***

The world's protagonist, the "hero," surrounded by beauties on each side, continued to smugly look down at the "villain."

Zafar could feel Malik's life force continuously becoming weaker, and he loved that feeling.

It felt as if he'd just repeatedly hit the jackpot at a casino, the house always in his favor.

Though it was unfortunate that they couldn't see his face, as it was wrapped in chains, his enjoyment was unaffected.

With his current power, Malik had no chance of escaping; their victory was assured.

Now, they only had to wait for ten days, watch as the "villain," who had tormented their lives, died a dog's death.

But still, most of them didn't let their guard down.

The man before them was unlike any other—an uncontested Sultan for many hundreds of years.

He was bound to have a trick or two up his sleeve, hidden behind the thousand he had already displayed.

As long as his head wasn't on a spike, most of them wouldn't be at ease.

Malik was just that terrifying.

His palace, his very execution ground, showed that in spades.

It was the most sacred place, coveted by all in Fam Ibless, a place of worship, of peace, yet now...

Not a single surface was clean of blood; it could be seen everywhere, even dripping in some areas where dead bodies lay in the tens of thousands.

A one-sided massacre had taken place, and all of it was done by one man.

Alone.

Right, he had killed tens of thousands of Magi by himself.

Such a feat was simply unheard of; no Sultan in history had even come close to it, and many among them were warmongers, so it certainly wasn't due to their different mentalities, just a lack of strength.

The people weren't told what rank he was, but they could guess quite easily.

Malik was a Class-Three of the third sub-rank.

He was one breakthrough away from becoming a Class-Two...

A Malāk, a literal Angel.

Such a thing many could not yet fathom.

How they had defeated him, even with one of the Ten Commandments, was beyond them.

It was a miracle.

No one but that shameless Zafar would claim otherwise:

"You saw how I moved?! The villain couldn't even track my sword!"

The women beside him had already left, each now in their own group, forcing his bunch of yes-men to replace them.

"Ahahahaha! No doubt he was astonished by you, lord!"

"I believe the same! Bastard was too distracted by your magnificence that the trap worked perfectly."

"He didn't know what hit him!"

Their words flowed one after the other as if it was choreographed, and that might as well have been the truth judging by their flinching brows.

"I'm telling you, only I deserve the villain's crown!"

None the wiser, Zafar continued to gloat, hoping for one of the "heroines" to bite the bait, join him to converse, yet none did, all too busy doing actual work.

While the bastard tried to show himself as popular when Malik was awake, the girls didn't really like him, at least not in that way.

Huda was the closest one to him, as he found her the easiest to woo, but even she was a hard nut to crack.

Her obsession with her brother took over most of her life, even when she tried to act like it didn't.

"What do you think, Huda? Does your brother's crown fit me?"

Disengaging from a conversation with a woman who looked very similar to her, she turned to Zafar, glaring.

Those words certainly weren't the most sensitive, and unfortunately for everyone around him, it appeared as if it had been the norm, as his yes-men looked away, pretending to have heard nothing.

"You wish to be Sultan?"

Zafar quirked a brow, somehow surprised that his words were taken in such a way.

"N-No... well..."

He glanced at those in the hall, his goons, his yes-men, people of his coalition, and they nodded at him, conveying what was needed.

"Actually, I am. There's no better than me; besides, I'm the only g—"

"Quiet."

Noor, who remained seated on her throne, shut Zafar down at once, the pressure imitating from her bending his men's bodies.

Though the girl didn't seem like she had a horse in this race, arguably after Roya, she wanted Malik dead the most.

She even took the help of Zafar, a man that she hated like no other but had to get along with to keep things flowing.

But now, as the deed was finally done, she didn't need to keep up appearances.

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Zafar had fulfilled his purpose; maintaining relations further would only harm her, making her lose a brain cell or two each time they talked.

"W-What?"

He looked at her in surprise, not expecting that treatment from her at all.

Though she was always cold to him, keeping him at a distance, she had never been so rude.

But before he could confront her about that, a change had occurred...

A flashing light of white appeared above Malik, coalescing randomly.

Everyone without exception looked at it in horror, immediately expecting the worst.

"...How? Even Gods can be bound to its chains."

Roya was the one most terrified, as she knew full well the capability of such a Holy Relic.

There were only nine others like it in the whole universe, reaching a rank that was quite literally named {Broken Grade.}

That showed just how impossible it was to escape its shackles, but here she was, being proven wrong while unable to do anything about it.

"I-Is this really happening?!"

"Impossible! Even if he had become a Malāk, there's no getting out of it!"

"No, he's Shaytan's Sultan! That blasphemous being had come to help him escape!"

"Should we attack?!"

"I say we kill him before Shaytan gets here!"

Men screamed like little children in a playground, repeating the same question but hesitating to take a single step.

No one was brave enough, well, no one except the main characters.

Roya dashed in front of them before they could even move, stopping them in their tracks.

"Don't forget the Flaw you imbeciles!"

They stuttered, stepping back as her sharp words rang in their ears.

"O-oh yeah, sorry, Lady Roya."

"My apologies, Lady Roya."

That went on for a while, as they finally calmed back down, turning to face Malik once more.

And it was good that they did, as beneath their astonished and fearful gazes, he, Malik, the Shaytan's Sultan, the world's villain, had begun to move.

His arms, which were stretched on either side of his shoulders, had lowered, reaching his thighs, tensioning the chains even further.

Then, his right leg went up, allowing him to put his foot on the ground.

He was no longer on his knees.

Standing up, he moved forward, slowly, very slowly. His destination? The throne. His throne.

The chains rattled and pulled against him, but they were powerless to stop his advance.

It was as if he was no longer within their grasp, casually walking against their might.

Each step echoed louder than the last, hammering into the crowd's ears like a countdown.

After what felt like forever—but was only a minute—he stopped in front of his rightful place.

Without so much as a glance at the crowd, he turned and lowered himself into it like he'd been sitting there his whole life, which he was.

One arm draped lazily over the armrest, the other resting on his knee.

His back leaned into the plush cushions, but his posture? Still all command and no compromise.

Then his chin tilted up just enough to tell everyone a few words:

"I own this place."

They couldn't see his face, but they knew that he was looking down at them; they could feel his golden eyes trained on them... judging them, dismissing them.

It was infuriating. Insulting. Just revolting.

And they especially hated how much they couldn't look away, as if their minds subconsciously acknowledged that to be the truth.

Just then, at the same point where the thousands in the hall looked, the light above him finally condensed, exploding into a blinding flash, flooding the hall and forcing them to shield their eyes.

Many wanted to scream, thinking that they were under attack, but they held it in, believing in the Holy Relic, in Roya.

And they were right in doing that, as this wasn't an attack, far from it.

Once the light subsided, a new addition to the hall could be seen.

Between Malik and them, a holographic-like screen had materialized, displaying a seemingly familiar face.

It was a young, malnourished Malik, around twelve years of age.

He wore tattered robes, sitting on the ground, beside a busy street, repeatedly asking a question that they all could hear as if the screen spoke to their minds directly:

"Could you spare some change?"

There was no doubting it.

They now, for whatever reason, were watching Malik's memories.

And it turned out, the man they had all feared was a... beggar?