The hero stared blankly at the wall in front of him.


    His thoughts were devouring him from the inside.


    Dying no longer scared him.


    At least now, he had a roof over his head and a warm meal—something he hadn''t had since arriving in this world.


    But now... he was a dog.


    A dog to the man in the suit.


    If he said "kill", he would kill.


    If he said "steal", he would steal.


    His train of thought was broken by a knock on the door.


    "Come in," he said.


    A servant entered, carrying a tray of food.


    He placed it on the table without a word and left.


    The hero sat quickly.


    He didn''t recognize most of the food, but there was wine in a glass—at least he knew that.


    There was a pie that looked like something out of an American movie.


    “Isn’t pie supposed to be sweet?” he wondered.


    He took a spoon and dug in.


    Inside was a strange mix of chicken and raisins.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Unappetizing... but better than starving.


    He finished it all.


    Sitting there, stomach full for the first time in ages, he thought:


    How long did he have left?


    Three months?


    Five minutes?


    The medicine dulled the pain, but it wasn’t a cure.


    He needed the blood of the goddess—if it even existed.


    For now, staying near this man and investigating was his only option.


    If he could form a group, maybe... just maybe, he could find that blood.


    And maybe escape this cursed fate.


    He suddenly chuckled to himself.


    “What have I become? Stealing? Killing?


    Back in my world, I’d take another street to avoid stepping on an ant.


    Now I’m dreaming about leading a party…


    I can’t even swing a sword.”


    He laughed again.


    “If this guy has some overpowered magic, he could kill me in two seconds.


    I’m basically a cockroach.”


    A knock at the door.


    “Come in.”


    The suited man entered.


    “I see you’ve eaten well.


    Good, good… but nothing’s free.”


    He spoke bluntly now.


    “We’ve got financial problems.


    I want you to sabotage our competitor’s vehicles.


    Steal, burn, blow them up, kill if you have to—I don’t care how you do it.


    In two days, they’ll be passing through Keats Road. Six vehicles.


    Adventurers will be guarding them.”


    The hero frowned.


    “Did you arrange anyone to help?


    You want me to charge six vehicles full of armed guards alone?”


    The man burst into laughter.


    “Are you stupid?


    You haven’t proven yourself at all yet.


    Why would I waste resources on someone untested?”


    The hero snapped:


    “If I die out there, what’s the point of being your damn dog?!”


    The man suddenly grew serious.


    He grabbed the hero by the collar.


    “Listen here, mutt.


    I feed you.


    I give you medicine.


    I give you a place to sleep.


    Shut your mouth and follow orders.


    I could kill you right here and no one would bat an eye.”


    The hero stared back, shocked and tense.


    “Okay… okay, I get it.”


    The man released his collar and turned away.


    He left, slamming the door behind him.


    The hero stood alone in the room.


    “Two days.


    Six cars.


    Just me.”


    He needed to think.


    He walked out into the garden, inhaling the fresh air deeply.


    As he walked, he noticed a servant carrying a crate filled with empty glass bottles.


    “Hey,” the hero called out. “What are those?”


    “Old wine bottles,” the servant replied.


    “They were stored in the cellar. We were going to throw them out.”


    The hero grabbed the crate without hesitation.


    “I’ll take them. I need them.”


    “And… can you get me about four liters of ethanol?” he added.


    The servant paused for a moment, then nodded.


    “Well, this mansion belongs to a family in the alcohol business. So that shouldn’t be a problem.”


    The hero blinked in surprise.


    That was… convenient.


    “Perfect.


    If you can, just leave it at my door.


    Also… any spare cloth or cotton would be helpful.”


    “Give me one day. I’ll deliver everything,” the servant said with a slight bow.


    The hero thanked him and returned to his room, bottles in hand.


    He placed the crate on his desk.


    And then… he started to sketch out a plan.


    Molotov cocktails.


    An old trick, but effective.


    If the vehicles were carrying alcohol like the man said, then one good fire could turn the entire caravan into hell.


    He grabbed a pen and paper.


    And began to draw.