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The last scene Bo Li saw was Erik flicking his wrist, and the rope instantly writhed like some living creature, snapping tightly around the manager’s neck.
The manager’s pupils dilated abruptly. He seemed not to have imagined that even while mounted on horseback he could be snared by the neck. He reached for his gun—
The next moment, a sharp crack split the air.
The manager’s neck snapped, his head drooping at a dreadful angle, and his entire body collapsed heavily to the ground.
Only then did the surrounding guards awaken as if from a dream, hastily drawing their guns in preparation to fight back.
Before the sound of the first shot had even fully echoed, Caesar had already turned tail and bolted in terror.
In the chaos, Bo Li could only cling tightly to the horse’s neck, praying not to be thrown off.
Behind her, the gunfire never ceased, interspersed with cries of disbelief and screams of pain—those men seemed incapable of hitting Erik no matter what.
At times, though clearly aiming at Erik, their bullets struck their own companions instead.
A chill shot straight to the crown of Bo Li’s head.
She had wagered correctly, and guessed right as well.
As the protagonist of a horror film, Erik had not only inherited the extraordinary, otherworldly intelligence of the original, but also possessed a strength beyond human limits.
—In horror cinema history, not a few killers boasted astonishing powers of recovery: even riddled with bullets, they could still rise, and continue their slow, relentless pursuit of prey.
Had she chosen the manager, the head twisted off on the spot would surely have been hers.
…She had escaped yet another calamity.
It was unclear how much time had passed before Caesar finally slowed from his wild gallop.
Snorting heavily, he came to the riverside and began to drink.
Bo Li thought to take the chance to slip down from the horse’s back, but seeing how the silt by the water was so deep and foul, nearly swallowing the horse’s knees, she decided it was better to remain astride.
She did not wish to test with her own feet what might lie hidden beneath the muck.
As the mist dispersed, the dim night slowly brightened, a thread of dawn gleaming with hues of blue and red seeping forth.
The last heart-rending scream rang out, and at last this one-sided massacre came to its end.
Following the sound, Bo Li turned and saw Erik striding toward her in the chill light between night and day.
His white mask was already drenched in blood, and the gaze behind the eyeholes, no longer empty and indifferent as before, was alight with unprecedented fervor, as though he had reveled in a most satisfying hunt.
No—something was wrong.
The instant Bo Li met his eyes, her hair stood on end and alarm bells blared in her mind—he had not had his fill. He wanted more.
Her hands clenched the reins tighter, her back clammy and cold.
Had she been able to ride, she feared her body would have bolted at first sight of him, fleeing instinctively.
Rationally, she knew there was no need to fear him. If he had wanted to kill her, he could have snapped her neck hours ago.
There was no need to let her live until now.
But then—who could command the body not to feel fear?
Bo Li could only draw in a deep breath, pressing her nails into her palms to steady herself, doing all she could to keep from slipping off the horse.
Caesar, who had been snorting impatiently all along, stamping his hooves in the muck as if wishing she would dismount and tend to his grooming and hooves, instantly fell quiet the moment he saw Erik, feigning busyness by lowering his head to graze.
Bo Li felt the horse’s cunning bordered on excess, and it made her want to give him a good slap.
At that moment, Erik walked up beside her.
Bo Li’s entire body went taut, certain he would drag her down in the next instant and plunge a blade into her throat, to make up for the dissatisfaction of a hunt unfinished.
Fortunately, it was only her imagination.
He vaulted onto the horse with perfect calm, seized the reins from behind her, and turned its head toward some unknown direction.
Bo Li did not know where he intended to go, nor did she dare to ask.
The mist had scattered, and the daylight grew ever brighter.
Once she was certain Erik would not kill her, drowsiness overcame Bo Li. She longed to close her eyes heedlessly, to sink into sleep, and never wake again.
Suddenly, a hand slipped into her pocket.
She jolted awake.
It was Erik.
He stuffed a finely made wallet into her pocket.
Bo Li pulled it out and turned her head. “May I open it and look?”
There was no reply.
That meant she could.
Bo Li opened the wallet. Inside were banknotes from various countries—it must have been the manager’s. Because he often toured abroad, he had prepared currencies from different lands: pounds, dollars, francs, and even a few gold coins.
She had no concept of their value, and Erik was unwilling to speak with her.
If she wished to survive in this era, she would likely need to befriend a few more people—the kind who could at least tell her the basic knowledge of daily life.
At last, Bo Li still succumbed to sleep.
When she awoke again, she found herself within a makeshift tent—so small it could barely contain a single person. She was lying upon a woolen blanket.
The blanket must have been taken from Caesar’s saddle; it carried the pungent scent of horse sweat.
Outside the tent, a warm fire burned.
Erik had gathered several stones, arranged them into a ring, and built a hearth that would not easily go out.
He himself was nowhere to be seen, leaving Bo Li alone to face Caesar.
After a few seconds, Bo Li stood and carefully approached him. “Good horse, obedient horse, you are the most obedient little horse in the world. Do not move—let me take down the pack from your back…”
Caesar seemed weary in both body and spirit, too drained to show her any temper. He merely cast her a glance, then lowered his head once more to chew at the grass.
Bo Li clenched her teeth and, with all the strength she could muster, finally managed to wrest the mountaineering pack down.
At that moment, her hands were trembling.
This was not a mountaineering pack, but clean undergarments, clean clothes, a clean blanket, clean shoes, and clean water.
…And the canned butter hotpot that had sustained her until now.
Bo Li drew in a deep breath, dragging the pack forcefully into the tent. She opened it at once and found a set of fresh undergarments.
At the circus, one could only bathe once a week, and even then all shared the same tub of water—not together, but one after another, stepping in as soon as the previous person had finished.
Bo Li could not bear it, and it had been a long time since she had taken a proper bath. Each day she could only sponge herself down with water.
Though she scrubbed often, the filth of the surroundings and the lack of changes of clothing left her carrying an unavoidable odor of sweat.
Especially the chest-binding cloth, which had nearly begun to sour.
Now, at last, she could put on fresh, comfortable undergarments.
She stripped off the bindings, wiped away the clammy sweat with a wet towel, and the moment she donned the light, breathable sports bra, she nearly burst into tears.
If she could return, she would willingly write a thousand-word review, praising how this piece of underwear had saved her precarious mental state in the nineteenth century.
Besides the undergarments, the pack contained a T-shirt, trousers, and a pair of thin, lightweight sneakers, all from costly brands.
Bo Li resolved to wait until she found a place free of horse dung and mud, then, with the utmost devotion, change into them.
Having admired her clothes to her heart’s content, she closed her eyes briefly to rest, then with near-reverence brought out the three-jin can of hotpot.
Its shelf life was inspiring—thirty-six months. That meant even if she had to remain here for three years, she could still look forward to survival.
The list of ingredients was clean, the foremost being beef, bone broth, and butter.
The instant the familiar aroma reached her nose, Bo Li felt a sting in her sinuses, tears nearly falling.
She was homesick.
Even now, she had not taken out her phone, for fear of seeing the screen without a network connection.
She did not wish to taste the despair of holding a phone, of having a contact list, and yet being unable to reach family or friends.
Bo Li wiped her tears, gathered a few sticks, and propped the can over the fire.
Before long, the hotpot boiled, releasing a thick, spicy fragrance that set her mouth watering.
She broke apart a pair of disposable chopsticks, lifted a piece of beef, checked it briefly for doneness, and could no longer resist—she ate it straightaway.
It was scalding hot, but the meat was thick and tender, steeped through with the salty, spicy richness of the butter broth.
At the first bite, she nearly wept again.
This time it was out of sheer craving.
Just then, footsteps sounded, approaching from afar.
Bo Li raised her head.
Erik had returned.
The bloodstains on his mask had been washed clean, and the gaze behind the eyeholes was sharp and calm, the earlier frenzy seemingly fully subdued. In his hand he carried a skinned rabbit, its crimson, slippery body cavity exposed, blood still dripping steadily down.
He halted, his gaze falling upon the hotpot before her, as though pondering something.
The canned hotpot was plentiful, more than enough for two or three people to share.
Seeing him return, Bo Li immediately set down her chopsticks and beckoned him to come eat together.
Erik walked slowly to her side and sat down.
Bo Li introduced, “This is hotpot. It’s a little like a cheese fondue, except the base is beef tallow, bone broth, chili peppers… and a great many spices. The way to eat it is to put raw meat or vegetables in, and once they’re cooked, you can eat them. It might be a bit spicy—spicier than Mexican chili sauce… Have you ever eaten chili before?”
After a long moment, he inclined his head.
“Then it should be fine.” Bo Li opened a new pair of chopsticks for him, demonstrated how to use them before his eyes, and looked at him with bright enthusiasm. “Try it—it’s delicious.”
Erik watched her, imitated her motion, and picked up a piece of beef to place in his mouth.
His appetite for food was never strong; bitter, spicy, sour, or sweet made no difference to him.
In Persia, he had once eaten raw chili peppers, but that had been only to rouse his spirit, not to gratify his palate—the king had confined him with several condemned criminals, forcing him to publicly demonstrate how to kill with nothing but a rope.
The criminals had spears and great blades in their hands, while his was armed with nothing but a single cord.
Yet, for some reason, in this moment, he found a faint satisfaction in eating.
Perhaps because of her eyes.
They seemed as though they had just wept, washed bright and clear, brimming with vibrant life, like the pulse of a prey’s vein beating swiftly at its neck, stirring a sudden urge to destroy.
—To pin her to the ground, to bring the blade slowly closer to her eyes, until she could no longer hold back her tears.
She would cry.
She was a timid and slothful girl, fearful of filth and hardship, without resolve, her gaze upon him always heavy with terror, like that of a frightened little animal.
So frail, so ignorant, unable even to handle a horse. When she tried to approach Caesar, the horse only snorted and bared its teeth, and she shrank back in fright.
He had no choice but to do it in her stead.
Sometimes he asked himself why he had not killed her yet.
Perhaps it was because he enjoyed the game of hunting her—cornering her, frightening her, and then letting her soothe him.
Or perhaps it was because her closeness had set a dangerous precedent.
He had begun to grow accustomed to her touch, and at times even provoked her fear only to exchange it for her touch.
He did not fear becoming addicted to such a companionship.
Though until now she had not left him, enduring her fear to approach him, embrace him, even kiss his mask, and under the gaze of all, unwaveringly choose him.
Yet one day, she would abandon him.
Just as his mother had: at the first sight of his face, shrieking, fainting, nearly driven mad, and finally, trembling, fastening a mask upon him.
When that time came, it would not be too late to kill her.