Misunderstood Hero: My Family Are All Villains

Malik stood upon a sandy hill under a Moonless night, the two Suns long since set and the stars scattered across the sky.

Not too far to his right was one of their bases, looking no different than a village, at least on the surface.

It was a deserted place, deliberately abandoned to avoid drawing attention from the Demons that swarmed the skies.

Their equipment and soldiers were deep underground. A place accessible only through hidden tunnels that wound beneath the earth and secret teleportation circles.

Unarguably, the Demons had air superiority. No matter how strong their defenses were, they would not survive long if caught in the open.

So all of their forward operating bases were underground, saving them the trouble of fighting two enemies at once.

Malik’s attention was not on the base, however, but on the left, where a rocky outcropping rose from the sand.

There he saw a familiar face.

Zafar, his Lucky Soldier, the one Azeem had mentioned.

He was a thin, tanned, white-haired man with an almost delicate... beauty to his face, wearing white royal robes.

If Malik were to describe him using a less... agreeable word, he would call him a twink.

Zafar was not alone.

Around him were three others, locked in combat on the rocky hill, their powers clashing in bursts of light and sound that echoed across the desert.

’Hm, did they give up on working together now that only Zafar is here to defend the base?’

That was not all, for beneath the rocky hill, on the flat sand below, thousands of soldiers fought, much weaker than the four on the hill, but with the same degree of chaos.

Men in the dark colors of his sultanate clashed against invaders in blue and white, with swords, spears, and arrows filling the air.

’An opportunity has truly presented itself.’

With that thought, Malik glanced at Dunya, who was standing behind him, her small form barely visible in the dark.

"Return in ten minutes. I would like to watch them first."

Nodding her head, she stepped back to the grave that had formed in the sand behind them and disappeared, leaving Malik alone on the hill.

’Now, let us see here.’

Malik wanted to understand who he was up against before interfering. Though others might see this act as him simply entertaining himself with their fight, he was, in fact, studying them very closely.

He could not show a single mistake or fault once he attacked, and he needed to get rid of them all in quick succession, one after the other, before they could coordinate a response.

So, a minute or so later, it became apparent that this fight had lasted a long time, closing in on half a day perhaps, based on the exhaustion evident in their movements and the sheer number of craters covering the hill.

The battle was a mess of absolute, perfect counters.

Zafar, his Lucky Soldier, was unleashing pure firepower. Arcanes were written on almost every nearby surface—on rocks, on the ground, even in the air itself—glowing brightly before detonating into bursts of dangerous Elements.

But his attacks were useless against the Space Magi, a tall figure in blue robes who casually phased his body through the blasts and redirected them with a flick of his wrist, sending the explosions harmlessly into the sky.

This man countered Zafar, but he could not win either, locked down by a summoner.

A woman standing far in the back of the hill with her arms raised and her eyes glowing.

She continuously manifested massive sand golems, each one towering over the fighters, their fists the size of boulders.

The sheer quantity of sand overwhelmed his spatial manipulation; there was simply too much mass to dodge or redirect, too many moving parts for his Rukh to handle.

To complete the circle of frustration, there was a Wind Magi who was indiscriminately shredding the battlefield with sharp gales.

His winds easily tore through the Summoner’s golems before they could fully form, scattering the sand back across the hill and leaving the Summoner exposed.

But of course, the Space Magi would not let the Wind Magi finish the job, redirecting his attacks at the last moment.

Long story short, the Space Magi was strong against the Wind Magi and Zafar but could not kill them because of the Summoner’s golems.

Zafar could go after the Summoner, sure, but then the Space Magi would be left standing behind him, free to attack while his back was turned.

The Summoner could focus on the Space Magi, but then the Wind Magi would tear her apart.

Finally, the Wind Magi could target Zafar, but the Space Magi would not allow it.

Every possible match-up, even favorable ones, would end up with someone’s natural counter defeating them.

This resulted in a complete deadlock.

A perfect, frustrating stalemate where no one could win, and no one could retreat.

It required a third party to intervene.

’Perfect.’

And what better third party than the Sultan himself?

This truly was the best entrance Malik could ask for.

He would be stupid not to make complete use of it.

Activating a single-use Shifting Ground Soul Glyph, Malik, for the second time, didn’t use the Rune’s ability but used the much-enhanced strength and burst of Rukh that came with it.

He stepped forward from the shadows with an unhurried pace, his dark silks blending with the night.

Upon reaching the edge, he jumped from the hill, soaring through the cold air, and landed on the sandy ground right next to the clashing armies.

He fell upon war, the truest sense of it.

War wasn’t Hell.

War was war, and Hell was Hell.

Of the two, war was a lot worse.

As someone who’d gone through Hell, he was sure of it.

Yes, he didn’t remember, but that didn’t matter; him going there didn’t change.

Those who were dropped in Hell were sinners, people who had earned their suffering through their own choices.

There were no innocent bystanders in Hell, no children caught in the crossfire, no old men forced to hold swords because there was no one else left.

But that wasn’t the case for what was before him.

No, it wasn’t at all.