Chapter 11

The last thing Bo Li saw was Eric’s wrist flick—
The rope moved like something alive, snapping tight around the manager’s neck.
The manager’s pupils blew wide. He clearly hadn’t expected to be caught even on horseback. He reached for his gun—
The next second, there was a crisp *crack*.
His neck snapped. His head slumped at a horrible angle, and his whole body slammed to the ground.
Only then did the guards jolt awake, fumbling for their guns to fire back.
Before the first shot even finished echoing, Caesar spooked and bolted, wheeling around and running full tilt.
In the scramble, Bo Li could only clamp her arms around the horse’s neck and pray she wouldn’t be thrown.
Gunfire didn’t stop behind them, mixed with a few disbelieving curses and screams—the men simply couldn’t seem to hit Eric.
Sometimes they aimed at Eric and hit their own people instead.
The chill that rose through Bo Li’s skull made her scalp go numb.
She’d gambled right. And she’d guessed right.
As the protagonist of a horror film, Eric had inherited not only the original’s extraordinary intelligence, but strength beyond the limits of a human body.
In horror history, plenty of killers have terrifying recovery—shot again and again, only to rise and keep stalking their prey at an unhurried pace.
If she’d chosen the manager, the head being snapped off would have been hers.
…She’d survived again.
She didn’t know how long it was before Caesar finally slowed.
Snorting hard, the horse wandered down to the riverbank and began to drink.
Bo Li wanted to slide down from the saddle while she had the chance, but when she saw how deep and filthy the mud was—nearly swallowing the horse’s knees—she decided she’d rather stay up.
She had no desire to test what might be hidden under that sludge.
As the fog thinned, the dark night slowly cleared, and a line of dawn bled through—blue and red mixed together.
With one last, tearing scream, the one‑sided slaughter finally ended.
Bo Li looked toward the sound and saw Eric walking toward her in the cold light between night and day.
His white mask was soaked through with blood. The eyes behind it had lost their usual blank detachment, bright with a feverish excitement, as if he’d just finished a hunt to his heart’s content.
No.
The instant their eyes met, Bo Li’s hair stood on end. Alarm bells blared in her head—
He wasn’t satisfied. He wanted more.
She tightened her grip on the reins, her back cold and slick.
If she’d known how to ride, she would have fled on instinct the moment she saw him.
Rationally, she knew there was no need to fear him. If he truly wanted to kill her, he could have snapped her neck hours ago.
He didn’t need to let her live until now.
But who could control the body’s fear?
Bo Li could only draw a deep breath, dig her nails into her palm, and hold herself steady, forcing herself not to topple from the saddle.
Caesar had been snorting irritably, hooves tugging at the mud as if it wanted her to get down and brush it, clean its hooves.
The moment it saw Eric, it went instantly quiet and began to graze, pretending to be busy.
This horse was almost too perceptive. It made Bo Li want to smack it.
Eric came up beside her.
Bo Li’s whole body tightened. She kept expecting him to drag her down and drive a knife into her throat, as if to make up for a hunt that hadn’t been “enough.”
Thankfully, it was only her imagination.
He mounted calmly behind her, took the reins from over her shoulder, turned Caesar’s head, and started off in a direction she didn’t recognize.
Bo Li didn’t know where he was taking her. She didn’t dare ask.
The fog was gone, and the sky grew brighter and brighter.
Once she was sure he wasn’t going to kill her, drowsiness washed over her. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep—sleep and never wake again.
Then a hand slipped into her pocket.
Bo Li jerked awake.
It was Eric.
He shoved a neat leather wallet into her pocket.
Bo Li pulled it out and turned to ask, “Can I open it and look?”
No answer.
So that meant yes.
She opened the wallet. Inside were banknotes from several countries—probably the manager’s, since the troupe toured internationally. There were pounds, dollars, francs, even a few gold coins.
Bo Li had no sense of how much it was, and Eric still wouldn’t talk.
If she was going to survive in this era, she’d probably need to make a few more friends—people who could teach her basic common sense.
In the end, Bo Li still fell asleep.
When she woke again, she was in a crude little tent—so small it could barely fit one person. She lay on a wool blanket.
It had likely come from Caesar’s saddle and smelled of horse sweat.
Outside the tent, a warm fire burned.
Eric had gathered stones into a ring and built a fire that wouldn’t die easily.
He’d gone somewhere. He’d left Bo Li alone, eye to eye with Caesar.
After a few seconds, Bo Li stood up and edged closer, coaxing carefully. “Good horse. Sweet horse. You’re the best, most obedient little horse in the world. Don’t move, okay? Let me take the pack off the back…”
Caesar looked exhausted in body and mind. It didn’t have the energy to give her attitude. It glanced at her, lowered its head, and went back to tearing at grass.
Gritting her teeth, Bo Li used every ounce of strength she had and finally wrestled the hiking backpack down.
Her hands were shaking.
This wasn’t a backpack.
It was clean underwear, clean clothes, clean blankets, clean shoes, clean water.
…And the beef‑tallow hot pot tins that had kept her going.
Bo Li drew a deep breath, dragged the pack into the tent, and tore it open as fast as she could, digging out clean underwear first.
Back at the circus, they only bathed once a week—and everyone shared the same tub of water. Not at the same time; the last person washed, then the next climbed in and used what was left.
Bo Li couldn’t accept it. She hadn’t properly bathed in ages. At most, she’d dabbed herself down with a wet sponge each day.
Even with frequent wiping, the filth of the environment and the lack of clean clothes meant she couldn’t avoid smelling like sweat.
Especially the binding cloth. It had started to sour.
Now, finally, she could put on clean, comfortable underwear.
When she peeled off the binding, wiped the sticky sweat from her skin with a wet wipe, and pulled on a light, breathable sports bra, tears nearly welled up.
If she ever made it back, she would write a thousand-word review praising this bra for saving her fragile sanity in the nineteenth century.
Besides underwear, the pack held T‑shirts, pants, and a pair of thin, lightweight sneakers—all fairly expensive brands.
Bo Li decided she’d change into them later, once they reached somewhere without horse dung and mud, and she could do it with proper reverence.
After worshipping her clothes for a moment, she closed her eyes to rest. Then, with almost devotional respect, she pulled out the three‑pound hot pot tin.
The shelf life was inspiring—36 months. Even if she had to stay here for three years, it meant she could still live with hope.
The ingredient list was clean. At the top: beef, bone broth, beef tallow.
The instant that familiar aroma hit her, her nose stung and she almost cried.
She missed home.
Even now, she hadn’t taken out her phone—not because she didn’t want to, but because she feared seeing the “no service” icon.
She didn’t want to experience the despair of having a phone, a contacts list, and no way to reach anyone she loved.
Bo Li wiped her eyes, picked up a few sticks, and set the tin over the fire.
Soon the hot pot bubbled, giving off a thick, spicy fragrance that made her mouth water.
She snapped apart a pair of disposable chopsticks, lifted a piece of beef, glanced quickly to see if it was cooked, and stuffed it into her mouth.
It was scalding, but the meat was thick and tender, soaked through with salty, fiery tallow broth.
After one bite, tears nearly spilled again.
This time, it was pure craving.
Then footsteps approached, coming closer and closer.
Bo Li looked up.
Eric was back.
The blood on his mask had been washed away. The eyes behind it were cold and steady; the restless frenzy from earlier had fully settled. In his hand, he carried a skinned rabbit, its raw red cavity slick and exposed, blood dripping steadily from it.
He stopped and looked at the hot pot in front of her, unreadable.
There was plenty—enough for two, even three people.
The moment she saw him, Bo Li tossed her chopsticks aside and waved him over to eat with her.
Eric walked slowly to her side and sat down.
Bo Li explained, “This is hot pot. It’s kind of like a cheese fondue, except the base is beef tallow, bone broth, chili… and a whole bunch of spices. You put raw meat and vegetables in, cook them, then eat. It might be a little spicy—spicier than Mexican salsa… Have you eaten chili before?”
After a long moment, he nodded once.
“Then you should be okay.” Bo Li opened a fresh pair of chopsticks for him and demonstrated how to use them, looking at him eagerly. “Try it. It’s really good.”
Eric watched her, copied the motion, and lifted a piece of beef to his mouth.
He wasn’t someone ruled by appetite. Bitter, hot, sour, sweet—none of it made much difference to him.
He’d eaten raw chilies in Persia before, but that had been for alertness, not pleasure—when the king locked him in with several condemned men and ordered him to perform, in public, how he killed with a rope.
The condemned held spears and heavy cleavers. He had only a rope in his hand. 1
Yet for some reason, in this moment, his hunger seemed—briefly—sated.
Maybe because of her eyes.
She looked like she’d cried; her eyes had been washed bright and vivid, full of vigorous life—like the pulse in a prey’s throat, beating fast, suddenly stirring a desire to destroy.
—Pin her to the ground, bring the blade slowly toward her eyes, until she couldn’t help but cry.
She would cry.
She was a timid, lazy girl—afraid of dirt, afraid of effort, spineless. The way she looked at him was always thick with fear, like a startled little animal.
She was so weak, so ignorant. She couldn’t even handle a horse. She’d tried to approach Caesar, but the moment the horse snorted and bared its teeth, she’d jumped back in fright.
He’d had to do it for her.
Sometimes he asked himself why he still hadn’t killed her.
Maybe because he’d grown to like the game of hunting her—cornering her, frightening her, then being soothed by her.
Or maybe because her closeness had started something it never should have.