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Bo Li finally had a proper meal.
This body had never eaten chili peppers before; by the end, she was practically streaming with tears and mucus, blowing her nose while still eating.
Erik, however, showed no reaction at all, as if he had once eaten foods far more pungent than this.
Bo Li did not think much of it—after all, chili peppers originated in the Americas.
In the original work, he had traveled across all of Europe, and in the end, learned a terrifying rope technique in India. With such experiences, it was perfectly reasonable that he might have gone to the Americas as well—perhaps, they were already in the Americas now.
Bo Li’s geography grades were nothing to boast of, but she vaguely remembered that France had neither crocodiles nor coyotes.
Coyotes were found only in North America.
Earlier, when she heard the manager and his group speaking with French accents, she assumed she was in France, completely forgetting that in the nineteenth century, America too had many cities where French was spoken—for example, New Orleans, once a colony of France and Spain.
This also explained why Richard had not monopolized the mountaineering pack.
New Orleans was far too distant from Paris. Rather than crossing mountains and waters to demand payment from Louis Vuitton, it was better to choose cooperation with the manager.
Bo Li forced herself to remember this lesson.
—In the future, she must always think thrice before acting.
She had thought that the people here were narrow-sighted and simple-minded, that with just a little push, she could make them follow her will.
But they were living human beings—how could they so easily become her pawns?
If not for Erik’s inhuman strength, she might already have died at the hands of the manager.
Erik would not always help her, nor was it certain he would help her at all.
If she wished to live, she must be cautious—cautious, and ever more cautious.
The hotpot rations were far too much. After eating a third, Bo Li could not take another bite.
Erik, however, had quite an appetite; his chopsticks scarcely paused.
His fingers were exceptionally long, flexible and powerful, almost to an astonishing degree—not a few foreigners, on using chopsticks for the first time, would appear awkward and fumbling, yet he seemed unhurried, composed, his motions exactly the same as hers.
It was only then that Bo Li remembered: he was not only a first-rate master of magic, but also a rare musical genius; both happened to demand the utmost flexibility of the fingers.
If he could not even learn to use chopsticks, that would be strange indeed.
Speaking of which, this was his first time eating in front of her—the time with the energy bar did not count.
As with that time, his mask was only slightly raised, revealing a sharp-lined lower jaw. His chewing was not large in movement—slow, elegant, almost as if professionally trained.
Considering that he had once served kings, and even orchestrated several political assassinations, this too was hardly surprising.
Bo Li dared not look too long at his features, and shifted her gaze away, speaking for the sake of speaking: “…You are too thin, eat a little more.”
No response.
Nor did he stop eating.
That should mean he permitted her to go on speaking.
Bo Li felt that this was a good chance to draw closer to him.
Since they were not in Paris, and he had not yet met the heroine, nor had his temperament reached the point of madness, drawing closer to him at this time could do no harm.
She thought for a moment, then raised a topic that was easy to carry on like self-talk: “Do you know how to form a circus?”
No response.
She had not expected him to answer, and went on: “I think, no matter how one forms a circus, one must never treat performers the way the manager does—regarding them as disposable exhibits, which, once the audience has seen them once, they no longer wish to see again. This is not only detrimental to the development of the performers, but is also a burden upon the circus itself.”
Erik did not lift his head, continuing to eat.
“Grotesque appearances will grow tiresome to look at,” she said. “If Emily were my performer, I would neither sell her, nor make her into a specimen—such a thing is a crime, a fishing with the waters drained. I would give her a devout lineage, make the audience aware that she is not merely a deformed ‘four-legged woman,’ but also a living human being.”
Erik finally lifted his gaze to her.
Bo Li gave a faint smile: “You may think this is futile. Allowing the audience to know her lineage cannot change her appearance. People would still fear her, reject her, treat her as the clown of the circus.”
“But if people were to discover”—she tilted her head—“that beneath her unusual appearance, she was in fact a devout Christian, who needed love, and could also love others?”
“I would tailor a script just for her, making her appear as tragic, as pitiful, as worthy of sympathy as possible.”
“People would pity her. Everyone has sympathy that finds no place to rest—the rich pity the poor, the poor pity the beggar, the whole beggar pities the maimed beggar—”
“Sympathy is not only a virtue, but also a privilege.”
“The fortunate, seeing the unfortunate, will feel themselves all the more fortunate; the whole, seeing the maimed, will feel themselves all the more whole. For this experience, they will spend vast sums of money and time.”
“Most importantly, Emily is pregnant.” Bo Li frowned. “The manager is truly both foolish and malicious. He could have made use of this point, weaving a far better, far more pitiable story. Yet he chose to make Emily miscarry, and turn the fetus into a specimen…”
A voice sounded beside her ear: “What story.”
Bo Li started.
This was the third time she had heard him speak.
Perhaps because this time he was sitting right at her side, she heard it with perfect clarity.
It was as though something cold and pure had slipped into her ear, soaking through every nerve, producing a strange resonance with her very mind.
It was hard to describe that sensation.
Like suggestion, like hypnosis, like drifting half-awake, half-asleep.
Bo Li’s heartbeat quickened, her breath came fast, she was almost dazed.
So beautiful.
So beautiful it made one feel… fear.
She gave a sudden shudder, and sharply came back to herself.
Far too terrifying.
That she had actually lost herself, simply listening to a man’s voice.
This was simply not a sound a human could produce, but rather something like a lure—one that beguiled and then led to death.
Earlier, she had even wished he would speak more, for in the original work his voice was said to be so beautiful; she had been too tense then, had not heard clearly, and felt some regret.
Who would have thought, his true voice was like this—bringing to mind certain evil, filthy, ominous legends.
It was best that he spoke as little as possible.
Only after a long while did Bo Li barely manage to find her own voice again:
“Of course, the point is to exaggerate her pregnancy. In many religions, the nurturing of life is something sacred and inviolable. If she truly were a freak, how would God allow her to become pregnant?”
Still no response.
Bo Li went on: “In my hometown—people there will pay for all manner of stories. For instance, a rich heir who gambles himself into utter ruin.”
“Different people would draw different feelings from such a story. The wealthy would take it as a warning, and feel fortunate that they had not yet gone bankrupt; the poor would find comfort, thinking that all men are equal, and that even those of lofty birth might lose everything through folly; the lucky gambler would regard him as a fool; the unlucky gambler would hope to use the tale to persuade himself not to gamble again.”
Softly she said: “Emily’s pregnancy, in itself, holds no meaning—she is human, and she is with child, nothing more. It is the complexity of human nature that gives this matter its complex significance.”
Still no response.
“I don’t know where Emily has gone,” Bo Li murmured.
And thus the one-sided conversation came to an end.
Bo Li gave a yawn—she was ready to sleep.
Erik was still eating. His appetite was extraordinarily large. After finishing the rations, he went on to consume the rabbit.
That, too, was only natural.
If his appetite were not so great, it would be hard to imagine what sustained those high-intensity hunts.
Bo Li bade him goodnight, then turned into the tent.
She drew the blanket over herself, and had just been about to close her eyes, when she thought better of it, sat up again, and said to Erik outside: “…The blanket is large. If you grow tired, you can sleep with me.”
She said this only to forestall the possibility that, in the middle of the night, he might rouse her with a dagger, wishing to lie beside her.
She had no desire to be startled awake, and then lose a clean pair of trousers.
Erik did not answer.
Feeling uneasy, Bo Li repeated the words once more, before finally lying down and closing her eyes.
She had done all she could; the rest was up to fate.
In the middle of the night, a chill brushed across Bo Li’s face—something lightly sliding over her cheek.
She was too drowsy; only after a long moment did she force her eyelids open, her gaze hazy with sleep.
The first thing she saw was a white mask—empty as wax, devoid of any emotion.
Erik knelt half on one knee by her side, staring fixedly at her.
In his hand, he held a dagger.
The blade was cold and sharp, pressed against her face, sliding up and down.
Bo Li nearly died on the spot.
She had clearly given him advance notice—so why had this scene still come to pass!!!
Frozen stiff, her heart pounded violently, blood thundering in her ears—she could not tell if he had finally decided to strike, or if he was merely toying with her out of boredom.
…It should be the latter.
Because before bed, she had not spoken anything wrong.
Her thoughts had been genuine. She truly believed Emily was no different from ordinary people, that it was the gaze of others which gave the “four-legged woman” her distorted colors.
But she had not spoken idly.
With every word, she had calculated his reaction in her heart—would it be anger, surprise, agreement, or scorn for her presumptuousness in judging the feelings of others.
She had employed the whole of her lifetime’s acting skill, for the sake of conveying a single message:
—You need not seek the sympathy of others; that is nothing more than another form of privilege.
If he had felt offended, he would have killed her the moment she said those words.
There was no need to wait until she was asleep, then wake her with a blade, to put her evening words on trial.
…Then what did he mean?
Bo Li strained to think, her mind racing, her heart pounding as though it would explode, adrenaline surging to its peak in that instant.
Was he testing her reaction?
Seeing whether she was worth cooperating with, whether she was a resilient prey?
Or… was he demanding something from her?
All at once, a spark of realization flashed in her mind. She reached out to embrace him, burying her head into his chest.
Sure enough, the moment she held him, he put the dagger away.
A bead of cold sweat slid down Bo Li’s cheek.
Every previous time she had embraced him, it had been because the edge of his blade pressed close, threatening her life.
That may have given him the wrong message—that if he wanted an embrace, he must first terrify her.
No. Such a habit must not be allowed to take root.
She must build the correct reward mechanism for him.
With this thought, Bo Li tightened her embrace, her whole body nearly clinging to him.
Erik, within her arms, lay down.
Not only had he been conditioned into the wrong reward mechanism, she too had formed a flawed reflex—always believing that only in his embrace lay safety.
It was somewhat twisted.
Yet in this moment, it seemed necessary.
She needed the sense of safety he gave her.
He needed…
What did he need?
She did not know.
Bo Li wished to think further, but the narrow space, the blazing firelight outside the tent, and the exhaustion that followed fear closed in upon her like a tightly woven net.
Erik’s body temperature was very high.
Perhaps because of the intense exertion, coupled with the replenishment of vast amounts of high-calorie food, he was like a powerful, high-consumption machine, radiating heat without end.
Scorching, and safe.
It was an illusion.
She reminded herself that even if he was scorching hot, he was still a scorching hot killing machine.
But she was too tired, powerless to think any further.
Bo Li closed her eyes; her breathing slowed, weakened, until she completely drifted into sleep.