How to Stop the Villain from Going Crazy

The last thing Polly saw was Eric's wrist flicking sharply—his rope snapping forward like a living creature, coiling with lethal precision around the manager's throat.

The man's pupils dilated in shock. He had never imagined that even on horseback, he could be snared. He reached instinctively for his gun—

And then came a sickening crack.

His neck snapped cleanly, his head lolling at an unnatural angle before his entire body toppled to the ground with a heavy thud.

For a moment, the surrounding guards stood frozen, as if waking from a dream. Then chaos erupted—guns were drawn in a flurry of panic.

The first gunshot hadn't even faded when Caesar whinnied in terror and bolted.

Polly barely managed to cling to the stallion's neck, praying she wouldn't be thrown off mid-flight.

Gunfire rang out behind them, mingled with shouts of disbelief and screams of pain—some of the circus men were being struck by their own bullets, as if something twisted had warped their aim.

Polly's blood ran cold.

She had made the right bet.

Eric wasn't just the protagonist of a horror story—he had inherited all the brilliance described in the original novel, along with strength that defied human limits. Just like the infamous killers of horror lore, he possessed a supernatural resilience—capable of enduring bullets, rising again, and calmly continuing the hunt.

If she had chosen the manager, it would've been her head hitting the ground just now.

…She'd survived, again.

It was impossible to tell how long Caesar galloped before he finally stopped.

The stallion's chest heaved with ragged breaths as he lowered his head to drink from the riverbank.

Polly thought about sliding down—until she saw how deep and filthy the river mud was. It nearly swallowed Caesar's knees.

She decided it was safer to stay on the horse.

She had no desire to find out what might be lurking beneath that muck.

The fog was beginning to lift, and the darkness softened. A faint glimmer of dawn—tinged blue and red—broke across the sky.

One last, soul-piercing scream echoed in the distance.

The slaughter was over.

Polly turned toward the sound and saw Eric emerging from the twilight, walking toward her.

His white mask was soaked in blood, and behind its hollow eye holes, his gaze no longer seemed vacant or detached. It gleamed with a sharp, fevered thrill—like a predator riding high on the hunt.

No—something was wrong.

The moment Polly met his eyes, every hair on her body stood on end. Her instincts shrieked in alarm.

He wasn't sated.

He wanted more.

Her fingers clenched around the reins, her back cold and slick with sweat.

If she had known how to ride, she would have galloped off at the very sight of him.

But reason told her she shouldn't be afraid. If Eric had meant to kill her, he would have done so hours ago. There was no need to keep her alive this long.

Still, who could command the body not to fear?

Polly inhaled slowly, pressing her nails into her palms to anchor herself. She locked her knees, determined not to fall from the saddle.

Caesar, who had been fidgeting and snorting in impatience, fell completely silent the moment Eric approached. The horse lowered his head and pretended to nibble at the grass, like a student trying to avoid a teacher's gaze.

Polly couldn't help thinking the animal was a little too clever for his own good. She felt an overwhelming urge to swat him.

Eric reached her side.

Polly tensed, half-convinced he'd pull her down and slit her throat to complete the hunt.

But it was only her imagination.

He swung onto the horse behind her with mechanical ease, took hold of the reins, and turned them in a new direction without a word.

She didn't know where they were headed, and she didn't dare ask.

The fog dispersed. The sky grew steadily brighter.

Once she was sure he wasn't going to kill her, Polly felt exhaustion crash over her in waves. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep—to never wake up again.

And then—his hand slipped into her pocket.

She jolted upright.

It was just Eric.

He pulled out a fine leather wallet and tucked it into her pocket without a word.

Polly fished it out and glanced at him. "Can I open it?"

No response.

Which meant yes.

She opened the wallet. Inside were banknotes from different countries—likely the manager's. Since the circus toured internationally, he kept various currencies on hand: pounds, dollars, francs, even a few gold coins.

Polly had no idea how much any of it was worth. Eric certainly wasn't about to explain.

If she wanted to survive in this era, she'd need to make more friends. The kind who could teach her basic life skills.

Eventually, Polly drifted into sleep.

When she woke again, she was lying inside a small, makeshift tent—just big enough for one person. Beneath her was a woolen blanket, still faintly warm from Caesar's saddle.

Outside, a campfire burned gently, surrounded by stones Eric must've gathered to keep the flame steady.

He was gone. She was alone—with Caesar watching her like an unimpressed roommate.

A few seconds passed before Polly stood and tiptoed over to the horse. "Good boy… sweet boy… you're the best little pony in the world. Don't move, okay? I just need to grab the pack from your back…"

To her relief, Caesar looked thoroughly drained. He barely spared her a glance before dropping his head and munching on some grass.

It still took every ounce of strength she had to drag the pack down.

Her hands were shaking.

It wasn't just a backpack.

It was clean underwear. Clean clothes. Clean blankets. Clean shoes. Clean water.

…And the canned butter hotpot that had kept her alive this long.

Polly drew a deep breath, hauled the pack into the tent, and tore it open.

She pulled out a fresh sports bra and nearly wept with relief.

Back at the circus, they were allowed to bathe only once a week—and all used the same tub of water. Not together, of course, but still… Polly had refused. She hadn't bathed properly in ages. At best, she sponged herself off with water-dipped rags.

Despite her efforts, the grime and lack of clean clothes had left her with a sour sweat that clung to her skin.

Especially the binding bandages on her chest. They had started to reek.

But now—now she could finally put on a clean, breathable sports bra.

She stripped off the bandages, wiped herself down with a wet towel, and slipped into the new undergarments with reverence.

If she ever made it home, she'd write a thousand-word review praising this bra as the single thing that saved her sanity in the 19th century.

There were also T-shirts, long pants, and a pair of lightweight sneakers—high-end brands, all of them.

She decided to wait until they reached dry ground before changing the rest.

Then, with a near-religious awe, she pulled out the three-pound can of butter hotpot. Its shelf life was 36 months.

Even if she had to live in this world for three years, this can alone gave her hope.

The ingredients list was clean. First on it: beef, bone broth, beef tallow.

The instant the scent hit her nose, Polly's throat tightened. Her eyes stung.

She missed home.

She still hadn't taken out her phone. She couldn't bear to see the "no service" screen—to know her contacts were there, but unreachable. It would break her.

She wiped her eyes and gathered sticks to build a rack over the fire, setting the can on top.

Soon, it began to boil. The rich, spicy aroma curled through the air and made her mouth water.

She broke apart a pair of disposable chopsticks, pulled out a thick slice of beef, barely checked if it was done, and devoured it.

The heat seared her tongue, but the meat was soft, flavorful—soaked in a salty, spicy broth that clung to every fiber.

Tears sprang to her eyes again.

This time, it was from pure bliss.

Then—footsteps. Soft, nearing.

Polly looked up.

Eric had returned.

The blood on his mask was gone. His eyes, visible through the clean eyeholes, were calm now—quiet, composed. Whatever wild excitement had possessed him earlier had settled.

In one hand, he carried a skinned rabbit. Its red, glistening insides still dripped blood.

He stopped and stared at the hotpot.

Something flickered in his expression.

There was more than enough for two.

Polly immediately set down her chopsticks and beckoned him over. "Come eat with me."

Eric approached and sat beside her.

"This is called hotpot," she explained cheerfully. "It's kind of like fondue, but instead of cheese, it uses beef tallow, bone broth, and lots of spices. You put raw food in and cook it yourself. It might be a bit spicy—maybe even spicier than Mexican salsa. Have you ever had chili peppers?"

After a pause, he nodded.

"Then it should be fine." She opened a fresh pair of chopsticks and showed him how to use them. "Try it. It's really good."

Eric studied her, then mirrored her grip, lifted a slice of beef, and placed it in his mouth.

He had no real appetite. Bitterness, sweetness, heat—none of it meant much to him.

In Persia, he'd once eaten raw chilies. Not for flavor—but to stay awake.

The king had locked him in a cage with condemned criminals and demanded he demonstrate how to kill with a rope.

They had swords and spears. He had only string.

But now, for some reason, the food brought him a strange satisfaction.

Maybe it was her eyes.

She'd been crying. They were bright now, scrubbed clean by tears, full of vitality—like the throbbing vein in a cornered animal's neck, pulsing with life and tempting him to strike.

To pin her down. To draw the knife slowly toward her eyes—until she cried again.

She would cry.

She was timid and lazy. Afraid of dirt, of hardship. She had no spine. She always looked at him with frightened eyes, like a startled fawn.

She was so small. So ignorant. She didn't even know how to calm a horse.

When she tried to approach Caesar, the stallion had simply bared his teeth and snorted—she'd immediately backed away in fear.

He had to do it for her.

Sometimes, he wondered why he hadn't killed her yet.

Maybe because he liked the game—chasing her, scaring her, then letting her soothe him.

Or maybe…

Her touch had started something.

And now, sometimes, he frightened her on purpose—just to feel her hand again.

He wasn't afraid of addiction.

Though she hadn't left yet, though she hugged him and kissed his mask, though she had chosen him in front of everyone—

Someday, she would abandon him.

Just like his mother had.

The first time she saw his face, she screamed. Then she fainted. Then she wept—before finally forcing a mask over his head with trembling hands.

When that day came, he would kill her.

But not yet.