***
{Outside The Projection}
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
Silence.
Real silence.
It... it all had gone wrong.
Deeply, terribly wrong.
Just monts ago, the crowd wheezed from laughter, poking fun at Huda, howling at the absurdity of Malik being told that he was not on the list.
Now, mouths hung open, jaws hit the marble floor, and no one even blinked.
The only sounds were flickering flas and one old man choking on water he'd forgotten he was sipping.
"Wh...what...?"
Soone whispered it like it would summon the rest of the words.
It didn't.
Malik's head had exploded.
Just—gone. Blood. Bone. Brain. Gone.
And not in a dramatic duel. Not after an hour-long battle with his enemy.
No. After a smile. A smile, and then—pop. A grape under a heel.
"…That didn't just happen."
They were in disbelief.
Wasn't it finally ti for Malik to show his prowess?
Wasn't this that mont? A mont where his strength beca uncontestable? A mont where he showed the world how different he had beco? A mont of reunion between family, a younger sister and her older brother?
Why?
Why was it so impossible for him to get a break?
Just one mont where death doesn't claim him... one mont where he could breathe.
A younger Magi near the back started shaking his head rapidly.
"Nope. No, no. I—I'm dreaming. This isn't real. It's a trick. Projection error. Must be so fucking Corrupted footage or sothing. It has to be."
A woman beside him gave him a look.
"There's no such thing as a Corrupted Ten Commandnt, idiot."
"But he began to walk the Sultan's path..."
Another spoke, voice cracking.
"That doesn't happen to soone like him. He's the one who does that to others."
"We saw him lift a damned GATE. A gate. That's tons!"
"We watched him cut through Jinn after Jinn with ease."
"Is the..."
A Magi paused her whisper, hand to her mouth.
"Is the difference really that large?"
There was no answer.
There was just... the echo of that roar still ringing in their heads.
A primal one. A roar that spoke of more than just rage.
It spoke of betrayal, anguish, vengeance, grief—every wound stitched into one.
And yet... and yet—
Pop.
He was gone.
Just. Like. That.
And Layla, oh, Layla was fuming.
Her face was storm clouds and thunder.
She wasn't even looking at the projection anymore; her eyes locked sowhere far, sowhere past the crowd.
Her fists were clenched so hard her nails drew blood.
Her teeth ground together, and she paced like a caged monster.
"Bastard!"
She hissed.
"That smug fucking bastard!"
So of the younger Magi in her camp looked at her warily, whispering amongst themselves.
They had never seen her curse so uncouthly before; her actions always held so elegance in them, but this... she was lashing out. She couldn't control herself.
Layla didn't care.
The crowd, her camp, they all cheered seconds ago.
They laughed at Huda. Teased her like this was all just a big play.
But now?
Now Malik's body was twitching on the palace floor, and no one could process what the Hell had just happened.
She wanted to scream. To throw sothing. To grab Huda and shake her. Ask her if she knew—if she had any idea what happened in that hall.
But she didn't. She didn't do any of that.
That would cause a scene. And there had already been enough of those.
So instead, she walked. Up and down. Up and down. Until her boots nearly burned holes into the floor.
Though it might not seem like it, this was her husband's funeral. And at least now, here, after all their ti together, she could do one thing right: she could act according to his wishes.
Dunya, the mute girl Malik pulled out from under the rubble, tried to approach her, thinking she could do sothing comforting, anything that might calm her lady down.
Layla, though, didn't even look at her. Just said, "Don't," and the poor girl backed off.
Huda, anwhile, had gone pale. Paler than the marble beneath them.
Blood seed to have abandoned her body entirely.
She was still staring at the projection, even though it had long since paused.
Her lips moved, but no words ca out.
She hadn't scread.
She hadn't wept.
She just stood there, still, a statue with too much emotion carved into its face.
The girl rembered... She rembered what Malik had told her all those years ago, when she asked him why he scread at her uncle like that. Why the na "Cyrus" ca from his throat like venom.
"I had a grudge."
And her little naive self believed it.
Because, of course, that made sense. Of course, that's why he was angry.
He was left down there while Cyrus picked her up and took her out.
Her uncle had arrived too late, and her brother Sinbad was already dead.
That was a hurt that could be easily explained.
But now?
Now she knew.
That was a lie. A sweet, easy lie for a girl too coddled to imagine anything darker.
And that scream—that roar—wasn't just about that.
It was about sothing far worse.
"I'm..."
Huda pressed her hands together, squeezing them until her joints ached.
"…I'm sorry."
She had worn the banners of House Sayf like a badge.
Her family. Her blood. Her uncle.
She was proud of it all.
Gone.
That was all gone now.
It made her wonder if she ever knew her family at all.
Perhaps those colors weren't of royalty.
They were the colors of rot.
***
{Inside The Projection}
Malik blinked his eyes open.
They t the Sultan's.
...What?
"Pop."
A series of explosions rang out in his mind, and red pain ca.
His right eyeball popped, and the left followed.
He fell down on the spot.
Red. His vision was red. A splitting headache, his soul cried out.
The pain prevented him from thinking.
Darkness claid him.
Blink.
Again, everything went away and ca back, but in under a second, the sa pain returned.
It hurt, it was red, it was death. Painful, red, death. It hurt, it was red, it was death. Painful, red, death. It hurt, it was red, it was death. Painful, red, death. It hurt, it was red, it was death. Painful, red, death. It hurt, it was red, it was death. Painful, red, death.
Malik was not sure what to do.
He could not think. Everything was happening too fast. All under a single second.
One mont he—it hurt, it was red, it was death. Painful, red, death. It hurt, it was red, it was death. Painful, red, death. It hurt, it was red, it was death. Painful, red, death. It hurt, it was red, it was death. Painful, red, death—an endless cycle.
A cycle that never gave him the chance to understand. To process.
It drove the crazy within him even crazier.
But eventually... eventually...
He realized one fact.
He had fifty fractions to act.
Fifty within that one looping second.
After that, death was unavoidable, inevitable.
At that point, there was nothing he could do about it. His brain would simply cry and die.
This was the absolute law that Malik had discovered after experiencing the red pain over and over again.
It was only a few tis he escaped the pain, and in every one of those tis, he failed.
Not because he was weak, but because the mont—that single cursed second—was a trap made perfectly. Designed by fate to torture him so.
He was a sword with no edge, a spark with no fire, a man with no ti.
Death wasn't a strike.
It was a loop... and the loop was perfect.
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