Misunderstood Hero: My Family Are All Villains

Malik inwardly chuckled at those words, a rare warmth in his chest.

’You don’t have to worry about that.’

The barracks were empty.

He had expected that.

His people were likely cleaning up the mess he made earlier, or were out simply celebrating another day survived, another wave defeated.

So yes, the soldiers who weren’t on duty were in the taverns or their own beds, resting and recovering.

For now, the training grounds belonged to him and his father alone.

Racks of wooden swords lined the walls, their blades worn smooth by countless hands, and practice dummies stood in rows at the far end of the yard.

But Malik bypassed them all and reached for a steel blade, a real one, dulled from use but still sharp enough to cut.

His father did the same, pulling a similar blade from the rack and testing its weight in his hand.

Finding the swords adequate, they turned to face each other across the sand, the afternoon light peaking through from above.

Malik held his sword before his chest, the tip pointing at the sky, his left hand behind his back.

Other than that, his stance was more... compacted, royal.

The posture of a Sultan who faced those far above him and still bested them.

Hakim held his differently, higher and looser, the stance of a man who had learned to fight in a different era, a far different world, under different masters.

"I must ask, Father."

Malik’s voice easily carried across the empty yard.

"You have been given all this time. All these resources. People. Why did you remain still? Why have you not changed? Improved?"

Though he didn’t remember what class of Magi Hakim had been before—he had no memory of his father’s strength or skill—he knew that if Hakim had truly changed, if he had adapted and grown, this wouldn’t have happened to him.

All those assassination attempts, all those failures, all that lost land—none of it would have happened.

After all, power stood above all schemes, and the strong did what the weak could only dream of.

Hakim’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, Malik thought his father would lash out, perhaps defend himself with anger or excuses.

"Bah..."

But instead, the old man only sighed.

"Do you think I, and every other Magi like me, remain in stagnant water because we want to?"

He chuckled depreciatingly.

"No, it’s because once we stagnate and like the benefits of that water, we don’t dare to continue. We become afraid of falling completely, of losing everything we have built."

Malik stared deep into his father’s eyes, his golden gaze unflinching.

"So a comforting cowardice is your answer."

Hakim didn’t stare back and looked away instead.

Malik knew that his words had struck home.

The old man knew his faults, failures, and most definitely knew that he had chosen safety over growth, a facade of stability over strength.

In a time like theirs, this was a wrong choice, or so Malik believed.

"Enough admonishing me."

Hakim lifted his blade.

"I know that my faults are many. Now, are we dueling or not?"

Malik answered by stepping forward.

Their blades met.

Clang!

The sound rang loudly through the empty barracks.

Malik pushed while Hakim held, then they broke apart and came together again.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Each exchange was different.

At first, Hakim moved a tad awkwardly, seemingly forgetting how good he used to be, but the memory was returning with every clash.

His strikes were precise, aimed at gaps and weaknesses. His footwork was deliberate, never wasting a movement or overcommitting.

Malik matched him blow for blow, his sword meeting his father’s in a rhythm that felt almost musical, but... something was off.

His body knew what to do; beyond his own skill, the instincts were there, ingrained from all his fights, carved into his muscles by battles he had never witnessed and training he had never undergone.

But the movements were far too aggressive for a duel such as this.

His every action was designed to overwhelm, crush, and dominate.

It was to be expected.

After all, that was how he won his fights.

Still, Hakim noticed.

"You seem too used to fighting against overwhelming strength."

He stepped back from a parry and reset his stance.

"You should consider loosening your sword more against sword-oriented Magi like myself."

Malik blinked.

Advice.

His father had just given him advice.

In both lives, it was the first time Malik could remember receiving such a thing, and yes, he was something of an orphan in his past life as well.

Like in this life, his father came only later, when everything was over and done with.

When nothing could be fixed.

But what was different was the reason for their return.

Hakim, unlike the other one, seemed to genuinely care for Malik.

Enough so that, finally, a moment of instruction came from someone who knew more than him about something that mattered.

Before transmigrating, the way he fought had always been somewhat instinctual, a move he picked up from an opponent, a trick he learned from a friend; it was never textbook.

Nothing was taught to men like him except how to survive.

And yet, this was also the instinct of his own body, a royal sword style ingrained in it despite him not remembering it. He was only able to apply it because of his combat experience.

Malik loosened his grip on the sword, letting it breathe in his hand.

His stance shifted, becoming less rigid, more fluid.

"Better."

Hakim saw the change and smiled proudly.

The old man’s speed doubled as he attacked.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

A series of attacks echoed, each one stronger than the last, flowing into the next.

It was a combination that had been perfected over decades, passed down through generations that Malik couldn’t name.

Through fathers and sons who had stood on this same ground and traded these same blows.

Hakim’s sword became a blur—high, low, high again, feint left, strike right—and the air sang with the force of his strikes.

Malik blocked them all.

Back to back to back, his blade met his father’s, turning aside each attack with a precision that surprised even him.

His arms screamed, his wrists ached, and sweat beaded on his forehead, but he didn’t miss a single one.

And then, on the final strike of such an exchange, Malik moved to redirect.

His blade caught Hakim’s and twisted, using the old man’s momentum against him.

The sword flew from his father’s hands, spinning end over end through the air, and clattered against the stone floor ten feet away.

"..."

"..."

"..."

Silence.

Malik stood with his sword still raised, barely stopping himself from showing how hard he was breathing.

His father stood empty-handed, chest heaving, but smiling, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

Malik lowered his blade and looked down at it.

A thin line ran from the hilt to the tip, spiderwebbing across the steel.

Indeed, his sword had cracked.

’It’s heavy...’

Malik didn’t say it aloud.

’My father’s blade.’

He didn’t have to.