Novel Full Chapter 364: Heavy Is The Crown
Chapter 364: Heavy Is The Crown
The crowd, brought out of their shock, roared.
It was instinctual and reflexive…
Blind.
“HIS HAND!”
“HE RAISES HIS HAND!”
“HE’S DONE IT!”
“THE SULTAN LIVES!”
They screamed in triumph, erupting as if the sky itself had declared them victorious.
“HE WON!”
“GLORY TO HIM!”
“Praise the Chosen Blood!”
“The Sword of Fam Iblis!”
“WE ARE SAVED!”
Soldiers fell to their knees in relief, children were hoisted into the air, priests wept into their robes, women collapsed in prayer, men embraced one another, and nobles tossed gold into the crowd.
It was hysteria.
Celebration.
Elation.
The cheering was so loud, so violent, it was like thunder had descended on the Holy City.
And yet—through all that noise—
Malik saw.
He saw what they couldn’t.
Because Cyrus’s hand, raised high… wasn’t pointed to the heavens.
They thought—oh—they thought he was pointing to victory.
No.
It was pointed forward.
It was pointed at the hill he stood on.
At him.
Malik’s golden eyes locked with Cyrus’s figure, and for a heartbeat… his world stopped.
Because Cyrus’s head—tilted just so, just slightly to the left—caught the dying light of the evening Shams.
And in that glint, that angle…
Malik saw it.
He saw it.
No longer could he deny it.
The reason that explained everything.
An obvious truth.
One eye…
Was black.
Entirely black.
There was no pupil, no white or pink.
It was a starless void… a rotten star, flickering at the edge of existence.
Corrupted.
Unredeemable.
…Final.
Malik’s thoughts were true.
It wasn’t injury, fatigue, or Cyrus going Hollow…
It was something far worse.
Depravity.
The same infection that plagued these Fallen they killed.
The same darkness Malik had killed himself an unfathomable number of times to purge.
And Cyrus—Cyrus, the Sultan, the Heart of the Holy City—had it in him.
He was dying.
Dying from Corruption.
HE HAD FALLEN.
Malik knew at first glance…
It wasn’t something he could reverse.
His immunity was of no use here.
His fire… his Nār Al-Khals was useless here.
Cyrus had been like this for a long, long time.
He had been battling IT for a long, long time.
It was why he was so desperate for a successor.
He himself knew…
There was no saving him.
The fact that he was alive was a miracle in and of itself.
And no doubt his fight against Malik only exacerbated the Corruption within him.
Perhaps it was the very thing that called upon the Fallen, what brought them to the Holy City.
And in that moment, Malik understood.
The raised hand wasn’t a gesture of triumph.
It was a command.
“Kill me.”
No words were spoken.
…None were needed.
But the meaning slammed into Malik.
This… this was abdication.
Cyrus was passing the crown.
And Malik…
Malik was the only one who could accept it.
He had to accept it.
Make the most horrifying choice he could make…
He had to kill the only other being who understood him.
His feet moved on their own.
BOOM.
He landed.
Boots struck stone like a drumbeat of death.
The Holy City finally saw him then…
And the cheers instantly died.
Just like that, as if someone had cut the strings of their throats.
Gasps replaced their happiness, hands flying to mouths, eyes going wide.
Again, it was all instinctive.
They knew what was going to happen by the way Malik stood.
Children began to cry.
Old men stumbled backward.
Soldiers stepped forward, confused and terrified.
“…That’s him.”
“…The black cloak.”
“He’s the S-Stranger.”
“No, no—why is he here?”
“Is he—?”
“Stop him!”
“Don’t let him near the Sultan!”
“RUN!”
“RUN AWAY, MY LORD!”
Their panicked voices came one after another until…
“HUDA!”
A single name ripped through.
“HUDAAA—DON’T!”
His little sister moved.
“DON’T GO!”
Breaking away from the crowd, she rushed towards her uncle.
“NO! MALIK DON’T DO IT!”
Ignoring her, or perhaps not hearing her at all, Malik’s hand found the hilt of his Spine Splitter.
The moment it left its sheath, its steel whispering, the city erupted further:
“HE’S GOING TO KILL HIM!”
“DON’T!”
“NO!”
“STOP HIM!”
“PROTECT THE SULTAN!”
The people surged forward, hundreds of them, a tide of desperation, all trying to reach their beloved Sultan.
Those weak held up their hands, invoking God’s name; soldiers hesitated, blades quivering, knowing that they were heading directly towards death, but rushed forward anyway, directly behind their princess, while nobles cried out orders, telling them to be wise, not to rush into death, but no one obeyed.
And Malik…
Malik slowly raised his sword.
Beneath him, Cyrus didn’t move an inch.
He casually stared death in the face, unafraid.
Indeed, for Malik’s eyes were locked with his.
Gold staring at black.
Eyeing each other like old friends.
Both men who’d long since accepted the grave.
The world held its breath… until finally, Malik spoke:
“This weight…”
A vow.
“…I will carry it.”
Cyrus’s black eye never blinked; it waited.
“Thank you…”
So Malik gave him what he asked for.
“And…”
The blade fell…
“I’m sor—”
A neck was cut.
Thud.
Cyrus’s head dropped, rolling gently onto the stone.
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
No screams echoed.
It was just silence.
Total.
Utter.
Silence.
The Sultan was dead.
The heart of their Holy City was beheaded.
Beheaded before them, before them all.
They could not believe it.
Could not process it.
Their world froze.
And yet, in that frozen world, Malik calmly knelt, picking up the head.
He closed both of Cyrus’s eyes and fixed his hair with delicate fingers.
Then, in one smooth motion, he scooped a palmful of Cyrus’s blood and flung it high.
The crimson arced across the air, painting a curve in the heavens.
And the evening sky…
It shifted.
Clouds twisted, swirled, and darkened.
What was once gold with dusk turned wine-dark and deep.
The heavens wept.
No, the heavens bled.
Blood rain fell, heavy and… warm.
It fell upon the stunned masses, soaking them in terror.
Without a single scream, many of them dropped to their knees, too shocked by what was happening… by what had happened.
And then, before their very eyes, all around the Holy City, along the hills and the roads—anywhere the Depraved had fallen, their bodies began to dissolve.
All at once, their blackened, twisted husks began to melt.
Cyrus’s blood burned them.
Wherever it touched, they melted.
They broke apart, coming undone in silence.
The rain was not just blood.
This… this was Cyrus’s Unique Ability.
His final Will.
A Will so great that even death could not stop it.
Even dead, he fought.
His final act of glory…
A funeral pyre for the Fallen.
Or maybe… maybe it was the world itself, weeping for what it had lost.
For what it could never earn again.
A man too powerful.
A Mithqal.
Replaced by a man who was much the same.
Someone who remembered that he had to die.
Malik, blood dripping from his face, faced the city.
Faced the people…
Faced his “Fate.”
“Your Sultan…”
His voice trembled.
“Is dead.”
His eyes scanned the crowd.
“I’m your Sultan now.”
They landed on Huda.
On her broken, crying figure.
Her knees were on the ground, her shaking hands over her mouth.
Malik stared at her…
THUMP.
And he felt it.
A weight heavier than any other.
Heavier than everything he ever carried before.
It was on his head.
On his shoulders.
On his soul.
Oh…
So heavy was the crown.