Those not of the smartest of minds screamed about, trying to process what was on display.
They’d not expected the memories to have taken this direction, not in the least.
Most though, Magi with functioning brain cells, remained quiet, shocked in their own way.
Zafar, who could barely be considered one of them, looked like someone had just smacked the face with a wet fish.
His jaw dropped so hard one could park a whole caravan in it.
‘She called him… handsome?!’
Slowly, he spun toward his entourage, needing to appease his ego.
“It’s not all about being handsome, right?”
It was not a question but a demand for them to do what he ‘needed.’
And his yes-men understood that perfectly, jumping into action like trained parrots.
“Of course not, my lord!”
“That’d be shallow, my lord!”
“You’re WAY more handsome, my lord!”
Amidst their spree of bootlicking, an old man in the back whispered:
“Brother’s down bad.”
Zafar whipped around, his face red as he jabbed a finger in their direction.
“I AM NOT!”
“…”
Silence.
No one responded.
Whoever had said it now had likely and most wisely blended into the crowd.
Clicking his tongue in frustration, Zafar waved his entourage quiet.
“Idiots. All of you.”
His face reddened a slight bit as he tried—and failed—to look unbothered.
While the “hero” tried not to embarrass himself any further, Safira wished she’d sink into the ground, her face so red it could’ve been mistaken as the ripest of tomatoes.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Why did I say that? Why did I say that?!”
Layla, standing next to her, leaned in and patted her back gently, a knowing smile on her face.
“Don’t worry. I felt the same way the first time I met him.”
Safira groaned, burying her face in her hands.
“It’s not just that! Everyone’s gonna think I’m shallow now! Like, who even cares about looks in a moment like that?!”
Layla chuckled softly.
“Oh, we all care. Some of us are just better at hiding it.”
The crowd wasn’t letting it go, either.
“Damn, imagine surviving all that just to simp for the Villain!”
“He’s out here saving lives and stealing hearts. Hahahaha!”
“I don’t blame her. Have you seen him? He’s got that rugged, ‘I’ll-save-you-but-also-burn-down-your-enemies’ vibe.”
“Our hero’s punching the air right now.”
“Shut UP!”
Zafar barked, not bothering to look behind him, knowing that the old troll was still hiding.
Some girl chimed in, smirking:
“Nah, for real, though. If I was Lady Safira, I’d be saying the same thing.”
“That’s not helping!”
Safira hissed, still covering her face.
Layla gave her another reassuring pat, her expression softening.
“It’s okay. They’ll get over it eventually. Just… maybe not today.”
Safira peeked through her fingers, glaring at her friend.
“You’re not helping either.”
Layla grinned.
“That’s what friends are for.”
***
{Inside The Projection}
Malik blinked.
“What?”
“You’re handsome.”
The little girl repeated, this time with a slight smile.
Her confidence was surprising, almost jarring compared to the others.
Malik scratched the back of his neck, unsure how to respond.
“Uh… thanks?”
He then quickly turned away to focus on the search.
“Let’s just… get to work.”
“Yes, sir~!”
Over the next hour, the group scoured the camp.
Malik and the ones strong enough to move rummaged through tents and overturned crates, pulling out anything that could be of use.
The haul was decent—coins of both bronze and silver, several swords, spears, axes, and crossbows; a handful of Scrolls, and surprisingly, no Grimoires were found.
Instead, they got a collection of strange-looking Holy Relics.
They had caught Malik’s attention immediately.
He picked one up and turned it over in his hands, frowning at the familiar design.
It was what that bastard Rafiq had used on his descent on the first layer.
They looked like backpacks, sleek but clearly worn from use.
“What’s this Holy Relic?”
He held it up for the group to see.
The bold girl from earlier—Safira, as she introduced herself—nudged her friend forward.
“Jasmine knows. She’ll explain.”
The brave girl, who apparently was called Jasmine, stepped up.
She was quieter but equally sharp-eyed.
“I-I’m surprised you don’t know about it… It’s how they get us in and out of the Al-Fawra. You just need to wear it, and it… kind of makes you fly. They used it to smuggle some of us to the surface, straight out of Al-Fawra.”
Malik’s frown deepened as he realized what those “exit points” on Rafiq’s map meant.
“I see. That’s… efficient.”
His voice was flat, seemingly uninterested, but his mind raced with the implications.
After a few more seconds of staring, he handed the relic to Jasmine and Safira, then began distributing the rest among the group.
Each girl got one, and he made sure they knew how to use it.
But as they neared the end, it became glaringly obvious—they were short.
Two Holy Relics too few.
The realization hit like a stone dropping into a silent well.
“There’s not enough!”
“What do we do now?”
“Someone has to stay behind…”
“There’s no way we’re leaving anyone behind.”
“There has to be another way!”
“M-Maybe someone could share? Take turns or something?”
“Yeah, that’s right!”
“There’s no—”
Jasmine interrupted the poor girl, raining in on their parade.
“Unfortunately… these relics don’t work that way. Once activated, they bind to the user for a day. You can’t just swap them around mid-use, and you can’t carry another person either… i-it deactivates. I know… I… I t-tried it before. Unless we somehow avoid the Faraja and find a way to get back, these two are staying here.”
Panic set in.
“It’s not fair!”
One of the two girls cried, clutching at her hair.
“We can’t stay here! We can’t—”
The other joined in, her voice rising in a wail.
“We’ll die! You can’t leave us here!”
Malik didn’t have the heart to tell them the truth—that staying behind wasn’t optional.
They had the luck of the draw, and their luck fell short.
There was nothing more to say about it.
He opened his mouth to calm them down, but little Safira stepped forward, pausing the words that sat on the tip of his tongue.
“We’ll stay.”
Jasmine was at her side in an instant, nodding in agreement.
“Take ours. The rest of you can go.”
The two girls who had been crying fell silent, their wide eyes darting between Safira and Jasmine.
Without hesitation, they snatched the Holy Relics out of their hands and strapped them on, avoiding the other girls’ gazes like cowards.
They didn’t say thank you, didn’t even look back—they just sat in the corner, clutching at their newfound salvation.
Safira and Jasmine didn’t spare them a glance either.
Their focus was on their savior.
“Do you think of yourselves as martyrs?”
Malik turned to them, his expression unreadable.
“…”
“…”
They didn’t reply and just stared back at him.
“…Heh.”
He smiled—a small, genuine curve of his lips.
“You sure about this?”
“We’re sure.”
Jasmine spoke first, her voice now steady.
“You said that there was no need to trust you…”
Safira’s smile returned, lighter this time.
“…But we do.”
Malik shook his head, both amused and resigned.
“You two are something else.”
Safira tilted her head, her smile widening.
“You know, Sir, you really are handsome.”
Malik blinked, caught off guard once more.
“You already said that.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
Jasmine groaned, dragging a hand down her face.
“Focus, Safira.”
Malik chuckled.
“Alright, alright. Enough of that. Let’s figure out what’s next.”
He turned, expecting some final words, maybe even more protests—but what he saw stopped him cold.
All of them—the girls—had knelt. Every single one.
Heads bowed low, a few had their hands clasped tightly, others spread out, palms pointing upwards.
It wasn’t rehearsed; it wasn’t planned. It just happened.
All their hearts connected, pulling them together towards a single light.
Malik.
And in the silence that followed, their voices rose—not loud, not in unison, but overlapping like waves lapping at the shore.
“Thank you.”
“For blessing us with him.”
“The man who carries your will.”
They whispered their thanks—not to him, not directly—but to whoever or whatever had led them to this moment.
To fate, to luck, to God, or some other higher power none of them could name.
A prayer, not to those who’d long turned their backs, but to whatever thread of mercy might still linger in the cracks of this unforgiving world.
For the boy who bore the weight of a world they couldn’t see, but felt all the same.
For the boy who, even now, didn’t ask for thanks, didn’t need it—but who, in the end, deserved it all the same.
“Whoever’s out there… Thank you for sending him to us.”
“Bless him as you blessed us.”
“Comfort him as you comforted us.”
Safira kneeled, joining the prayer.
“And forgive him…”
Jasmine did as well.
“For everything he carries. For everything he can’t let go.”
Please comfort the man who bore the burden of our lives…
Bless this man, who stood when no one else would.
And grant him mercy—your pity, your compassion—
For he has given us everything.
“…”
Malik didn’t interrupt. Couldn’t.
He wanted to laugh it off, make some stupid joke, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t budge.
All he could do was stand there, his hands tightening into fists at his sides as the weight of their belief—of their hope—wrapped around him like a mantle he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t refuse.
It was heavy but warm, grounding him in a way he didn’t know he needed.
And in that moment, he realized something.
To them, this wasn’t just about survival; it was about faith.
About handing over their fears, their doubts, their everything—to him.
And he, for all his bravado and half-baked plans, knew he had to carry it.
Because if he didn’t… who would?
There was no one there for kids like him.
He had to be that someone.
Malik had to be that light.