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{Sultan’s Hall}
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
It was suffocatingly silent.
Truly. The audience felt unable to speak.
Every single pair of eyes stared at the projection.
Malik’s anguished figure still fresh in their minds…
His trembling hands. His powerless body. His quiet mind.
The way his lips had barely managed to form those final words.
“Remember me… but forget my fate.”
What did he even mean by that?
It was such a simple thing to say, yet it hit like a boulder.
Was he asking them to honor his memory but let go of the misery that came with it?
To see him as more than just some tragic figure?
Or maybe he didn’t want to be remembered as the kid who couldn’t escape whatever Hell had chained him down.
Maybe he wanted to be remembered for the fight, not the fall.
For the person he was, not the ending he couldn’t avoid.
It was like he was begging them not to let his life be just another sad story. Like he didn’t want pity. Like he didn’t want to be mourned forever.
A plea to hold on to the best parts of him, even if the worst was all they could see right now.
…How could a boy no older than thirteen utter such things?
The world deemed him a man, but he wasn’t… not really.
He was still a boy.
On some level, they all realized that.
Didn’t mean they’d processed it, though.
That was another matter entirely.
Then… there was Jasmine’s grave.
Her crude gravestone was etched in their memories.
Oh, the tragedy.
One in its purest form.
Oh, the pain.
One given shape.
What a cruel world his was.
Tap…
All of a sudden, some Magi in the audience shifted, only slightly.
Yet even that faint sound felt like a violation of the moment.
Still, no one bothered to reprimand them.
Their minds were on him. Find exclusive stories on My Virtual Library Empire
The Sultan.
What could they say?
What words could possibly do justice to what they witnessed?
No matter who it was, no matter how much they hated him, they all felt… somber.
Yes… somber. For the lack of a better word. Their minds not that of an author’s.
Even the blondie couldn’t gain pleasure from this.
She was enjoying herself at first, but as the blinks went on…
As a familiar madness was projected…
As a kid was cut up. Dissected.
Another mentally tortured.
Her joy dissipated.
It wasn’t fun anymore.
It was just… sad.
And that was something the whole world would likely agree on.
“…Well, that sucked.”
Then, Azeem broke the silence.
It was like a dam bursting.
“Sucked?!”
“That was fucking devastating!”
“Are you even human?!”
“Don’t act like you’re unfazed, Sir Azeem!”
They were going to go on and on, letting out all their feelings into him, but then…
He turned around to face them.
“…”
The chaos came to an abrupt halt. Words frozen mid-air.
It wasn’t the act itself that silenced them.
No, not everyone in the crowd feared him.
It was the tears.
That was what shut them up.
They slipped from his red eyes, one after another.
No dramatic sobbing, no anger—just pain spilling down his face.
And the worst part?
He didn’t wipe them away.
He didn’t try to hide it.
He let them fall freely.
Unashamed.
Now, Azeem wasn’t just their Sultan’s right hand—he was a man.
Just a man.
And it showed.
Those memories looked like they hit him the hardest after Safira, who was already a sobbing mess.
Layla had her arms around her, trying her best to comfort her.
But it wasn’t working much, and she wasn’t doing much better either.
Unlike Huda, though, the two weren’t left alone in their grief.
Their respective camps were all around them, whispering reassurances, shielding them from their own emotions becoming a spectacle, their image protected.
A stark contrast, for sure.
It followed a trend the “hero” wasn’t so fond of.
Zafar kept quiet, though. He’d learned better after the last time.
Now? He’d wait. The upcoming massacres would do all the talking for him.
Besides, even he wasn’t about to ruin this moment.
The woman was grieving for her lost friend.
Only dumbass monsters would disturb her.
“Are we just gonna ignore the Uluka that buried her like some fuckin’ gravekeeper?”
But then, of course, the dumbass leader had to ruin it.
Everyone else ignored him completely, diving straight back into their own spiraling emotions.
“WHY DOES EVERYONE HE LOVES DIE?!”
“I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that the Sultan didn’t cry at the end or that I did… He’s a tyrant for fuck’s sake!”
“Right?! Same, brother. Same…”
“I mean, I figured she’d die since she’s not here with us, but—”
“Yeah, didn’t think it’d be like this, though.”
“I’m gonna off my past self who thought it was a good fucking idea to watch this!”
“I thought we’d watch something satisfying… not this. I swear it’s like tragedy porn.”
“What did you guys expect? For him to be evil just for the sake of it? There had to be something that twisted him into becoming the Sultan we know.”
“Not really—”
“Shut up. Those are outliers.”
“Well, I understand that there was context. But why… why does a thirteen-year-old have to keep burying people?!”
“What did he do to deserve this?”
“At this point…”
One voice trailed off before muttering bitterly:
“I’d say it’s only fair if he just… lost it already.”
Someone groaned.
“Did you see his face at the end? I’ve never seen someone look so… so…”
“Empty?”
“Yeah. Like he’s just done with everything.”
The chatter continued to build until a deafening CRACK echoed through the hall.
Everyone stiffened a slight bit, mentally readying themselves for combat.
“Who is—”
Before Zafar could finish his sentence, one of the hall’s massive double doors was kicked open with a force that shook the walls.
Every head turned to the entrance, hands near their weapons.
A gust of wind swept through, heavy, pushing their bodies down a tad.
Then they saw it.
The crimson owl.
HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!