Misunderstood Hero: My Family Are All Villains

Malik stepped back from Scheherazade’s embrace.

The Empress’s silver hair had tangled with his sister’s crimson strands during the hug, and for a moment, he had to resist the urge to pull away too quickly.

’There’s no way I cheated on my wife.’

He knew he had problems with Layla.

Yes, he remembered and understood.

That much was clear from his fragmented memories and their interactions so far—the misunderstanding upon misunderstanding, the distance, and the unspoken words that piled up between them.

But even then, even with all of that...

’No. I can’t believe that I’ve cheated on her.’

He was too honorable for that, too stubborn, and aware of his own promises.

So he came to a decision. He would clarify things without assuming the worst.

"My Love?"

The question was vague.

Malik only meant to ’question’ her use of the word, to probe the nature of their relationship without revealing his own confusion.

Scheherazade’s smile widened and she tilted her head, her silver hair falling over one shoulder.

"Hmmm~. Do you think a few years would change how I feel about you?"

She stepped closer, her almond eyes locked on his.

"You underestimate me, love. You’ve rejected me once before, but I doubt that’d happen again."

Her smile turned sly.

"You see, in the time you were gone, I formed a few plans~."

Relief washed through Malik at her words.

They didn’t have a relationship beyond friendship. Her "love" was entirely one-sided. His trust in himself hadn’t been for naught.

"I hear you, but this isn’t the—"

"No! Stop bothering Uncle! I’ll tell on you to Auntie!"

Isha launched herself from Huda’s hair and landed directly on Scheherazade’s face, interrupting him.

The little owl’s wings flapped wildly, her claws scrabbling against the Empress’s cheeks, her pink eyes blazed with indignation.

Scheherazade, without flinching, reached up, plucked Isha off her face with ease, and began tickling her fluffy belly.

"You’ll tell on me to the woman who watched her own husband be plotted against?"

The Empress’s voice was light, almost sing-song.

"Go do it, then! I don’t think she’ll mind~."

"Hehehehehe! Stop! Stop! I gwive up!"

Isha squirmed and hooted, half-laughing, half-protesting, her wings flapping uselessly against Scheherazade’s fingers.

’...’

Malik silently stared at the bickering pair.

The Empress of the West, the second most powerful Magi in Devil’s Maw, was tickling a youngling, a child of the strongest crimson owl, on her throne room’s floor.

He sighed.

Then he turned and walked away.

The same guard captain stood near the doorway, her spear held rigidly at her side.

She had been watching the scene with wide eyes, her mouth slightly open.

When Malik approached, she snapped to attention.

He held out Huda’s unconscious body to her.

"Go find her a nearby room to sleep in. She’ll be waking up soon."

The guard knelt—one knee to the stone floor, her head bowed—and accepted the burden.

Huda’s crimson hair spilled over the guard’s arms, her face peaceful in sleep.

"Yes, my Sultan."

The guard rose and rushed off, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Malik turned back to the throne room, noticing that Scheherazade had stopped tickling Isha.

She held the little owl in one hand, keeping her at arm’s length, and looked at Malik with those incredibly deep eyes of hers.

"Are you in a hurry? I’ve been waiting for our reunion for so long. Don’t deny me that at least."

Malik walked back towards her, stopped a few feet away, and looked at her, trying to make sense of her.

’It’s not for politics. She truly seems to love me.’

He didn’t know how to feel about that. Flattered, maybe. Concerned, definitely. But he couldn’t deny the sincerity in her voice, the way her eyes softened when she looked at him.

Malik had yet to say another word to her. She had been talking, teasing, laughing, and he had said almost nothing.

Caring not for that, Scheherazade approached him and held out her free hand, her fingers quickly wrapping around his.

Roots grew beneath them, covering them in a cocoon-like fashion.

Malik felt a great pull.

The world shifted.

Blink.

In the next moment, they stood in the middle of a... restaurant?

No. A cafe.

The room was small and warm, lit by soft golden orbs that floated near the ceiling. Wooden tables and chairs filled the space, each one polished to a soft shine.

A counter ran along the back wall, lined with glass cases displaying cakes and pastries.

But there were no wires and no electricity. The contraptions here were Holy Relics, each one pulsing with Rukh.

They were the counterparts of items one would find in any cafe on Earth.

Malik knew, of course, a part of him was a transmigrator, after all. He had been in cafes before, hundreds of them, in a life that felt like a dream now.

Scheherazade, who was watching his face, giggled, noticing his pause.

"Do you like what you see?"

She released his hand and gestured around the place with her free hand, the one not holding Isha.

"This is called a Cafe. Thanks to the invaders coming here, we’ve stolen many of their inventions and ideas using a few... incentives."

Those "incentives" were no doubt torture, but Malik didn’t bother asking for details.

"This cafe was one of them. It’s a nice place to drink tea, coffee, and eat cake."

Malik didn’t need any explanation. He knew what a cafe was. But he couldn’t reveal that. So he nodded slowly, as if absorbing new information.

"Of course, we used their inventions in many other places and ways. This is only something I built to surprise you."

Her smile softened further.

"So, what do you think? Do you like it?"

Malik looked around the cafe again, smelling a most beautiful smell, the fresh-baked goods especially.

He had spent the past while fighting Demons, invaders, and traitors. He had burned tens of thousands of men to ash. He had lost a hand and watched bugs crawl over his face. He had been so tired and so close to breaking.

And now, here was a place that felt... relaxingly familiar.

A place from another world, another life, another version of himself.

Malik nodded.

Truly, he did like this.

"Hm. Thank you for this."

He needed this.

Scheherazade’s face lit up, almost exploding with happiness. Her eyes shone, and her smile stretched from ear to ear.

Quickly, she grabbed his arm and pulled him towards a table near the window.

"Of course, my love!"

She said it loud enough for everyone in the cafe to hear.

The other patrons—normal citizens, most of them mortal—had been staring since Malik and Scheherazade appeared.

They had frozen mid-sip and mid-bite, nearly choking to death. That was to be expected.

The two strongest people in Devil’s Maw were sitting in their cafe!

The Sultan of Blood and Fire.

The Empress of the West.

And they were holding hands!

These patrons would talk about this day for the rest of their lives!

A quiet fight broke out among the waitresses. They whispered, gestured, and pushed each other, each one desperate to serve the royal table.

Their manager—a stout woman with graying hair and a flour-dusted apron—watched them for a moment, then sighed.

She walked to the table herself, carrying two menus.

"My Empress, my Sultan."

Her voice was steady despite her trembling hands.

"What can I get you tonight?"

Malik took the menu.

He was hungry.

Goliath’s Fall and the healing had burned through his reserves. His body needed more fuel—real fuel, not just Rukh and a soup.

And so he quickly scanned the menu, searching for something good.

Cakes. Pastries. Sandwiches. Cakes. Soups. Salads. Coffee. Cakes. Tea. Hot chocolate. Did he mention cakes?

He looked up at the manager.

"I’ll have the chocolate cake, the vanilla cake, the fruit tart, the cheese pastry, the meat pie, the lentil soup, the roast beef sandwich, the egg salad sandwich, the pot of jasmine tea, the bread pudding, the apple strudel, the cream puffs, the scones with jam and butter, the spinach pie, the stuffed mushrooms, the rice pudding, the honey cake, the almond cookies, the cinnamon rolls, the lemon tart, the chocolate mousse, and the cheesecake."

He closed the menu and handed it back to the manager.

"That’s all, thank you."

"..."

"..."

"..."

Silence.

The manager stared at him.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Scheherazade stared at him. Her silver hair suddenly seemed less elegant and more disheveled.

The other patrons stared at him, a few dropping their spoons.

’Hm?’

Malik glanced around the room.

’What? I’m hungry.’