Chapter 10: The Ride to Keats Road

The hero had finished planning.
His notes were nothing more than scribbles now—lines crisscrossing, entire sections blacked out—but it didn’t matter. The plan was already carved into his memory.
Simple.
Block the road with a wagon. Spill a little blood to lure them in.
Then—twelve Molotovs.
Twelve bottles of fire. Enough to burn a message into the road.
He didn’t want to kill anyone who didn’t deserve it. But if it came to that...
He’d survive.
That’s all that mattered.
As he glanced outside, he noticed the sky had already dimmed.
Evening.
He pushed away from the desk, collapsed onto the bed, and let sleep take him.

---
A knock woke him at dawn.
His body screamed in protest—the curse had returned, gnawing at his insides.
He opened the door.
A tray waited outside: breakfast, medicine… and a wooden crate.
Inside: glass bottles, cloth, alcohol.
Perfect.
He ate quickly, downed the bitter medicine, and got to work.
It was slow. Frustrating.
But by mid-morning, he had twelve Molotov cocktails lined up like soldiers—sealed, wicked, ready.
He placed them into the crate with care and set it aside.
Now he needed a wagon.
He wandered through the mansion, searching for someone—anyone. But the halls were empty.
In the garden, he saw her.
A girl in a flowing white dress, standing among the flowers.
Short black hair. Crimson eyes.
She looked like something out of a painting.
The hero hesitated, then called out, “Um… hello?”
She turned. Smiled softly. “Hello.”
“Is no one else here?”
“The servants went to the Shopping . My brother is with our parents.”
“…Perfect timing,” he mumbled. “I need a wagon.”
She tilted her head. “There’s one in the front garage. You can use it.”
Relief washed over him—briefly.
She blinked. Then smiled again. “Want me to help?”
Before he could respond, she was already walking away.
He trailed behind, watching her light steps, each one quieter than the last.
They reached a small outbuilding.
She pointed. “The wagon’s inside. You know how to drive it, right?”
“…Not really,” he admitted.
She sighed. “Wait here.”
He used the moment to dash back to his room, grabbed the crate, and returned just as she appeared—with a horse hitched and everything ready.
“You’re amazing,” he muttered.
“Get in,” she said.
They rode in silence.
Every time he glanced at her, she caught him—so he stopped looking.
Ten minutes later, they arrived at a lonely, overgrown stretch of road.
“This is Keats Road,” she said. “So… what now?”
The hero jumped down, unhitched the horse, and looked her in the eyes.
“I stay here. So does the wagon. You take the horse and go back.”
She laughed. “I hope you succeed.”
And just like that, she turned and rode off.
He was alone again.

---
He pushed the wagon into the bushes, off the main path.
Then checked his weapons—twelve bottles of burning death.
No sword. No shield. No backup.
Just fire.
He opened the old map the man had given him.
And realized he didn’t know when the convoy would arrive.
No time. No target description. Just “soon.”
“Damn it,” he muttered and hit his forehead.
Then—rustling.
Bushes behind him shifted.
He grabbed a Molotov, lighter ready.
“Who’s there?!”
A woman stepped into view.
Wearing a suit. And a strange metal mask.
He backed up, arm tense.
Then the mask moved.
It spoke.
“Whoa, calm down, idiot. It’s me—your boss.”
That voice.
It was the man in the suit.
The mask moved like a real mouth—metal lips, unnatural motion.
“Forgot to give you some intel,” the voice continued.
“They’ll pass by tomorrow. Between six and eight. Look for a rose symbol on the wagons.”
The woman pulled out a small spyglass and tossed it to him.
He barely caught it.
“Oh—and don’t screw this up.”
The mask fell silent.
The woman turned and disappeared into the trees.
The hero placed the Molotov back in the crate and sat down.
He looked at the spyglass.
Set an alarm on the old watch tied to his wrist.
And waited.
His hands trembled.
His breath was shallow.
He was terrified.
But there was no going back now.
Just flames, and fate.