Chapter 11: The Price of Fire

The hero woke up in the back of the wagon.
His body was stiff, his breathing shallow.
The curse had returned.
It gnawed at his insides, wrapping around his bones like a cold serpent.
His wristwatch vibrated faintly—he had set the alarm for this moment.
It was time.
He climbed out slowly, his limbs aching, and pushed the wagon into the center of the road, blocking it completely.
Then, he grabbed the crate of Molotovs and slipped into the bushes nearby.
He crouched low, hidden by leaves and branches, and raised the small spyglass the masked woman had given him.
His hands trembled.
He didn’t know what he was up against.
Not really.
Then, in the distance—movement.
Six wagons.
Each one marked with a red rose.
This was it.
He pulled out the first Molotov.
Flicked his lighter.
Sweat ran down his face.
He didn’t even know who he was praying to.
The convoy stopped a few meters from the blockade.
A lightly armored adventurer jumped down from the rear wagon.
"Hold on. Let me check the road. Might be bandits," he said to the drivers.
Now.
The hero threw the first Molotov.
Flames exploded across the front wagon.
The adventurer barely had time to react before another bottle hit him directly.
Fire clung to his body as he screamed, but the hero had already moved, throwing again from a different angle.
Ten bottles left.
One by one, the wagons were hit.
Some of the guards tried to respond, but the fire was too fast, too chaotic.
The hero assumed the wagons were full of alcohol—that they would explode.
But what happened instead…
Was screaming.
Not from soldiers.
But from women.
Children.
People.
They leapt from the burning wagons, rolling on the ground in desperation.
The hero’s hands froze.
“No… that’s not…”
He stumbled toward the closest wagon, expecting barrels, crates—
Instead, he saw cages.
Packed with half-dressed, terrified humans.
It wasn’t a liquor caravan.
It was a slave caravan.
He stumbled back, breath caught in his throat.
But before he could process it—
A voice.
From behind.
He spun around.
One of the adventurers—the one he’d set on fire—was crawling on the ground.
Still alive.
Still burning.
The hero grabbed the man’s sword, then crept toward the noise.
That’s when he saw her.
A girl.
Young. Barely a teenager.
Half her face was charred, her skin blistered, her hands trembling as she reached out for help.
The hero stopped.
His mind shattered.
A voice inside whispered:
"End her suffering."
"You’ve already burned dozens alive."
"One more won’t change anything."
"She’ll die anyway."
He raised the sword.
She looked at him.
Eyes full of pain and fury.
He saw someone else.
His little sister.
His old life.
His old world.
The blade trembled in his hand.
Slowly… he lowered it.
He reached into his bag and pulled out the potion.
The same one meant to dull his pain.
He handed it to the girl.
She stared at it in disbelief.
Then drank.
Her burns didn’t vanish—but her breathing calmed.
Her pain… seemed to fade.
"Th…"
She passed out before finishing the word.
The hero stood over her, eyes hollow.
What now?
Take her with him?
Leave her here?
He could barely survive on his own.
And yet…
Maybe this was his one chance to do something different.
Something human.
He knelt beside her.
And stared at the flames in the distance.
Until he made his decision.