How to Stop the Male Lead from Going Mad 2

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“Polly?” The little boy called her once more, this time sounding somewhat impatient. “You drifted off again.”

“Sorry.” Bo Li came back to herself, slipping the golden pocket watch back into place without a trace. “I’m just… too tired.”

The little boy shrugged. “You’ve never been wide awake. What, is Erik still stalking you?”

That was a crucial piece of information.

Bo Li cautiously said, “…What do you think?”

“What do I think?” The boy pulled a piece of tobacco from his trouser pocket, shoved it into his mouth, and began to chew. “I think—it’s utterly impossible that he’s stalking you. Everything’s just your delusion.”

He turned his head and spat to the side. “My dear, if Erik really had the ability to stalk you, sneak into your tent in the middle of the night without sleep, and stand behind you to terrify you—would he have ended up beaten so miserably by Mike?”

“Well then, I’ll be going.” The boy waved at her. “With such a ruckus today, come morning we’ll surely get beaten. All thanks to Erik—may his wounds rot and fester with maggots!”

After sending the boy off, Bo Li lowered the tent flap, preparing to carefully examine the golden pocket watch hidden beneath her chest bindings.

Yet at that moment, she noticed that the canvas of the tent was covered in writing.

Large black letters, crammed together densely like a swarm of flies—at first glance, almost ghastly.

The instant she made sense of them, her scalp prickled and a chill surged straight to the top of her head.

“He will follow you.”

“He will spy on you.”

“He will kill you, he will kill you, he will kill you… He will kill you he will kill you he will kill you he will kill you he will kill you he will kill you…”

Several words were obscured by oil stains.

Holding her breath, Bo Li fixed her gaze. What was written was—

“He is behind you, watching.”

All at once the hair on her body stood on end. She whipped around.

There was nothing behind her.

What the devil?

Who had written this?

And that “he”—who was it meant to be?

Bo Li recalled the boy’s words. Her heart gave a heavy thud.

Could it be… Erik?

But how could that be possible?

While speaking with the boy earlier, she had quickly analyzed the situation before her eyes.

It seemed she was in a circus.

Here, the manager acted as judge, maintaining order and holding power over life and death.

Mike was the manager’s relative. Because his wealth amounted to five thousand francs, the manager tacitly permitted him to bully Erik—on the condition that Erik not be beaten into a cripple.

Erik, on the other hand, was the circus’s moneymaker—skilled in magic, ventriloquism, and singing.

And so the question arose.

If Erik were truly as terrifying as the words scrawled upon the tent claimed, how would Mike and the manager dare to treat him in such a manner?

Bo Li’s mind was in disarray. She turned and began rummaging around the tent—it was a small tent, half made from a caravan, the other half from waterproof canvas, mottled with patches of mold.

A blanket lay spread upon the ground, its original color long indistinguishable. The sleeping bag was still relatively clean, yet it reeked with a damp, sweaty stench that made one’s stomach turn.

Bo Li searched for quite a while but found nothing useful.

For instance, whose body was this? Why must she disguise herself as a boy? Why had she stolen Mike’s golden pocket watch?

And what exactly was the relationship between the original owner and Erik?

She drew in a deep breath and fixed her gaze upon the sleeping bag.

There was a slit at the top of the sleeping bag, clearly intended for someone to crawl in and sleep. Embroidered along the edge was a name: Polly Claremont.

Good—at least she knew her name now.

That was a start.

Bo Li closed her eyes briefly, then reached into the sleeping bag. Her hand touched upon a notebook.

Pulling it out, she found a thin booklet sewn with coarse hemp thread, the paper rough and yellowed, with faint raised fibers visible upon its surface.

She opened to the first page.

September 3, 1888

I lost my diary. Perhaps Mike and the others threw it away—who knows? They cannot read, and they despise those who can.

They despise Erik too, but they never dare provoke him.

I do not wish to be beaten again. Why do they not beat Erik instead?

September 8, 1888

Nanny struck me many times, so many times, saying my hands were not quick enough. She made me watch Erik.

He did not even touch that person, yet he took away the wallet. How could this be?

It must be sorcery. Otherwise, why does he always wear a mask?

Only he wears a mask here.

September 9, 1888

I was beaten again. Why is it always me?

September 10, 1888

Beaten, beaten, beaten. I am always beaten. I cannot bear it anymore. Why is it always me? Why, why, why?

Nanny praised Erik again. Mike may dislike him, yet seldom bullies him. I truly hate him.

I hate Erik.

September 20, 1888

Mike’s watch has gone missing. Only Erik could have stolen it without a trace. We hoped Erik would hand over the golden pocket watch. Erik said nothing.

I do not know if it was my imagination, but while eating, he glanced at me.

What is he looking at? He is the one best at stealing things here.

October 5, 1888

Why does he keep looking at me?

October 8, 1888

Why? Why is it that though I clearly buried it, it still appeared on my bed? Why why why why!

I am going mad.

He is still looking at me, he is always looking at me.

His eyes shine with light.

He is a monster.

October 9, 1888

He wants to kill me.

He will surely kill me—those are eyes that kill.

What should I do?

I must resist—how should I resist?

Mike? The manager? Nanny?

No, no, none of them will do.

October 11, 1888

How long did he stand behind me? A minute? Two minutes? Half an hour?

Or was he there the whole time?

He is a madman, a madman, a madman!

October 12, 1888

I clearly threw it into the swamp, with crocodiles all around, yet why has it still returned to my hand?

What on earth does he want? What on earth does he want? What on earth does he want?

…

This was the final page. The handwriting had grown increasingly erratic and heavy, the ink bleeding through several sheets.

As Bo Li read, a chill rose from the pit of her heart.

The original owner’s literacy was evidently not high—the wording and sentence structure were simple.

But it was precisely this plain, straightforward description that made her shiver uncontrollably, a tightness crawling from the base of her spine to her scalp, as though someone truly stood behind her.

Should she believe what was written there?

Bo Li read through the diary once more.

The original owner and Erik were both at the very bottom of the circus.

The only difference was that Erik was more talented—he stole more swiftly, and possessed more skills than she did. She became the lowest among the low. Neither Nanny nor Mike cared for her.

Over time, she came to hate Erik, even hoping that he might be punished in her stead.

Thus, she stole Mike’s golden pocket watch and framed Erik for it.

The original owner was cautious; she did not keep the pocket watch on her but buried it in the ground. Yet after some time, the watch suddenly reappeared upon her.

It was then that her mental state began to deteriorate. She imagined Erik staring at her, intent on killing her.

Terrified, she threw the watch into a swamp—but the next day, it still returned.

After that, the diary ended. Either the original owner had gone completely mad, or it was at that point that she had transmigrated.

Anyone reading this diary would conclude that Erik was an exceedingly patient hunter.

He seemed to toy with the original owner as calmly as a cat toys with a mouse.

What Bo Li could not comprehend was this: if Erik truly possessed the ability to drive someone into madness, why had he still been dragged behind a horse by Mike?

And if he did not have such abilities, then how was one to explain the diary and the writing on the tent?

What benefit was there for the original owner in portraying Erik as so terrifying?

Most crucial of all, why had the golden pocket watch returned to its place?

Or was it possible that the thing she had “buried well” in the diary was not the watch at all?

Bo Li could not reach a conclusion.

At the very least, she now understood the era she was in—1888, the end of the nineteenth century, during the Second Industrial Revolution.

No wonder the original owner could keep a diary; by this time, paper mills clearly existed.

Bo Li set the diary aside, a trace of bewilderment in her eyes.

So then, what was she to do?

The original owner had stolen Mike’s golden pocket watch and pinned the blame upon Erik. Erik, in turn, had been tortured by Mike until he was scarcely human.

Most importantly, the golden pocket watch was still on her person.

She was trapped, with no way forward, no place to retreat.

If she turned to Mike, the watch would become a ticking time-bomb.

If she sought to win Erik over…

Bo Li lowered her lashes.

Every word and line written by the original owner warned her: Do not trust Erik.

At any moment, Erik might kill her.

And yet, from where she stood, Bo Li felt that Erik was of greater worth than Mike—greater than anyone else in the circus. He was the one worth drawing in.

The only question now was—how was she to win him over?

At that moment, a burst of commotion interrupted her thoughts.

Startled, Bo Li hastily hid the diary, stepped to the tent flap, and peered outside.

A group of people came shoving and jostling their way past, the stench of liquor, sweat, and cheap tobacco mingling in the air—sickening to the senses.

“Is this thing really something that fell from the sky?”

“You think it might have magic in it?”

“If it had magic, would it let you just pick it up?”

“I mean the kind of magic they have in the city. Have you ever been to Fifth Avenue? There’s a man there who traps lightning inside a glass globe… when night comes, the lights blaze everywhere!”

“Trapping lightning in a glass globe—doesn’t that just mean gas lamps?”

“Idiot, I’m talking about electric lamps—far superior to those worthless gas lamps!”

Indeed, the spread of electric lighting was around 1888.

So, she really had transmigrated to the end of the nineteenth century.

Excellent. Bo Li let out a silent breath of relief. Had she been sent to the Middle Ages instead—faced with arsenic-smeared cosmetics and leeches used for whitening—she might have chosen death on the spot.

The next instant, her eyes widened abruptly as she caught sight of what the group was holding.

Wait—that was her hiking pack!

How could this be?

She had transmigrated into the body of this cross-dressing girl—yet her hiking pack had come along as well.

Did this mean… she still had a way to return?

In the darkness, those men clustered around the campfire, carefully examining her pack.

One of them pulled out a dagger and scored at it twice. But because the fabric was cut-resistant, after much effort he left only a shallow mark.

Seeming unnerved, the man spat to the side and walked away.

Yet others, driven by curiosity, refused to give up, continually trying to find a way to open it.

Fortunately, her pack had a concealed lock clasp. Even for modern people, it was difficult to open without knowledge of it—much less men of the nineteenth century.

Half an hour later, the group finally gave up. Cursing and swearing, they tossed the pack aside, then slumped over their hunting rifles and bottles of liquor, nodding off.

Watching this scene, Bo Li’s breathing quickened.

Her chance had come.

Inside the hiking pack was everything she needed—first aid kit, snacks, canned goods, tissues, spare phone, power bank… everything else could wait, but the first aid kit she must retrieve.

If she remembered correctly, the kit contained bandages, water purification tablets, energy bars, ibuprofen, electrolyte solution, antibiotics, hemostatic powder, iodine swabs, and an emergency blanket, among other things.

With these, she could save Erik.