The Cursed Extra-Chapter 84: [2.32] The Bait

"The best traps don’t feel like traps. They feel like luck finally going your way."

***

I had been watching Rhys Blackwood for three full days now. Mapping every detail of his routine.

His life played out with the rigid discipline of someone who had learned early that survival required structure. That success demanded sacrifice.

Every morning, he rose before dawn to train alone in the eastern yard before other students had even left their beds. I watched him from this window in the grey light before sunrise. His spear cut patterns through the mist with the dedication of a man who understood that every moment not spent improving was a moment wasted.

He pushed himself to exhaustion and then pushed further. His body trembled with strain but his form never broke.

Every afternoon, he spent hours buried in the library’s reference section. Studying advanced combat theory and magical texts that were technically beyond his current academic level. He took notes with the intensity of someone who couldn’t afford to miss a single detail.

Every evening, he returned to his modest quarters to maintain his equipment. Treating his father’s spear with the reverence of a sacred relic. The blade was never less than perfectly sharp. The shaft never less than perfectly balanced.

Smart. Dedicated. Talented.

And desperately, achingly alone.

A young man carrying burdens that would have broken most people twice his age. Carrying them without complaint because complaining required energy he couldn’t spare.

In other words, absolutely perfect for my plans.

Sorry, Rhys. I know you’d hate the idea of being manipulated. But I’m not actually planning to hurt you. Quite the opposite.

I’m going to save your life, whether you appreciate the method or not.

And in the process, I’m going to give you something you’ve never had before. Allies who actually have the power to help.

The hours crawled past. The sun traced its arc across the sky while I remained at my window. Patient as stone.

I reviewed Lyra’s notes three more times. Ran through the timing in my head. Considered the dozen ways the plan could go wrong and the contingencies I had prepared for each.

Finally, as the afternoon began its slow descent toward evening and the shadows started to lengthen, Lyra emerged from the library’s less-used side entrance.

She carried an armful of books that would perfectly justify her extended presence to anyone who might question it. Moved with the unremarkable manner of a servant going about her duties. Attracted no attention from the students who passed her without a second glance.

That invisibility was perhaps her greatest asset. The ability to be present without being noticed. To observe without being observed.

She disappeared into the network of service paths that connected the academy’s various buildings. Routes that most students didn’t even know existed. The servants’ corridors ran like blood vessels beneath the skin of the academy, connecting kitchens to dining halls, laundry to dormitories.

Carrying the invisible labor that kept everything functioning while remaining hidden from noble eyes.

Then she reappeared near the western edge of the manicured grounds. A small figure in a maid’s uniform. Nothing remarkable about her at all.

She walked where the academy’s carefully maintained gardens gradually gave way to the wilder growth of the forest beyond. Her route would take her directly past the secluded grove where, according to my observations, Rhys practiced his more experimental techniques in private.

Lyra paused at the grove’s edge.

From this distance, I couldn’t see the details of her expression. But I knew exactly what she was doing. Checking carefully to ensure she was unobserved. Scanning the area with the thoroughness I had taught her.

She withdrew a carefully torn page from her apron pocket.

The page contained detailed information about the rare Iron-Root herb. Its properties. Its value. I had extracted it from an older alchemical text in the library’s collection. Not valuable enough to be kept in the restricted sections. But useful enough that its information would seem genuinely valuable to someone with urgent financial needs.

She placed it deliberately on the ground near the path. Weighted it with a small stone to prevent it from blowing away in the evening breeze.

Then she vanished back into the service paths like a ghost returning to its haunt.

I allowed myself a small, satisfied smile.

The board is set. The pieces are in position.

The trap is baited with exactly the kind of hope that a desperate man can’t afford to ignore.

Soon, Rhys would finish his daily studying session. He would gather his notes, secure his belongings, and begin his walk back to the Onyx dormitory along the eastern path.

The same path he took every evening. Because disciplined men developed disciplined habits.

He would discover the torn page. Apparently dropped by accident. Perhaps fallen from another student’s books. An alchemical reference, detailing the properties of Iron-Root.

A rare herb that grew in certain forested areas. Valuable enough that a single specimen could fund months of medical treatments.

He could choose to ignore it, of course. Dismiss it as meaningless litter. Continue on his way. Return to his room and his routines and his endless struggle to keep his sister alive through legitimate means.

Or he could investigate. Follow the information to the western woods, where the page claimed such herbs could sometimes be found.

Hoping that perhaps fate had dropped an opportunity directly in his path. Hoping that for once, just once, something might go his way without requiring blood and sacrifice.

I know exactly which option he’ll choose.

I’d read his character profile in the original novel a dozen times. Analyzed every facet of his personality and motivations. I knew about Elara. About the mana-degenerative sickness that was slowly killing her. About the treatments that cost more than a commoner family could ever earn through honest work.

I knew about the guilt he carried. The weight of being the family’s only hope and knowing that his best might not be enough.

Desperate men always choose hope over safety. They can’t afford the luxury of caution. Can’t bear to let opportunity pass when everything they love hangs in the balance.

Especially when they believe the choice is entirely their own. Made of their own free will rather than manufactured by someone else’s invisible hand.

I’m sorry, Rhys. But you’re going to thank me for this someday.

Probably not today. Probably not tomorrow.

But someday, when you understand what I saved you from, you’ll realize that this manipulation was the kindest thing anyone ever did for you.