Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death - Chapter 426: They Must Keep The Hunger

Chapter 426: They Must Keep The Hunger

A farmer, boots splattered with mud, stepped up next.

“My neighbor dug a channel and stole my spring. My orchard might soon die. I have three witnesses. If this issue of mine is not solved, my poor sons will starve.”

“Have you declared it?”

The farmer’s face turned red with shame.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Crown or throne?”

“T-Throne.”

The farmer was firm for a flash.

Malik revealed a throne, and the farmer smiled, clutching the hem of his robe in surprise. Yet before he could thank his Lord, his presence was smothered in the crowd.

“Next!”

A blacksmith staggered forward, chest heaving.

“Some thief stole my furnace molds, but my apprentice is accused. Farajah wants him flogged; he’s innocent! I beg—”

“Have you submitted a petition to them?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Crown or throne?”

“Crown.”

It was throne, once more.

The smith’s eyes went wide; a few Farajah officers at the back shook their heads as a guard took the smith by the collar, making the crowd suck in another breath, losing whatever hope had built up with the previous coin flip.

An old widow came “next;” she knelt with a scrap of cloth in her hand.

Her son had been taken for conscription only to die on the way North; his captain, instead of sending her a condolence payment, demanded a beast and blood price from their family.

“He was all I had… I gave what I had.”

“Made an official complaint to the local council?”

“Yes… yes I did, my Lord.”

The woman’s fingers trembled.

“Crown or throne?”

“…Crown.”

Malik flipped the coin.

Crown, and the woman’s knees gave; she had to be caught by two men.

Her wail of happiness rose and broke against the pillars.

“Next,” a caravan driver bowed, dust still in his hair.

“Bandits had attacked my last route. They took the children of a few of my regulars. I cannot pay the ransom. I begged the magistrate—they told me, ’wait.’ You, my Lord, are my only hope to right this wrong.”

Malik, for once, didn’t immediately ask but looked down at Sinbad.

His owl looked back at him and stared for a moment before shaking his head.

“…Crown or throne?”

“Throne.”

With a nod, the coin was flipped, revealing… a crown.

The driver fell to his knees, screaming that they could have his hands as forfeit, just to please pay the debt, but the guards took him away, caring not for any word he said.

Malik, watching as he was dragged away, subtly pointed at him, and a shadow moved.

“Next,” a midwife pleaded, she was small yet fierce:

“There was a child taken from a mother in my town, kidnapped for ransom. The family entrusted me with her… I can’t let them down; I cannot abandon that child. Please, I reported it more than ten times—”

Her fists tightened.

“Ten times! Yet no one had done a thing!”

Malik’s coin said throne when she chose the crown.

The midwife broke into something of a laugh that had been lightless too long.

She was dragged by the guards, kicking and screaming, followed by a shadow unseen.

A captain of some local Faraja, proud and heavy with medals, swaggered forward with a problem the nobles thought small: an artisan had refused to craft a statue for a certain lord.

This… captain demanded punishment for the artisan’s insolence.

Malik listened and asked the required question.

Throne was chosen with confidence.

…Malik revealed the crown.

The bastard’s face went a color worse than red, and he left a little smaller.

Something of a noble came “next,” with a ridiculous issue, much the same as the last man.

He stepped forward with a voice meant to charm and said his case, which basically amounted to ’give me more coin,’ counting on his pedigree.

Malik kept his face blank.

The noble chose throne; the coin read crown.

He paled; there was no outrage, surprisingly enough, at least no loud one, as he was shut down by the guards and dragged away like a dog before a single word could even escape his lips.

Perhaps this rough treatment of theirs was their way of de-stressing, something they desperately needed in this extremely tense hall.

“Next,” came a group of fishermen—three brothers. A merchant had seized their nets for unpaid tax. They had pleaded many a time and been ignored, calling it extremely unfair. They chose the throne, eyes blazing, but Malik’s palm showed a crown.

The brothers’ voices snapped into nothing as they left, and the “next” walked up.

Just like that, the list went on: a mason arguing over a broken contract, a widow’s appeal over a burial plot, a young man pleading for the right to marry his lover—each one nearly the same pattern, each one a small human universe rolled into Malik’s coin.

Each time the coin flipped, it seemed to twist the hall.

Hope always rose in the chest of a petitioner only to be crushed just as quickly.

The crowd learned the pace; they held their breath in a lockstep that measured time in folded hands.

There were variations, of course, for the people sometimes won, but that was very rare and only for extreme cases, as if even then, Fate could no longer have them put down any further.

No one could claim this was fair. No one could say it was just. It was arbitrary and final, and that arbitrariness became its own terror: anything could be taken away or spared on the whim of a gold disk.

A few brave voices tried to shout, to call for reason, to demand a tribunal, but the guards’ mere approach was enough to silence with them.

Fear did most of the work, as did Malik’s golden eyes.

People learned to reveal their tragedies despite the cruelty of it all.

From the back of the hall, those of the Council kept watching on with dread. Azeem, who remained tall beside Malik, struggled to keep his face balanced. Sinbad, now perched on Malik’s left shoulder, had his pink eyes bright yet trembling.

This tension was taking its toll on everyone.

However, and of course, there was one exception.

Throughout all of that, and even as the crowd began to dwindle to only a few groups, Malik’s face showed not a single change.

He did not show sadistic triumph, nor regret.

It was still, even though the pain he felt from each flip hurt him deeply.

Yes, he had his people go take care of those he saw desperately needing help.

Yes, in only a single day, he had helped more citizens than that Council department could in an entire week.

Yes, he couldn’t deny the most extreme cases; such a flip would be too cruel, even if he was going to help them anyway.

But still, it affected him deeply, making him feel what he never thought he’d ever feel.

An emotion reserved only for the Shimrs of the world.

It was nothing as simple as pride, rage, or pity.

No, it was the hollow weight of dominion.

Inflicting cruelty for the sake of control, knowing full well it was cruelty, and doing it anyway.

The luxury of arbitrary power, even if his power was far from arbitrary.

It was a tyrant’s solace, a savage stewardship… a rotten mercy.

And yet, despite hating such an emotion, he still went ahead with it.

After all…

’They must keep the hunger.’

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