Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death-Chapter 267: The Old Cane II

The memory shifted between heartbeats.

Now Malik stood taller. Older. Maybe six, maybe seven.

The light in his eyes had dimmed—just slightly, but it was there.

A podium rose before him, draped in ornate cloth. A grand chamber stretched around him, packed with nobles in jeweled robes and scented oils, all watching him, damned hawks circling above a dying lamb.

There were murmurs, whispers, and judgment that wrapped around the room.

To his left, a man with grey-flecked hair and hard eyes stood behind a wooden desk. The Qadi, a magistrate.

"—Henceforth, Malik is to be stripped of the Al-Zayni name. He, a bastard, is no longer bound to this family by blood, rite, or obligation."

His words echoed, the tolling of a bell that ended someone's life.

Unlike the crowd, which gasped and oohed, Malik didn't react.

He didn't even flinch at hearing them; he only turned his head, gaze falling on the woman standing beside the Qadi.

His mother.

She stood in a tremble, draped in white and gold, eyes cast down.

Behind her stood her husband, a noble from the Al-Ayan line.

He didn't look at his son, nor did she. Not even once.

The Qadi continued:

"By the grace of the court and the bastard's biological mother, Malik shall be assigned a guardian until he comes of age. A man of loyalty and record. Former butler to the Al-Ayan main family. Mahdi ibn Saleem."

A gasp rose in the chamber once more, and Mahdi stepped forward.

He was thinner now, the color in his beard mostly gone.

His eyes were glassy with tears, but his posture was proud and dignified... well, as much as his hunched back could allow.

His cane tapped once against the marble as he bowed his head to the court.

Malik turned his gaze to him, expression still blank, and Mahdi nodded at him slowly, a trembling smile on his face.

"I'll take care of him."

The Qadi raised a final scroll and read aloud:

"Now, Lady Mariam is acquitted of all past indiscretions. Her marriage shall remain recognized under Al-Ayan law. May they live long and prosper."

The chamber erupted into claps.

Smiles.

Cheers.

Celebration.

Malik just watched them. All of them.

His gaze swept across their painted faces.

Their perfumed robes. Their glittering rings and fake blessings.

And still... he had yet to say a single word.

For there was nothing more to say.

Thump.

The memory shifted between heartbeats.

A carriage rattled through the cracked stone roads of Zawaya. Sand blew through the broken windows, and every turn of the wheel felt like it dragged Malik further from whatever home he had left.

Zawaya was the worst district in Markaz, the region surrounding Al-Fawra.

Cracked houses. Dusty air. The scent of shit and spice mixed together. Crowded streets with children half-naked, stray felines barking through alleyways. Fires in barrels. Laughter that didn't reach the eyes.

This was where they were sending him, not out of mercy, but out of shame.

A place where nobility didn't reach, and secrets went to die.

Malik sat with his knees tucked to his chest... thinking. Mahdi was beside him, staring out the window. His cane rested across his lap.

Eventually, the boy glanced at his new guardian and finally ended his streak of silence:

"…You don't have to do this."

Mahdi looked at him.

"I want to do this."

"She only picked you to make herself feel better."

"Maybe. But I still want to."

"..."

"..."

"..."

Silence stretched between them, and Malik looked away.

His face betrayed nothing, but his fingers had curled into fists.

"She didn't have to send you. She could've just abandoned me."

Mahdi didn't answer right away.

He closed his eyes and breathed slow.

"Some people love in broken ways... Some people protect without knowing how. She's cruel… but not all the way through."

"..."

Malik didn't answer.

He didn't hate her. That was the truth. It would've been easier if he did. If she was completely monstrous, he could've discarded her like a torn robe. But she wasn't. She was the only family he had. The only blood.

And she'd thrown him away… halfway.

That halfway hurt more than hatred ever could.

But even as Malik buried those feelings, something else remained.

Something stronger than betrayal.

A truth that anchored him.

He glanced back at Mahdi.

The old man was wiping his cane with the edge of his sleeve, pretending not to cry.

Malik looked forward again.

Yeah.

They'd be fine.

They didn't need anyone else.

Thump.

The memory shifted between heartbeats.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"...I was naive."

The words echoed like the scrape of metal on stone, and with them, a world was shattered.

Gone was the warmth of silk bedsheets and soft-spoken promises. Gone was the mother's embrace and the bittersweet weight of broken love.

In its place was cold. Filthy, foul-smelling, cold, a wind biting into skin, and cobbled streets slick with grime and rot.

Zawaya was truly the gutter of the region.

A district forgotten by time and mercy.

The place where one sent dogs to die.

And in the middle of one narrow alley, soaked with piss and blood...

"I was so fucking naive."

...Mahdi lay dying.

Slumped against a crumbling wall, the old man wheezed and hacked, his fingers twitching weakly against the stone, every breath sounding like death crawling up his throat.

Hrrchhk—he coughed again, and blood splattered onto his wrinkled knuckles.

His body spasmed. Shivered. Sweat drenched his skin even in the cold.

And before him…

Malik stood frozen.

Still young, maybe eight, nine years old. Just a boy. Just a kid. But his face was blank.

His golden eyes were hollow. Shadows pooled under them like permanent bruises.

His arms were raised, trembling.

In his hand: a kitchen knife.

It was dull. Rusted. Not made to kill. Not like this.

Not for mercy.

But there was no one else left.

No one was left for them.

They were alone.

Just a son...

"P-Please."

And his father.

"…Please, son…"

Mahdi's voice was a broken wheeze, barely more than wind.

He reached out a shaking hand, brushing Malik's knee.

"Please…"

His voice cracked, not from pain, but from shame.

Incredible shame... he failed the boy.

He failed the boy.

Malik's jaw clenched.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to throw the knife and run.

He wanted to tell him he was being ridiculous—that he could survive this, they'd find something, someone—anything—

"..."

But no words came.

Only silence.

Tears trembled at the corners of Malik's eyes, but he didn't blink them away.

He kneeled. He stared. He shook.

Mahdi let out a soft laugh, choked by blood.

"Look at me… couldn't even die like a man…"

The knife hovered.

Closer.

Closer.

Still, Malik didn't move.

But then—

Thump.

A presence.

Another figure stepped from the shadow.

This one was calm, steady.

An older man.

No, not just any man.

He was Malik. But… older.

The same Malik the world knew.

The cold one. The mechanical one with a face like stone and dead eyes.

His body flickered as he moved, making him out to be a ghost or a... memory.

He walked forward until he knelt beside the younger Malik. Shoulder to much short shoulder. Looking down at Mahdi, whose glassy eyes stared through him, unaware.

The older Malik said nothing.

He simply reached forward…

Thump.

…and gently pressed down on the boy's hands.

The knife sank.

There was no scream. No sound.

Just a wet crunch as the blade pushed into Mahdi's chest, his weak ribs giving way beneath Malik's shaking weight.

"Haaaaaaaaaaa..."

Mahdi exhaled.

One last time.

Then…

"..."

Nothing.

Just stillness.

Malik's arms fell.

The knife slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground.

His body hit the stone next, followed by his chest and his forehead—until he lay collapsed against the old man's lap.

He wept.

It was not loud. Not wild. Just… quiet. Shaking.

And from the memory beside him, words were spoken:

"I love you, father."

His voice was dull. Like the words had been rehearsed a thousand times, but were still never made easier to say.

Thump.

And with that, he faded.

Leaving only the broken boy behind.

"Goodbye."

Malik sniffled. Lifted his head. Looked around the alley—confused.

For a moment, he thought he'd heard something. Felt something... But there was no one there. Nothing left but shadows and rats.

He wiped his face on his sleeve, smearing tears and sand across his cheeks.

His eyes drifted downward—

Thump.

—And there, beside the body, lay the cane.

Mahdi's old cane.

The one he never let go of.

Gnarled wood, chipped on one side, a cloth charm tied near the handle.

Malik stared at it for a long, long time.

Then reached out.

His hand wrapped around it.

It was heavier than he remembered.

No matter... he picked it up and stood up.

The cane pressed into the ground with a soft thump.

He then reached down, hooked his other arm under Mahdi's leg, and began dragging him out of the alley.

Step.

Drag.

Thump.

Step.

Drag.

Thump.

No one came to help.

Step.

Drag.

Thump.

No one even looked.

Step.

Drag.

Thump.

Just a boy, a body, and an old cane.

Blink.