But they were quickly shut down:
"Oh, shut up! What kind of Sultan doesn't step on corpses?"
"Yeah! You think we live in some fairy tale, you fucking idiots?!"
Another nodded his head and pointed at a younger Magi—the one who started this little back and forth.
"Seriously! I get that we need all the help we can get, but did we really need brats like him who are still wet behind the ears?"
"I know right? This fucker is the one always complaining about what the Sultan is doing."
The "brat" puffed out his chest, his eyes narrowing at the two.
"I'll have you know I'm the best talent in my guild! Sure, I'm only fifty, but I make up for it with actual strength, you old shit!"
The older man bristled, his face going red.
"The fuck did you just say, you little—"
But the young man wasn't done, cutting him off:
He jabbed a finger toward one of the more sympathetic voices in the crowd.
"If you want to praise him so much, why don't you go die beside him, huh?!"
Many of those around them gasped in response, the already high tension snapping.
"Oh, now you've done it!"
The insulted man rushed forward, veins bulging in his forehead as his Aether flared up, crackling like lightning above him.
But before he could get close enough to swing, a few Magi jumped in, grabbing at his arms to hold him back.
The young man mocked him further, doubling down as if he had something to prove.
"Come at me you rotting trash!"
Yeah, he was really leaning into it.
But before he could puff himself up any further, another guy came out of nowhere and slammed his face straight into the ground.
Within seconds, more people piled in, dragging those three hotheads apart.
The rest of the crowd, those that weren't directly involved, went absolutely nuts—yelling, shoving, and looking one bad insult away from throwing hands themselves.
While all that happened, those at the front were much quieter.
They looked at the projection with somber gazes, each for a different reason.
Whether it was shame, regret, or just plain grief, all shared one thing.
Shock. Absolute shock.
Huda looked the worst out of all of them.
She was a wreck, crying so hard it felt like she might drown herself in her own tears.
Her face was blotchy and red, her chest heaving with every shaky sob.
And why wouldn't she be?
In the last few hours, she'd run her mouth more times than she could count, claiming Malik would've abandoned them, not once, but twice.
She was so sure. So confident. But guess what?
The girl was dead wrong.
He didn't abandon them.
Huda promised her uncle would come through.
That he'd swoop in and save the day.
Or at the very least, throw Malik and Sinbad a Goddamn bone.
Uncle didn't save shit. He didn't even try.
All he did was make things worse, ruining what remained of Malik's sane mind.
The bastard didn't just leave them to suffer—he straight-up kicked him like he was a bug!
Huda had been wrong. Again.
Minutes ago, she'd completely fallen apart, and she hadn't stopped since.
Now, she was just this whimpering mess, hugging her legs so tight it looked like she might actually snap something.
Her whole world had flipped upside down, and it showed.
She could no longer look at the projection; it was just too much.
Her head remained buried between her knees, trying to block it all out, but failing miserably.
Layla and Safira weren't doing much better, not by a long shot.
Unlike the loudmouths in the back or the stone-faced crew next to them, those two still held onto something that no one else dared to admit out loud—love.
They still loved the Sultan.
Even after everything he'd done to both them and everyone else.
Even after all the pain, all the chaos, all the "evil" he had unleashed.
Every time they saw him suffer on that projection, it was like a piece of their hearts cracked, splintered, and broke off.
Every wince, every blow, every look of despair on Malik's face—it hit them hard.
And with every hit, a tear slipped down their cheeks, whether they wanted it to or not.
But even then, they kept it together.
Their backs were straight, fists clenched but barely.
It wasn't strength, not really—it was desperation.
If they were hurt now, what would happen to them later on, when it was their turn?
They would fall apart completely, and there'd be no putting the pieces back together.
Noor's mind, meanwhile, was a quiet storm.
At first glance, she might've seemed completely unaffected by everything she'd witnessed. Her face was calm, her body still, but anyone paying closer attention would've seen the truth in her hands.
Her fingers were digging into the armrests of her throne, gripping so tight they were splintering the Aether-reinforced wood.
It was obvious that she was holding back—about what exactly was unknown, but there was no need for that.
The pressure she gave off said more than enough.
If anyone dared to talk to her right now, they'd probably regret it instantly.
Roya was playing a whole different game compared to the rest of them.
Sure, like Noor, she looked quiet—Hell, to anyone just glancing at her, she probably seemed bored.
She was losing it, emotions bouncing all over the place like one of them roulette machines in every other underground casino.
And it wasn't the bad kind of loss, but the complete opposite.
Roya absolutely loved what was happening.
Every second. Every revelation. Every raw, brutal scene.
She couldn't thank that Holy Relic enough for serving it up.
Still, Roya wasn't just there to sit back and enjoy the show.
She had a brain, and unlike many in the hall, she wasn't afraid to use it.
Roya knew, or at least she thought that she knew of the Holy Relic's capabilities.
But now? The more that Holy Relic showed off, the more questions piled up in her head.
And not small ones either—big, uncomfortable questions.
Like, how was it doing all of this?