Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death - Chapter 281
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- Chapter 281 - Chapter 280: Brothers Of Revoultion
Chapter 280: Brothers Of Revoultion
䄚䖲䉄䄧䖲䉄䵧爐䵧㷖㥀䉄㠿露路䵧䉄㷡㦉㔷䉄䉄䶡㦉虜盧虜魯櫓擄㥀䖲㑗䔪老
䀓䴑䵧 㷡䶡䲧䶡㷡㦉䴊㗶䄧 㷖㥀㠿䉄䵧䔪 䃼㥀䃐䵧… 䃐䵧㠿㗶㗶㛛 㦉䉄㗶㷡䘃䉄䴊䔪
䄚䖲䉄 㬸㠿㑗䖲䵧 䈪㦉䉄䉄䯦䉄 䈪㦉㥀䃐䖲䉄䴊 䴑㫒䉄㦉 䵧䖲䉄㠿㦉 㔷㷡䈨䉄䃐㛛 㔷㗶㥀䵧䵧䉄㦉㠿㬸㑗 䖲㷡㠿㦉 㷡㬸䴊 㔷㗶㥀㔷㔷 㷡㗶㠿䲧䉄䔪
㗶㷡㗶㥀㸲䔪㬸㷡㧜㠿䈪䴊㸲㔷䉄㔷䴊㥀䈨䖲䉄䉄㸲㦉䴊䴊㦉㷡䉄䫽䉄㬸㠿㠿䃐䖲㗶㛛㦉䃐䖲䴊㥀䴑䉄䴑㬸
“㒺䴑㥀’㦉䉄 㦉䉄㷡㗶㗶䄧 䶡㷡㦉䫽 㔷䴑㦉 㷡 䈪㠿㦉䴊䔪”
㰭㷡㗶㠿䲧 䫽㥀䵧䵧䉄㦉䉄䴊䔪
䔪䴑䃐㬸㦉䉄”㸲㤳䫽'”㔷䴑㦉㷡䉄㦉㷡㗶䄧㗶䉄䴊㷡䴊
㧜㠿㬸䈪㷡䴊 䃐䖲䴑䵧 䈪㷡䈨䲧䔪
㰭㷡㗶㠿䲧 䈨䖲㥀䈨䲧㗶䉄䴊㛛 䵧䖲䴑㥀㑗䖲 䵧䖲㷡䵧 䴊㠿䴊㬸’䵧 㷖㥀㠿䵧䉄 䫽㷡䲧䉄 㠿䵧 䵧䴑 䖲㠿䃐 䉄䄧䉄䃐䔪
䲧䉄䃐㸲䴑䠭㷡䃐䉄䴊䃐㷡㠿䶡㛛䄧䴊㷡䉄䖲㧜㠿㗶䉄㬸䈨䉄䉄㥀䴊㬸㦉䵧䴊㬸㷡䴑㔷㦉䴊㬸㧜㷡䈪㠿䶡㔷䉄㛛㦉㥀㬸䉄䵧䴊䉄㦉㠿㗶㬸㥀䵧㠿䖲䃐䖲㔷䴊䵧䉄䃐㠿㛛
“䵥㗶䴊䉄㦉 䚫㦉䴑䵧䖲䉄㦉䔪”
㰭㷡㗶㠿䲧 㑗㦉㥀㬸䵧䉄䴊 㠿㬸 㦉䉄䃐㸲䴑㬸䃐䉄䔪 䐺䖲㠿䈨䖲 䶡㷡䃐 䖲㠿䃐 㫒䉄㦉䃐㠿䴑㬸 䴑㔷 䄧䉄㷡䖲䤘
㬸䉄䉄䴊䄧䴑㥀䵧䴑㤳”䵧䉄㗶㗶䫽㬸䴑䃐”䉄䖲䵧㑗䔪㠿
㰭㷡㗶㠿䲧 㬸䴑䴊䴊䉄䴊 䖲㠿䃐 䖲䉄㷡䴊㛛 㙭㥀䃐䵧 䃐㗶㠿㑗䖲䵧㗶䄧䔪 㧜䵧㠿㗶㗶 䃐䵧㷡㦉㠿㬸㑗 㷡䵧 㬸䴑䵧䖲㠿㬸㑗䔪
㧜㠿㬸䈪㷡䴊 䖲䉄䃐㠿䵧㷡䵧䉄䴊 㔷䴑㦉 䵧䖲䉄 㔷㠿㦉䃐䵧 䵧㠿䫽䉄㛛 䵧䖲䉄㬸 䃐㷡㠿䴊 㠿䵧 㸲㗶㷡㠿㬸㗶䄧䠭
㒺㥀”䴑㬸䈨㥀㬸䵧㷡㑗䔪㷡䖲”㗶㠿㠿㗶 䉄䶡䉄㦉
㰭㷡㗶㠿䲧 䈪㗶㠿㬸䲧䉄䴊 䴑㬸䈨䉄䔪
“䐺䖲㷡䵧䤘”
䫽㗶䉄䔪䃐㠿䔪䔪㷡㥀䃐䨟’䴊䖲㷡䄚”䵧䄚䉄䖲㗶㦉䵧㷡䉄䈪䄧”㷡䔪䶡䉄䴑䖲㗶㠿䔪䈪䵧
“…䐺䖲㷡䵧䤘”
“䵥㗶䴊䉄㦉 䚫㦉䴑䵧䖲䉄㦉㛛 䄧䴑㥀 䫽㠿㑗䖲䵧 㬸䴑䵧 䖲㷡㫒䉄 㬸䴑䵧㠿䈨䉄䴊 㠿䵧㛛 䈪㥀䵧 㬸䴑䶡䔪䔪䔪 㒺䴑㥀 䈨㷡㬸 䃐䉄䉄 㷡㑗㷡㠿㬸䔪”
䴊㬸㠿㠿㛛䶡㑗䉄㬸䖲㠿䃐䉄䵥䄧䃐䴑䈨䃐䴊㗶䉄㗶㷡㰭㠿䲧䉄䉄䴊䴑㸲㬸㠿䵧䔪䴑䖲㛛䵧䫽㥀䖲㬸䵧䉄
㧜㠿㬸䈪㷡䴊 䶡㷡䃐 㦉㠿㑗䖲䵧䔪 㤳㬸䴊䉄䉄䴊㛛 䖲䉄 䈨䴑㥀㗶䴊 䃐䉄䉄 㸲䉄䴑㸲㗶䉄 㷡㑗㷡㠿㬸䔪
㸩䈨䵧㥀㷡㗶㗶䄧 䃐䉄䉄 䵧䖲䉄䫽㛛 䶡㠿䵧䖲䴑㥀䵧 䵧䖲䉄 㧧䴑㦉㦉㥀㸲䵧㠿䴑㬸 䵧䶡㠿䃐䵧㠿㬸㑗 䵧䖲䉄䫽 㥀㸲䔪
䈪䵧㥀䘃䉄䉄㸲䵧䴊䔪䉄䈨䴊㬸䴑䉄䵧䈨㠿䫽䴑䴑䶡㧜㛛䉄䖲䖲䉄䃐㸲䖲㸲㦉䉄㷡䵧㠿䶡㷡䃐䉄䴑㦉䉄䈪㔷䵧䖲㬸㷡’䴊䵧䵧㷡䖲䴑䵧䴑㛛㬸䶡䉄䈪
䨟䉄 䖲㷡䴊 㑗㦉䴑䶡㬸 䵧䴑 㬸䉄㫒䉄㦉 㦉䉄㷡㗶㗶䄧 㗶䴑䴑䲧 㷡䵧 㸲䉄䴑㸲㗶䉄㛛 䴑㬸㗶䄧 㠿㬸 䵧䖲䉄㠿㦉 䴊㠿㦉䉄䈨䵧㠿䴑㬸䔪
䄚䖲㠿䃐 䉄䘃㸲㗶㷡㠿㬸䉄䴊 䖲䴑䶡 䖲䉄 䖲㷡䴊 䃐䉄䉄㬸 䵧䶡䴑 䃐䫽㠿㗶䉄䃐䔪
㥀䈪䵧 㥀䨟䴊㷡 㷡䃐㷡䈨䉄㔷 㷡䃐䶡䉄䖲㦉㔷䉄㛛㬸㠿 䈪㠿㫒㛛㗶㠿䉄䃐 䉄䖲㦉 䵧䤘䔭䴑㑗䉄䔭䈪䫽㦉䴑䴑㷡䶡䃐
㒺䉄㷡䖲㛛 䵧䖲㷡䵧 䵧䴑䴑 䴊㠿䴊 㬸䴑䵧 䫽㷡䵧䈨䖲 䶡䖲㷡䵧 䖲䉄 䖲㷡䴊 㷡㗶㦉䉄㷡䴊䄧 䉄䃐䵧㷡䈪㗶㠿䃐䖲䉄䴊䔪
“㒺䴑㥀 䶡䉄㦉䉄 㬸䉄㷡㦉㠿㬸㑗 䵧䖲䉄 䵧䖲㦉䉄䃐䖲䴑㗶䴊㛛 䵥㗶䴊䉄㦉 䚫㦉䴑䵧䖲䉄㦉㛛 㸲䉄㦉㠿㗶䴑㥀䃐㗶䄧 䈨㗶䴑䃐䉄 䵧䴑 䴊䉄㷡䵧䖲’䃐 䈨䴑㗶䴊 䉄䫽䈪㦉㷡䈨䉄䔪 䄚䖲䴑㥀㑗䖲 㤳 䖲㷡㫒䉄 䴊㦉㷡䶡㬸 䄧䴑㥀 䈪㷡䈨䲧 㷡㬸䴊 䫽䉄㬸䴊䉄䴊 䫽㥀䈨䖲㛛 䵧䖲䉄 䈨䴑㗶䴑㦉㔷㥀㗶 䖲㥀䉄䃐 䴑㔷 㗶㠿㔷䉄 䃐䵧㠿㗶㗶 䉄㗶㥀䴊䉄 䄧䴑㥀㦉 䉄䄧䉄䃐㛛 㷡㬸䴊 㸲䖲㷡㬸䵧䴑䫽䃐 䄧䉄䵧 㗶㠿㬸㑗䉄㦉 㠿㬸 䄧䴑㥀㦉 䫽㠿㬸䴊䔪 䄚䖲䉄䃐䉄 㠿㗶㗶㥀䃐㠿䴑㬸䃐 䶡㠿㗶㗶 䶡㷡䘃 䃐䵧㦉䴑㬸㑗䉄㦉 䵧䖲䉄 㬸䉄㷡㦉䉄㦉 䄧䴑㥀 䵧㦉䉄㷡䴊 䵧䴑䶡㷡㦉䴊 䵧䖲䉄 㫒䉄㠿㗶 䴑㬸䈨䉄 䫽䴑㦉䉄䔪 㤳 㥀㦉㑗䉄 䈨㷡㥀䵧㠿䴑㬸䔪 㒺䴑㥀㦉 䃐䴑㥀㗶 㦉䉄䫽㷡㠿㬸䃐 䖲䉄㷡㫒㠿㗶䄧 䃐䵧䉄䉄㸲䉄䴊 㠿㬸 㧧䴑㦉㦉㥀㸲䵧㠿䴑㬸㛛 㷡㬸䴊 䵧䖲䴑㥀㑗䖲 㤳 䃐䵧㦉䴑㫒䉄 䶡㠿䵧䖲 㷡㗶㗶 䵧䖲䉄 䶡㠿䃐䴊䴑䫽 㷡㬸䴊 䶡㠿㗶㗶 㷡䵧 䫽䄧 䈨䴑䫽䫽㷡㬸䴊㛛 䵧䖲䉄 㔷㥀㗶㗶 㦉䉄㫒䉄㦉䃐㷡㗶 䴑㔷 䃐㥀䈨䖲 㦉㥀㠿㬸 㗶㠿䉄䃐 䈪䉄䄧䴑㬸䴊 䫽䄧 䃐䴑㗶㠿䵧㷡㦉䄧 㦉䉄㷡䈨䖲䔪”
䄧䉄䉄䃐㬸㦉䶡䴊䴑䔪㦉䉄㷡㷡䲧䃐㠿㗶㰭’
“㒺䴑㥀’㦉䉄 䵧䉄㗶㗶㠿㬸㑗 䫽䉄 㤳䔪䔪䔪 㠿䫽㷡㑗㠿㬸䉄䴊 㷡㗶㗶 䴑㔷 䵧䖲㷡䵧䤘”
“㒺䉄䃐䔪”
㥀㷡䨟䴊䤘㧜”䖲—䉄㬸”㸩䴊
“㯋㠿䴊 㬸䴑䵧 䈪䉄䵧㦉㷡䄧 䄧䴑㥀䔪 䐺䖲䉄㬸 䄧䴑㥀 䈨䴑㗶㗶㷡㸲䃐䉄䴊㛛 䃐䖲䉄 䶡㷡䃐 㗶㠿䲧䉄㗶䄧 䴊㷡䯦䉄䴊—䈨䴑㬸㔷㥀䃐䉄䴊㛛 㸲䉄㦉䖲㷡㸲䃐—䃐䵧㦉㥀㑗㑗㗶㠿㬸㑗 䃐㠿䫽㸲㗶䄧 䵧䴑 䲧䉄䉄㸲 䖲䉄㦉䃐䉄㗶㔷 䈨䴑䫽㸲䴑䃐䉄䴊 㷡䫽㠿䴊䃐䵧 䵧䖲䉄 䈨䖲㷡䴑䃐䔪”
㰭㷡㗶㠿䲧 䴊㠿䴊㬸’䵧 䉄㫒䉄㬸 䈪㗶㠿㬸䲧䔪
㸩䔪䖲䵧”㗶㑗㦉㠿”
㧜㠿㬸䈪㷡䴊 㸲㷡㥀䃐䉄䴊䔪
“…䄚䖲㷡䵧’䃐 㠿䵧䤘 㒺䴑㥀 䃐㠿䫽㸲㗶䄧 䈪䉄㗶㠿䉄㫒䉄 䫽䉄䤘”
“䔪䉄㒺㷡䖲”
䄚䖲䉄 䴑䶡㗶 㗶䴑䴑䲧䉄䴊 㷡䵧 䖲㠿䃐 䉄䄧䉄䃐䔪
“㒺䴑㥀 䃐䵧䴑䴑䴊 䈪㥀䵧 䃐䉄䈨䴑㬸䴊䃐 㔷㦉䴑䫽 䃐䉄䵧䵧㠿㬸㑗 䵧䖲䉄 㸲㷡㗶㷡䈨䉄 㷡䈪㗶㷡䯦䉄㛛 㷡㬸䴊 㬸䴑䶡 䄧䴑㥀 䃐㸲䉄㷡䲧 㷡䃐 䵧䖲䴑㥀㑗䖲 㷡㗶㗶 㠿䃐 䶡䉄㗶㗶䤘 䄚䖲㷡䵧 䄧䴑㥀 㷡㦉䉄䔪䔪䔪 䈨䴑䴑㗶 䶡㠿䵧䖲 㠿䵧䤘”
㷡䲧㠿㗶㰭 䴑㬸䴊䴊䉄䴊䔪
“㤳 䈪䉄㗶㠿䉄㫒䉄 䄧䴑㥀䔪䔪䔪 㤳㔷 㤳 䈨㷡㬸’䵧 䈪䉄㗶㠿䉄㫒䉄 䄧䴑㥀㛛 䫽䄧 㗶㠿䵧䵧㗶䉄 䈪㦉䴑䵧䖲䉄㦉㛛 䵧䖲䉄㬸 㤳 䈨㷡㬸’䵧 䈪䉄㗶㠿䉄㫒䉄 㷡㬸䄧䴑㬸䉄䔪”
㧜㠿㬸䈪㷡䴊 㔷㗶㥀䵧䵧䉄㦉䉄䴊 䖲㠿䃐 䶡㠿㬸㑗䃐䔪
䉄䉄䃐䔪䖲䉄㷡”㗶㦉䉄䴊䉄㬸䴑䫽䈨䫽㦉䉄䴊䉄㗶”㦉䵥㤳㦉䵧䖲㦉䚫䴑䉄㛛㥀䄧䴑㷡㠿㬸䴊䫽
“㖧㦉䉄䵧䵧䄧 䃐㥀㦉䉄 㤳 㸲㷡䃐䃐䉄䴊 䵧䖲䉄 䫽㠿㬸䴊 䖲䉄㷡㗶䉄㦉 䶡㠿㬸䴊䴑䶡 㷡 䴊䉄䈨㷡䴊䉄 䴑㦉 䃐䴑 㷡㑗䴑䔪”
“䑁䴑䴊 䖲䉄㗶㸲 䫽䉄䔪”
㔷㑗㬸㗶㔷㔷㠿㥀㦉䫽㛛䴊㥀䉄䵧䉄䵧䃐䖲㠿㔷䔪䉄㷡䵧䖲䉄㦉䃐䈪㠿䴊㷡㧜㬸
“㒺䴑㥀’㦉䉄 䵧䖲䉄 㗶䉄㷡䃐䵧 䴊㦉㷡䫽㷡䵧㠿䈨 䃐㥀㠿䈨㠿䴊㷡㗶 䫽㷡㬸 㤳’㫒䉄 䖲㷡䴊 䵧䖲䉄 㸲㗶䉄㷡䃐㥀㦉䉄 䴑㔷 䫽䉄䉄䵧㠿㬸㑗䔪”
㰭㷡㗶㠿䲧 䃐䖲㠿㔷䵧䉄䴊 䖲㠿䃐 䶡䉄㠿㑗䖲䵧㛛 䖲㠿䃐 䈪㷡䈨䲧 䃐䵧㦉㷡㠿㑗䖲䵧䉄㦉䔪
䖲䖲㥀䤘”䵧㬸䴑㗶䉄㷡㗶䄧㦉㛛䵧㷡䴑㦉㠿䵧㦉…”䴑㧜䖲’䃐䃐䉄䖲䵧䉄
“䀓䴑䔪”
㧜㠿㬸䈪㷡䴊 㷡㬸䃐䶡䉄㦉䉄䴊䔪
䃐䈪䴑㸩䵧㥀㗶䉄 㬸㷡䈪䵧䃐䴑䴊㥀䉄䖲㛛䔭䈪䔭 䖲㦉䴑䶡䉄㫒䤘䉄䨟㦉”䉄 䉄㥀䔪䈨”䃐㦉㗶㬸䴊䴑
“䔪䔪䔪㤳 䃐䉄䉄䔪”
“㤳䵧 䶡㷡䃐 䖲䉄 䶡䖲䴑 㸲㦉䉄䃐䃐䉄䴊 䫽䴑䃐䵧 㔷䉄㦉㫒䉄㬸䵧㗶䄧 㔷䴑㦉 䵧䖲䉄 㸲䴑㗶㠿䵧㠿䈨㷡㗶 㥀㬸㠿䴑㬸䔪 㸩䃐 㔷䴑㦉 䵧䖲䉄 㸲䴑㠿䃐䴑㬸㛛 䵧䖲㷡䵧 䶡㷡䃐 䫽䄧 㥀㬸䈨㗶䉄㛛 㧜䖲㠿䫽㦉䔪 㤳 䴑㫒䉄㦉䖲䉄㷡㦉䴊 䵧䖲䉄㠿㦉 㸲㗶䴑䵧䵧㠿㬸㑗 䶡㠿䵧䖲 䫽䄧 䴑䶡㬸 䉄㷡㦉䃐䔪”
㠿㷡㗶㰭䲧 㷡㬸㦉㷡䴊䃐㠿䉄 䄧䉄䈪䔪䉄䶡䴑㦉
“㒺䴑㥀 䃐㸲䄧 㬸䴑䶡䤘”
“㤳 㷡䫽 㷡㬸 䴑䶡㗶㛛 㷡㔷䵧䉄㦉 㷡㗶㗶䔪 㝅㥀㦉 䲧㠿㬸䴊 㠿䃐 㷡㗶㗶 䈪㥀䵧 㔷㷡䃐䖲㠿䴑㬸䉄䴊 㔷䴑㦉 䶡㷡䵧䈨䖲㔷㥀㗶㬸䉄䃐䃐 㷡㬸䴊 㷖㥀㠿䉄䵧 䴑䈪䃐䉄㦉㫒㷡䵧㠿䴑㬸䔪”
䃐䈨䉄䴑䃐㦉䴊㠿䖲䃐㰭㠿㷡䲧㗶䃐䔪㷡䫽㦉
“㧜䴑 䶡䖲㷡䵧 䴊㠿䴊 䄧䴑㥀 䖲䉄㷡㦉 䉄䘃㷡䈨䵧㗶䄧䤘”
㧜㠿㬸䈪㷡䴊’䃐 㸲㠿㬸䲧 䉄䄧䉄䃐 䴊㷡㦉䲧䉄㬸䉄䴊 㷡 㗶㠿䵧䵧㗶䉄䔪
䉄䴑䃐䫽㗶䴊㝅 䉄䴑㬸㔷䴑 䉄㦉䴑䴑䵧䵧㦉㬸䃐㠿㷡㠿㬸 䖲䉄䵧 䵧㬸䴑 㷡㬸䈨䴑㥀㔷㔷䉄㠿䔪㦉 䴑䵧 䃐䉄䉄䲧 䲧䴊㠿㬸 䃐䄧䉄䵧㧜䔪”䫽 䵧䖲䉄㠿䉄㷖㥀䵧 䶡㠿䵧䖲 䃐㠿䉄䵧䖲䵧䉄㠿㸲㬸㦉䉄䈨 䉄䉄䔪䃐㗶䈨㬸㠿 䨟”䉄䖲䵧䉄 䄚䖲䄧䉄㔷䴑 㠿䃐㷡䃐㫒䴑䉄䫽 䃐㷡䈨㠿㔷䵧䴑㬸㛛䵧䖲䵧㷡 㠿䈨䴑㥀䈨㗶㑰㬸䉄㗶䄧䫽䉄㦉 㥀㬸㦉䵧㷡䴑㔷䵧㥀㬸䉄䃐㗶䴊䖲䴑 䉄䨟
㰭㷡㗶㠿䲧 䈨㗶䴑䃐䉄䴊 䖲㠿䃐 䉄䄧䉄䃐㛛 䈪㦉䉄㷡䵧䖲 䃐㗶䴑䶡䔪
“㝅㸲䉄㬸 䃐㗶㷡㫒䉄㦉䄧㛛 㥀㬸㠿㗶㷡䵧䉄㦉㷡㗶 䶡㷡㦉㛛 㷡㬸䴊 䉄䵧䉄㦉㬸㷡㗶 䈪㗶䴑䴑䴊㗶㠿㬸䉄䃐䤘”
䫽䄧䃐䉄䃐䵧㠿㦉䘃”䈨䵧㗶䄧㷡䵥䔪䉄䲧䄧䔪㷡㷡䃐䵧䀓䴑䉄䔪㫒㦉㑗䉄㗶㷡”䉄䉄䃐䉄䃐䉄䨟㸲㦉㬸䃐䴑䉄䔪䃼䵧㥀䃐
“…㸩㬸䴊 䃐䖲䉄 䴊䴑䉄䃐㬸’䵧 䲧㬸䴑䶡䤘”
“㧜䖲䉄 䃐䉄㬸䃐䉄䃐 䃐䴑䫽䉄䵧䖲㠿㬸㑗 㷡䫽㠿䃐䃐… 䵧䖲䴑㥀㑗䖲 䃐䖲䉄 䈨㷡㬸㬸䴑䵧 䄧䉄䵧 㬸㷡䫽䉄 㠿䵧䔪 㧜䖲䉄 㷖㥀䉄䃐䵧㠿䴑㬸䉄䴊 䵧䖲㷡䵧 㸲䉄㷡䈨䴑䈨䲧 䴑㔷 㷡 䃐䈨䴑㥀㬸䴊㦉䉄㗶 㦉䉄㑗㷡㦉䴊㠿㬸㑗 䖲㠿䫽㛛 䈪㥀䵧 䖲䉄 䖲㷡䃐 䉄㬸䃐㬸㷡㦉䉄䴊 䖲䉄㦉 㠿㬸 㷡 䶡䉄䈪 䴑㔷 䖲㷡㗶㔷䔭䵧㦉㥀䵧䖲䃐 㷡㬸䴊 㸲㗶䉄㷡䃐㷡㬸䵧 㗶㠿䉄䃐䔪”
䃐䄧䉄䉄䫽䔪䵥䵧䄧㸲㠿䴊䉄䈨䲧㗶㔷䴊㧧䴑䔪㗶㗶㠿䲧㷡㰭䃐’䉄㸲㬸䔪䴑
“㤳 䃐䉄䉄䔪”
㧜㠿㬸䈪㷡䴊 䃐䵧䉄㸲㸲䉄䴊 㠿㬸䵧䴑 䵧䖲䉄 㷡㠿㦉 㷡㬸䴊 䶡㷡㗶䲧䉄䴊 㥀㬸䵧㠿㗶 䖲䉄 䃐䵧䴑䴑䴊 䈪䉄㔷䴑㦉䉄 䖲㠿䫽㛛 䉄䄧䉄䃐 䴊䉄㷡䴊 䃐䉄㦉㠿䴑㥀䃐䔪
䈨㥀䴑䃐䔪㔷㸲䄧㷡䉄䴊㗶䫽䉄䴊䖲䉄䉄䉄㬸䴑㥀㑗䖲䈨䔪䉄㦉㷡䈪”䫽䉄㸲䵧䖲㷡㥀㒺䴑䃐䃐䈨䉄䃐䃐㦉㗶㬸䲧䉄䉄䔪㷡㔷䴑㦉㷡䴊䵧’䉄䃐䖲㬸䶡䔪䲧䔪䔪䴑䃐㠿㦉䴑䉄䴑…䚫㦉㦉䖲䵧䖲㷡䉄㫒䴑䵧䄧㛛㗶䵧㠿㦉㷡䈨䵧䫽䴑㬸䉄䫽䵧㗶䴑䴑㛛㦉䈨㬸䫽㑗㷡䉄䃐䶡㠿䵧㔷䀓䵧䴑䉄䶡㗶䔪㗶㬸㷡㑗㦉䉄䴊㷡㬸䀓䶡䴑㷡㦉䉄㑗㔷䴑㦉䵧䖲䉄䴊䵥䉄㗶㦉”䖲㠿䵧䃐䃐㠿㬸䴑㗶㑗䵧䴑㦉䴑㔷
㰭㷡㗶㠿䲧 䃐㷡㠿䴊 㬸䴑䵧䖲㠿㬸㑗䔪
“…䄚䖲㷡䵧 䈪䉄㠿㬸㑗 䃐㷡㠿䴊䔪䔪䔪”
㷡䈪㠿䴊㧜㬸䠭䵧䴑㠿㥀㬸䉄䴊䈨㬸
“㧜䖲䴑㥀㗶䴊 䄧䴑㥀 䃐䉄䉄䲧 䵧䴑 䉄㬸䴊 䵧䖲㷡䵧 䶡㦉䉄䵧䈨䖲䉄䴊 䫽㷡㬸 㷡㬸䴊 䖲㠿䃐 䉄㬸䵧䴑㥀㦉㷡㑗䉄 㠿㬸 䴊㥀䉄 䈨䴑㥀㦉䃐䉄㛛 䄧䴑㥀 䃐䖲㷡㗶㗶 㔷㠿㬸䴊 䫽䉄 䶡䖲䴑㗶㗶䄧 㷡㗶㠿㑗㬸䉄䴊 䶡㠿䵧䖲 䄧䴑㥀㦉 㸲㥀㦉㸲䴑䃐䉄䔪”
㰭㷡㗶㠿䲧 䃐䫽㠿㦉䲧䉄䴊䔪 䃼㥀䃐䵧 䈪㷡㦉䉄㗶䄧䔪
䴑䃐䶡㗶䵧䄚䖲䴑”㥀㑗䖲㦉䶡䉄䉄”䶡䉄䃐䔪㠿
“㤳㬸䴊䉄䉄䴊㛛 䶡䉄 㷡㦉䉄䔪 㒺䉄䵧 㷡䃐 䄧䴑㥀㦉 䄧䴑㥀㬸㑗䉄㦉 䈪㦉䴑䵧䖲䉄㦉㛛 㠿䵧 㠿䃐 䴑㬸㗶䄧 㬸㷡䵧㥀㦉㷡㗶 䵧䖲㷡䵧 㤳 䖲㷡㦉䈪䴑㦉 㷡 䈨䉄㦉䵧㷡㠿㬸 䫽䉄㷡䃐㥀㦉䉄 䴑㔷 㸲䉄㬸䵧䔭㥀㸲 㫒㠿䴑㗶䉄㬸䈨䉄 䶡㠿䵧䖲㠿㬸䔪”
“…䑁䴑䴑䴊䔪”
㗶㠿䵧㗶䃐㠿䖲䃐䔪㠿㑗㬸㷡㷡䖲䴑㛛䉄䫽䄧䖲䉄䵧㷡㧜㠿㬸䈪䴊㥀䵧䉄㦉䉄㦉㬸䴊䴑䵧䴊㬸㷡㷡䃐䵧
䄚䖲䉄 䈪㷡㬸㬸䉄㦉䃐 㥀㬸䴊䉄㦉㬸䉄㷡䵧䖲 㔷㗶㥀䵧䵧䉄㦉䉄䴊 㠿㬸 䵧䖲䉄 䫽䴑䴑㬸㗶㠿㑗䖲䵧㛛 㷡㬸䴊 䵧䖲䉄 䈨㠿䵧䄧 㗶㠿㑗䖲䵧䃐 㔷㗶㠿䈨䲧䉄㦉䉄䴊 㠿㬸 䵧䖲䉄 䴊㠿䃐䵧㷡㬸䈨䉄䔪 䄚䖲䉄 䶡䴑㦉㗶䴊 䲧䉄㸲䵧 䃐㸲㠿㬸㬸㠿㬸㑗㛛 䃐䵧㠿㗶㗶 䵧㠿䈨䲧㠿㬸㑗㛛 㷡㬸䴊 䵧䖲䉄 䃐䵧㦉㠿㬸㑗䃐 䶡䉄㦉䉄 䃐䵧㠿㗶㗶 㠿㬸 㸲㗶㷡䄧䔪
䵥㫒䉄㦉䄧䴑㬸䉄 䶡㷡䃐 䫽㷡䲧㠿㬸㑗 䵧䖲䉄㠿㦉 䫽䴑㫒䉄䃐䔪
䈪㷡䲧䈨㬸䴊㸩䖲䵧䉄㬸䴑㷡䃐䶡䈪䴊㦉㷡䔪䴑㷡㗶㠿㰭䲧
“䐺䖲䉄㦉䉄’䃐 䃐䖲䉄 㬸䴑䶡䤘”
㧜㠿㬸䈪㷡䴊 㑗㗶㷡㬸䈨䉄䴊 㷡䵧 䵧䖲䉄 䴊㠿䃐䵧㷡㬸䈨䉄䔪
䴊㦉㑰㠿㫒䉄㗶䔪䴑㬸䶡䉄㸲䴑䈨䴊䈨㠿㥀㫒䖲䉄㷡㬸㗶䃐䉄䴑䈪㦉䖲䉄䉄䖲䄚䵧䫽䃐㥀䈪䉄䴑䵧䴑㥀㗶䖲㑗䖲㦉䄧䉄䵧䃐䃐㦉䃐䖲䉄䵧䖲㠿䶡䃐䉄䖲㠿䲧䄧㗶䉄”㸨䉄㸲䵧䃐䔪㬸”㸲䲧䵧䉄㠿䉄䖲㦉䵧
㰭㷡㗶㠿䲧 㬸䴑䴊䴊䉄䴊䔪
“㤳’㗶㗶 䶡㷡㠿䵧䔪”
䒼㗶”㬸㠿䵧 䫽䤘䴑”㬸㦉㠿㬸㑗
“䒼㬸䵧㠿㗶 䫽䴑㦉㬸㠿㬸㑗䔪”
㧜㠿㬸䈪㷡䴊 䵧㠿㗶䵧䉄䴊 䖲㠿䃐 䖲䉄㷡䴊䔪
㒺”䴑㥀 䴊㬸䵧㬸㠿䉄䉄”㦉䖲䤘 䵧䴑㬸䴑䈨䴑䵧㦉㬸㔷
“㒺䉄䃐䔪”
“…䄚䖲䉄㬸 䶡䖲㷡䵧䤘”
㤳䫽”‘㠿䵧䵧䴑䉄䵧䖲㗶㷡㬸㸲䴑㑗㬸㠿㑗㬸”䈪䴊㥀㠿㑗㗶䔪㠿㬸䉄㠿㔷䃐㠿䃐䖲㬸㥀䈪㦉䈪㔷䴑㦉䉄䉄䴊㬸䴑䶡
㧜㠿㬸䈪㷡䴊 㑗㷡㫒䉄 㷡 㗶䴑䶡 䶡䖲㠿䃐䵧㗶䉄䔪
“㒺䴑㥀 䶡䴑㥀㗶䴊 䴊䴑 䶡䉄㗶㗶 䵧䴑 䖲䴑㬸䉄 䄧䴑㥀㦉 䫽䉄䵧㷡㸲䖲䴑㦉䃐 䫽䴑㦉䉄 䴊㠿㗶㠿㑗䉄㬸䵧㗶䄧䔪”
㷡 䀓”䴑䵧 䵧㸲”䴑䔪䉄
“㧧㗶䉄㷡㦉㗶䄧䔪”
“䚫㥀䵧 㤳 㗶㠿䲧䉄 㠿䵧䔪”
㦉䉄㗶䄧㷡㗶”㧧”䔪
“䨟䫽䔪”
䨟䴑㸲㸲㠿㬸㑗 䴑㔷㔷 䵧䖲䉄 㗶䉄䴊㑗䉄㛛 䵧䖲䉄䄧 䃐䵧㷡㦉䵧䉄䴊 䶡㷡㗶䲧㠿㬸㑗 㷡㑗㷡㠿㬸䔪
䖲䴑㥀䖲㦉䄚㑗䉄䵧䖲䉄㸲㷡䃐’䈨㷡㗶䉄㑗㷡䔪䃐䵧㦉㬸䉄㠿㑗㷡㬸㷡㗶䖲䃐㗶㛛䵧䖲䉄
㸩㬸䴊 䶡㠿䵧䖲 䵧䖲㷡䵧㛛 䵧䖲䉄䄧 䶡㷡㗶䲧䉄䴊 㠿㬸䵧䴑 䵧䖲䉄 㬸㠿㑗䖲䵧䔪
䚫㦉䴑䵧䖲䉄㦉䃐 䴑㔷 㦉䉄㫒䴑㗶㥀䵧㠿䴑㬸䔪
䄧䈪䵧䃐䔪㸲䉄㸲䵧㧜䉄
䄚䶡䴑 䃐䴑㥀㗶䃐䔪
㝅㬸䉄 䖲䉄㷡㦉䵧䔪
䉄䔪䫽䵧䖲㸩㬸䴊㥀㑗㗶㬸䴊㠿䈪㠿䉄䴊㠿䈪㬸䖲䴑㗶䃐㗶䶡䄧㦉䫽䃐䵧䴑㷡
㙹㙹㙹
䕼㝅㥀䵧䃐㠿䴊䉄 䄚䖲䉄 㖧㦉䴑㙭䉄䈨䵧㠿䴑㬸㙁
䉄䄚䖲 䃐㛛㸲䴊㷡㥀䉄䴑㸲㦉㬸䴑䵧㙭䉄㠿䈨㦉䈨䉄㛛䵧䃐㬸㷡䴑㠿㷡㑗䵧㠿㬸㠿䶡㷡䈪㥀䔪䔪䵧䔪
“䔪䔪䔪”
“䔪䔪䔪”
“䔪”䔪䔪
“䔪䔪䔪”
“䔪䔪䔪”
䀓䉄䴑㬸 㷡䫽䔪䈨䉄
䄚䖲䉄 䈨㦉䴑䶡䴊 䴊㠿䴊㬸’䵧 䲧㬸䴑䶡 䶡䖲㷡䵧 䶡㷡䃐 㑗䴑㠿㬸㑗 䴑㬸 㠿㬸 䵧䖲䉄 㸲㦉䴑㙭䉄䈨䵧㠿䴑㬸䔪
㧜㥀㦉䉄㛛 䵧䖲䉄䄧 䈨㷡㥀㑗䖲䵧 㑗㗶㠿䫽㸲䃐䉄䃐 䖲䉄㦉䉄 㷡㬸䴊 䵧䖲䉄㦉䉄㛛 䈪㥀䵧 䵧䖲㷡䵧 䶡㷡䃐 㠿䵧䔪
䃐㸲䔪㷡䵧㗶䴑䫽䃐䵧㸩䶡㷡䃐䈨㔷䴑䴊䃐㥀䉄䉄䖲䵧䵧䉄䖲䃐㬸㸲䉄㦉䉄䵧㛛㦉䉄䴑㬸㫒䄧䉄䉄㬸䴑㬸䵧䴑
㧜㠿㬸䈪㷡䴊 䖲㷡䴊 䃐䵧䴑㗶䉄㬸 䵧䖲䉄 㦉䴑䴑䫽䔪
㸩㗶㗶 䉄䄧䉄䃐—䵧䖲䉄䄧 䶡䉄㦉䉄 䖲㠿䃐 㬸䴑䶡䔪
㷡䴑䴑䵧䉄䉄䃐䈨㬸䖲㛛䈨䐺䖲㠿䖲䵧䄧㬸䃐䉄䴑㛛䃐䶡㷡㷡㗶㗶㥀䈨䃐䖲㑗䴑䴑䴊㠿㬸㑰䵧㬸㑗䖲㠿䶡䃐㷡㷡䵧䔪㷡㦉㠿䉄㫒㸲
䄚䖲䴑㥀㑗䖲䔪䔪䔪 䵧䖲䉄 䶡䖲䴑㗶䉄 䴑㔷 㱨㷡䫽 㤳䈪㗶㠿䃐 䃐㷡䶡 㠿䵧㛛 䃐䴑 䫽㷡䄧䈪䉄 㠿䵧 䴊㠿䴊㬸’䵧 㦉䉄㷡㗶㗶䄧 䫽㷡䵧䵧䉄㦉䔪
㤳㬸 㷡㬸䄧 䈨㷡䃐䉄㛛 䵧䖲䉄㠿㦉 㷡䵧䵧䉄㬸䵧㠿䴑㬸 䶡㷡䃐㬸’䵧 䴑㬸㗶䄧 䴑㬸 㧧㦉㠿䫽䃐䴑㬸 䈪㥀䵧 䴑㬸 㸨㷡䄧㗶㷡 㷡䃐 䶡䉄㗶㗶䔪
㷡㗶䵧䃐䶡䃐㷡䉄㧜䖲䖲䵧䉄㗶㷡䵧䃐䴑䵧䴑䵧䔪㦉䄧䈨䉄䃐䲧㸲㷡㛛䉄䵧䖲
䨟䉄㦉 䃐䴑䈪䃐 䖲㷡䴊 䉄䈨䖲䴑䉄䴊 㔷䴑㦉 䫽㠿㬸㥀䵧䉄䃐㛛 㗶䴑㬸㑗 㸲㷡䃐䵧 䶡䖲䉄㬸 㷡㬸䄧䴑㬸䉄 䉄㗶䃐䉄 䶡䴑㥀㗶䴊’㫒䉄 䈪㦉䴑䲧䉄㬸䔪 䚫㥀䵧 䉄㫒䉄㬸 䃐䖲䉄 䖲㷡䴊 㗶㠿䫽㠿䵧䃐䔪
䵥㫒䉄㬸䵧㥀㷡㗶㗶䄧㛛 䖲䉄㦉 㫒䴑㠿䈨䉄 䈨㦉㷡䈨䲧䉄䴊 䴑㬸䉄 㔷㠿㬸㷡㗶 䵧㠿䫽䉄㛛 䖲䉄㦉 䵧䖲㦉䴑㷡䵧 㑗㷡㫒䉄 㠿㬸㛛 㷡㬸䴊 䖲䉄㦉 䵧䉄㷡㦉䃐 䴊㦉㠿䉄䴊 㠿㬸䵧䴑 㷖㥀㠿䉄䵧 䃐㬸㠿㔷㔷㗶䉄䃐 䴑㬸 㧜㠿㬸䈪㷡䴊’䃐 㔷䉄㷡䵧䖲䉄㦉䃐䔪
㗶䉄㗶䄧䴑㸲䈨䵧䫽䉄䴊㠿䵧䉄䶡㷡 䵧㗶㠿㬸㥀㷡䃐䶡䖲䉄䃐 䨟䉄 䉄䴑䴊㬸䔪
䄚䖲䉄㬸㛛 䃐㗶䴑䶡㗶䄧㛛 䶡㠿䵧䖲 䵧䖲䉄 㑗䉄㬸䵧㗶䉄㬸䉄䃐䃐 䴑㔷 䶡㠿㬸䴊 㷡䈨㦉䴑䃐䃐 㷡 㗶㷡䲧䉄㛛 䖲䉄 㗶䉄䵧 㑗䴑䔪
㸩 䃐䴑㔷䵧 㸲㷡䵧 䴑㬸 䖲䉄㦉 䖲䉄㷡䴊 㔷㦉䴑䫽 䴑㬸䉄 䫽㷡䃐䃐㠿㫒䉄 䶡㠿㬸㑗 䶡㷡䃐 䵧䖲䉄 䴑㬸㗶䄧 㔷㷡㦉䉄䶡䉄㗶㗶䔪䔪
CREATORS’ THOUGHTS
GoldenStache
Hello everyone, I’m here to just ask y’all for increased support, powerstones, Golden Tickets, etc.
If my novel doesn’t get any features soon, it’ll be officially dead, and that’s really disheartening after all the effort I put into it.
(And yes, even with those okayish stats, I’d say it’s dead. There are no new readers, only the OGs, so if nothing changes, my readership will slowly fizzle out.)
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Chapter 281: Until Death Takes Them All
Sinbad turned.
And walked back to where his sister still lay slumped, dazed on the cold marble floor.
Huda looked like a wreck—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, hair messy from the impact earlier.
He stood over her, eyes of a similar pink glowing softly.
A coo—deep, low—echoed from him, and his left wing reached out again.
This time, it tapped her on the chest.
Right over her second heart.
FWHMP.
A pulse of soft golden light burst from the point of contact.
It was a touch of healing. One that was total… Immediate.
Dizziness left her. Her vision sharpened. And her headache disappeared like it never existed.
She blinked up at him, still sluggish but now fully awake.
“What… what was that for?!”
She groaned as she sat up, rubbing her temple.
“Your thing head-butted me into the ground!”
Sinbad didn’t answer immediately.
He tilted his head all owl-like, and when he finally spoke, it was with that same crisp, noble voice they were still not used to:
“It was penance. Not punishment. I merely rendered what was long overdue.”
Huda frowned, and he continued:
“You allowed our brother’s light to be smothered. You despised his silence. You turned your back the moment the truth became inconvenient. When it shattered your worldview. And when they came for him, what did you do?”
His words struck like arrows.
“You did not merely stand aside… you joined them. I find it utterly inconceivable that you could commit such a despicable act.”
Sure, it was somewhat expected that she wouldn’t believe him, but that didn’t matter; if she had said yes, it wouldn’t all have dominoed into this atrocious ending.
Huda’s shoulders fell.
There was no snark left, no fight.
No defense. Absolutely nothing. Because he was right.
She had let them down; she had betrayed them.
And it hurt.
She stared at her lap, fists clenched, breaths trembling.
A thousand memories flashed in her eyes—how she’d questioned him, how she dismissed him, how she believed the liars who called him villain, monster, criminal, and traitor.
The worst part?
She doubted it the entire time.
Somewhere inside, she always believed he couldn’t be the villain they painted him as.
But still…
Still, she joined them in pushing death upon him.
At that point, she was too deep in it, too deep to back out.
A point where doubt turned minds insane.
A point where backing out would spell doom for her and her family, forcing all those she knew to dissociate from her, not wanting to be known as a villain sympathizer.
She had shunned all of the possibilities… and now, it all came back to haunt her.
Her body gave in.
Huda dropped forward, hands pressed to the floor, then elbows, until her entire body collapsed into a full bow—forehead against the marble.
A collective gasp shot through the crowd.
The Holy Palace… the Sultan’s Hall—this was their home.
The home of the Al-Sayfs…
And she bowed in that home.
In a home filled with nobles, elders, and world leaders.
They all watched in stunned silence as Huda, the Sword of the Fam Iblis, the Lioness of the North, groveled like a child before her older brother.
A person of her caliber groveling as such was unheard of.
They thought only Malik was capable of doing that.
But perhaps this humbleness ran in the ‘family.’
Huda didn’t seem to think about that, though.
Again, she knew very well that she had no right to call herself a sister of theirs, but still…
She was shameless.
Shameless enough that even now, even now, she wanted to be theirs.
“Brother… I’m sorry.”
Sinbad looked down at her.
His silence was heavier than any scream.
Eventually, he shook his head once, slowly.
“It is not my place to forgive you.”
She flinched.
His voice softened.
“The only one who could…”
He turned.
And his pink eyes landed on the chained body on the Golden Throne.
On Malik.
On his familiar but strange soul.
The Sultan of all that was Golden.
The brother whose heart they shattered.
“…is gone.”
Huda’s body shook as her head hit the ground again with a dull smack.
She sobbed once, loudly, then whispered—desperate, trembling.
“Then please… let me make it right. Let me fix it. Help me fix it. Let’s save our brother. Please…”
There was no faking this.
She had let go of all that she was.
Now she was just a sister begging for her family back.
“…”
Sinbad didn’t reply.
He looked to the side—at Noor, who now sat upright on the cracked floor, watching intently.
And Roya, arms behind her back, unreadable, but still obviously listening.
They, too, wanted to know.
Still, he said nothing.
He just turned away.
Left Huda where she lay, her forehead still pressed to the marble, her body trembling from guilt and cold and grief.
He walked—not back to Layla—but through her camp.
Every one of her handmaidens, servants, and protectors parted like waves as he moved.
They bowed their heads. Even cried.
But Sinbad wasn’t looking for them.
He was looking for a familiar woman.
And, not long after, he saw her.
Standing quietly among Layla’s merchants, in a simple mourning gown, face clean, black hair free down her back. Her purple eyes welled with tears.
Dunya.
The quiet maid.
The one who always waited behind the door.
The one who wrote Malik letters, cleaned up Layla’s messes, and cried in the man’s embrace when no one else was looking.
She’d always believed Malik.
Even when Layla didn’t.
She was there till the end.
Even when it got her scorn from everyone she knew.
She smiled through the tears now, like she’d been waiting her entire life to be seen.
Sinbad lowered his head.
Without a word, he gently scooped her up with his wing.
Dunya gasped softly, surprised, then curled into his feathers, burying her face in his warmth.
The whole room watched.
A noble owl cradling a forgotten servant girl like royalty.
It didn’t make sense.
But it felt right.
Sinbad carried her forward, past Layla, past the others, until he reached the very front of the Hall.
The projection above was still frozen.
Good. There was no need to worry about pain.
Sinbad passed underneath it slowly, carefully—shielding Dunya from its light—and walked right to the foot of the Golden Throne.
Once there, he curled his massive body around it.
Like a dragon coiled around its most precious treasure.
Malik couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even acknowledge him.
But Sinbad didn’t need him to.
He’d stay with him anyway.
Just like he always had.
Until death took them all.