The hero had finished planning.
His notes were now so scribbled and crossed out that they were unreadable—but that didn’t matter.
Everything was already in his head.
The plan was simple: block the road with a wagon, spill some blood to catch attention, and then strike with a barrage of Molotovs.
Twelve bottles. That would be enough.
The hero didn’t want to hurt innocent people if he could help it.
As he glanced outside, he realized it was already evening.
He left the desk and collapsed onto the bed.
Sleep took him quickly.
---
A knock at the door woke the hero at dawn.
His body was heavy.
The curse was flaring up again.
He needed medicine.
The hero opened the door.
A servant had left his breakfast and medicine on a tray, along with a crate containing bottles, cloth, and alcohol—exactly what he had requested.
He sat at the desk, ate quickly, took his medicine, and got to work.
It was difficult, but by mid-morning, he had crafted twelve Molotov cocktails.
He placed them carefully into the crate and set it aside.
Now he needed a wagon.
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The hero searched the mansion’s halls but couldn’t find a single servant.
So he stepped into the garden.
That’s when he saw her.
A girl in a flowing white dress, admiring the flowers.
Her presence was... serene.
He approached hesitantly.
“Um... hello?”
She turned and smiled.
“Hello.”
Short black hair. Crimson eyes.
Her appearance was mesmerizing.
"I... is no one else here?"
She nodded gently.
“The servants went to the market. My brother went to see our parents.”
“Perfect timing...” the hero muttered. “I need a wagon.”
She tilted her head. “There’s one for transport in the front garage. You can take it.”
Relief washed over him.
But then—
He remembered a problem.
“I... I don’t know how to drive a wagon.”
The girl blinked, then smiled again.
“Want me to help you ?”
Before he could even answer, she was already walking toward the garage.
The hero followed behind, eyes locked on her gentle, graceful steps.
They reached a small building.
She pointed.
“The wagon’s inside. You do know how to drive it… right?”
The hero couldn’t lie.
“No. Not really.”
She sighed.
“Wait here.”
She disappeared inside.
The hero quickly rushed back to his room to retrieve the crate of Molotovs, returning just as she pulled up with the wagon and horse ready.
“You''re amazing…” he muttered under his breath.
“Get in,” she said, and they set off down the road.
---
They rode in silence.
The hero glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
Every time she looked back, he quickly turned away.
Ten minutes later, they arrived.
“This is Keats Road,” she said. “So… now what?”
The hero stepped down and unhitched the horse.
“Okay, here’s the deal. I stay here, the wagon stays too.
You take the horse and go back. You know how to drive this thing, so I assume you can ride too.”
She chuckled and mounted the horse.
“So this is what my brother was planning…”
“I hope you succeed,” she added softly, then rode off.
The hero was alone again.
---
He pushed the wagon off the main road and into the bushes, then checked the Molotovs in the back.
No sword. No weapon.
Just bottles of fire.
Not the greatest plan... but it was all he had.
The hero sat in the back and opened the old map the man had given him.
He realized something terrible:
He had no clue when the convoy would arrive. No exact time. No description.
Nothing.
“Damn it…” he whispered, and hit his forehead with his palm.
That’s when he heard it—
Rustling.
From the bushes.
He stood up quickly and grabbed one Molotov.
“Who''s there?! Show yourself!”
A figure stepped out.
A woman in a suit… wearing a mask.
He backed away cautiously.
She approached.
The hero lit his lighter, ready to throw—
But the mask opened its mouth and… spoke.
“Whoa whoa, relax, idiot. It’s me—your boss.”
That voice.
It was him.
The man in the suit.
The mask on the woman’s face moved like a real mouth—unnerving and metallic.
“Look,” the voice continued, “I forgot to give you some info.
They’ll be passing by tomorrow. Early morning.
Around six to eight. Look for wagons with a rose symbol on them.”
The woman pulled something from her coat and tossed it.
A small spyglass.
The hero tried to catch it—barely.
“Oh, and try not to screw this up.”
The mask stopped moving.
The woman turned and disappeared into the darkness of the forest.
The hero placed the Molotov back into the crate and stared at the spyglass.
He set an alarm on the old watch tied to his wrist, sat down… and waited.
His hands trembled.
He was scared.