla’s eyes turned to the Golden Throne.

In them, a deep hatred was obvious, a hate beyond words.

’You will not take him from me again!’

That was a vow she would keep even if it meant death.