The wooden door of the tavern squeaked as the wind slammed it, but inside, it was as lively as a boiling pot.
Pine tables were pushed together, covered with rough pottery mugs. Ale foam spilled down the rims, forming small puddles on the floor.
Doge and his old buddy squeezed beside the table in the corner. The tabletop was uneven and still bore uncleaned wine stains.
Two chipped, rough pottery mugs sat side by side on the table. Ale foam flowed down the chips, forming small puddles near the table legs.
The liquor swayed, reflecting their flushed faces, and even the wrinkles around their eyes were steeped in the smell of alcohol.
In the past, even if they were given ten times the courage, they would never have dared to set foot in this tavern.
It wasn't because they lacked the money for the drinks.
The place Doge hid his money was extremely tricky—under the old locust tree in the corner of the yard, he had dug a half-foot deep hole, storing copper coins in a pottery jar, covering it with a bluestone slab, and then piling up dead branches and withered leaves.
That small saving was enough to buy ten jars of fine ale, enough to treat everyone on the entire street to a good drink.
But when Bluebeard was in power, this tavern wasn't a place for drinking; it was clearly a man-eating pit with its mouth wide open.
Secret agents in black cloaks, like rats from a sewer, carried poisoned daggers and mingled among the drinking crowd.
The hoods of their cloaks were pulled low, revealing only pale chins. Their fingers rubbed against the dagger handles, and their eyes, like wolves', scanned every face.
Their ears were unnaturally sharp. A half-sentence of complaint overheard from a neighboring table during heavy drinking, the muffled curses of a drunk in the corner, or even someone spitting on the ground with a hint of impatience—they could capture it all precisely.
Once, Doge saw with his own eyes an old vegetable vendor who had drunk too much, patting the table and muttering,
"This tax is heavy enough to crush a donkey. Bluebeard's heart must be made of stone..."
Before he could finish, two black-cloaked figures huddled together and whispered, their gazes piercing the old man like ice picks.
The next morning, a corpse appeared on the city gate. It was the old vegetable vendor, his neck purple and black from a hemp rope, and a large gash in his stomach. Wild dogs were tearing at his intestines in the snow, and blood stained half the city gate crimson.
That's why they had to conserve their strength to survive and couldn't come to the tavern.
Doge's back pain was an old ailment; on rainy days, it hurt so much he would writhe, but he would rather grit his teeth and use a hot towel compress than go to the pharmacy—afraid of spending money, and even more afraid of revealing his wealth.
His old buddy's cough could shake his lungs out. Unable to lie down at night, he would curl up in a pile of straw and sit through the night, stubbornly refusing to buy cough medicine.
They were like two old Squirrels preparing for winter, hiding their strength, their copper coins, and even any unnecessary words, just waiting for the day that bastard fell.
But now, things were different.
Bluebeard was dead.
He died by the sword of the youth wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
They heard he died horribly, run through by a sword, blood splattering the entire throne. Even his bone fragments were ground into ash by the furious populace and scattered in the fields as fertilizer.
The day the news arrived, Doge was squatting in the corner of his yard, rummaging through his money jar. When he heard the shouting from the street, the copper coins in his hand scattered with a "clatter." He didn't bother to pick them up; he covered his mouth and wept like a Child.
Even stranger was the light in the square.
The golden light shed by the Angel shone upon them, feeling like they had soaked in boiling hot medicinal soup.
Doge's back pain of many years was actually cured. When he bent over to fetch water in the morning, his lower back no longer felt like it was being pricked by needles. The buckets swayed, but he walked steadier than a young man.
His old buddy's cough also stopped. Last night, when he was chopping wood in the yard, he took a deep breath and shouted "Move aside!" His voice was loud enough to frighten the Sparrow off the tree, startling the widow next door, who poked her head out to curse him, "You old lunatic!"
The two old men gathered at Doge's house.
His old buddy said, "How about we go buy a pound of meat?"
Doge shook his head, "Meat isn't as satisfying as wine."
Doge suggested, "Should we go kowtow to the old locust tree?"
His old buddy waved his hand, "How would a tree understand our joy?"
After thinking it over, they decided they should come to the tavern.
The tavern was indeed crowded, so much so that even the shadows in the corners were packed with people.
Three long pine tables were pushed together, yet some people still had to stand, holding their mugs. Shoulders touched shoulders, and their breath, mixed with the mellow aroma of ale and the warmth of charcoal fire, brewed a vibrant energy in the rising steam.
A Farmer in a gray cloth jacket, his arms still covered in dirt, rushed to the tavern straight from the fields, and was now hugging a Soldier in leather armor, fiercely chugging drinks.
The Soldier's armor plates rubbed against the Farmer's coarse cloth clothes, making a "shush" sound. Their mugs clanged loudly, and they didn't care that the liquor spilled onto their fronts.
"The other day you helped my daughter fix the roof, I toast you with this cup!"
The Farmer's voice was loud, his alcohol-laced breath spraying onto the Soldier's face.
"Before, we used to hide when we saw you, but now we know that good Soldiers truly protect us!"
The Soldier waved his hand, his face red, but drained the mug in one gulp, his neck beneath the armor flushed with excitement.
The old craftsman with the severed arm sat by the window, his empty left sleeve swaying gently in the wind.
Using his remaining right hand, he held his mug and gestured to a young fellow—his finger drew an arc in the air, then chopped down sharply, making a "hey" sound, his eyes wide open.
The one who drew the most attention was the man in the corner.
There was a hideous scar on his left cheek, branded by a hot iron during Bluebeard's reign because he hadn't paid enough tax, like an indelible mark of shame.
He used to walk with his head down, his hat brim pulled low enough to cover half his face, but now he sat there openly, his back straight.
Now he was holding his mug and taking small sips. When someone accidentally bumped him while passing, they quickly said, "Excuse me."
He looked up and smiled, showing his teeth beneath the scar: "It's nothing, drink up, drink up."
There was no evasion in that smile, only the frankness of finally being able to look people in the eye.
Doge gulped down some ale. The liquor burned his throat, and his courage swelled. He slammed the table with a "smack."
"It's good that Bluebeard is dead! But his death was still too easy! If you ask me, he should be torn apart by five horses, chopped into meat paste to feed the wild dogs, and then have his soul locked in the abyss, burned by magma, never to be reborn!"
"Well said!"
A man missing a tooth at the next table suddenly stood up, not caring that the wine in his mug spilled all over him.
"That bastard's servant stole my daughter years ago. I tried desperately to fight him, and his men broke three of my ribs! He deserves to go to hell!"
"And that Hero!"
The Soldier in leather armor chimed in, his voice booming.
"Not only did he kill Bluebeard, but he also allowed us Soldiers to stand tall again!
Could those former Soldiers even be called Soldiers? They were just Bandits. Now, we are true Soldiers! This is what life should be like!"
"Exactly!"
The tavern owner behind the counter poked his head out, still polishing a mug.
"That Hero isn't just good at fighting; he's also excellent at governing the country! Did you hear? He was blessed by the Angel! Everyone saw the light in the square that day. The Angel said herself that Malicious Magic cannot harm him!"
A chorus of agreement rose from the crowd, and the crisp sound of mugs clinking echoed continuously.
His old buddy, whose face was flushed red, suddenly slapped his thigh, his voice louder than anyone else's.
"Hey, tell me... it seems like our Anvil Kingdom doesn't have anyone left to inherit the throne, right?"
As soon as he said this, the tavern instantly quieted down as if cold water had been thrown on it; you could hear the wind outside the window.
The people who had been shouting moments ago looked at each other, forgetting to clink the mugs in their hands.
Someone in the corner muttered softly,
"Wasn't The First Prince there? In the square that day..."
"That was The Statue!"
Someone immediately refuted, a hint of urgency in their voice.
"It was the light! It was an illusion created by the Angel! How can someone who has been dead for so many years come back to life? That wasn't the real The First Prince!"
"But he clearly looked..."
"What good is looking like him? He was turned into stone!"
The tavern grew noisy again, fiercer than before. Some people slammed the tables in frustration, arguing heatedly over whether "The Statue was the true prince."
Doge didn't join in. He just kept chugging drinks, one after another, as the halo of light in the square that day flashed before his eyes, along with the two Children wearing black hats and the golden light on the Angel's wings.
He recalled his younger days carrying a rifle, and The First Prince patting his shoulder and saying, "Wait until we return." His heart felt heavy—no matter how much The Statue resembled him, it wasn't real... Suddenly, he slammed the table with a "smack," the force knocking over the mugs and spilling ale all over the table.
The entire tavern instantly fell silent.
Those arguing, those mediating, and those drinking all turned to look at him in unison.
Doge was the oldest living resident in the capital of the Anvil Kingdom, having personally witnessed the benevolence of the Old King, the heroism of The First Prince, and the cruelty of Bluebeard. No one dared to disrespect him.
Doge stood up. Although his back was still hunched, his posture was straighter than usual.
He strained his voice, which was hoarse from drinking, yet every word was clear.
"Have you been to the market?"
No one answered; they all listened intently.
"Do you know how much a loaf of rye bread costs these days?"
He asked again, his eyes sweeping across the room.
"Two coins! Only two coins!"
Someone nodded subconsciously—yes, it was five coins just recently. It was the Hero who gave the order, forbidding merchants from price gouging.
"And our subsidy,"
Doge raised his voice, spittle spraying onto the table.
"It's more than two coins per day! Enough to buy a loaf of bread and still have some left over for a piece of cheese!"
He took a breath, his chest rising and falling heavily.
"We don't need to keep wondering if The Statue is the real prince! We don't need to live in the shadow of the past! I've lived seventy-nine years, what suffering haven't I endured? The taste of hunger, the taste of being whipped, the taste of watching comrades be executed... The turning point in my life was the moment Bluebeard died!"
"The light in the square that day, the Angel's blessing, is not fake!"
He pointed out the window.
"I can now bend over to fetch water, my old buddy can talk loudly, you have wine in your mugs, and meat on your tables—this is all real!
The hope I see, the hope of this country—is that Hero!"
Someone in the crowd clenched their fist, their eyes turning red.
"If you truly want bread and milk every day, want your Children to wear cotton shoes in winter, and want your young women to dare to smile in the street,"
Doge's voice was tearful, yet more powerful.
"Then stop talking nonsense! Go follow that Hero!"
"We need a King!"
He slammed the table again, making the dishes clatter loudly.
"A king who can keep us fed and warm, a king who can make the Anvil Kingdom shine again! He is here now! He lives in our time! He killed Bluebeard, he has the blessing of Angels, and he will lead us to victory!"
The tavern was silent; only the candlelight flickered in the wind.
After a moment, the gap-toothed man suddenly raised his mug and shouted loudly,
"Support the Hero as King!"
"Support the Hero!"
The Soldier in leather armor followed suit, his voice tearing through the air.
"Support the King!"
"The King! The King!"
The shouts exploded like rolling thunder in the tavern, hitting the wooden beams, drifting out through the cracks in the door, and dissolving into the winter night of the Anvil Kingdom.
Doge watched the surging crowd before him, raised his mug, and drained it in one gulp.
The spicy taste of the ale, mixed with tears, slid down his throat. He suddenly felt that this drink was stronger and warmer than any he had drunk in his youth... As the shouts in the tavern threatened to lift the roof, Gwof was walking with Liya and The Statue along the corridor of the Royal Palace.
Snow slid off the eaves, landing on the stone steps with a soft rustle. The copper lamps beneath the corridor swayed in the wind, casting the three people's shadows long and short upon the stone wall.
A Swallow perched on The Statue's shoulder plate, its gray-blue feathers meticulously preened and shiny. It occasionally rubbed its beak against The Statue's neck, chirping lightly.
The Statue—now resembling The First Prince more truly—wore silver armor that shone with a soft light under the lamps. A faint smile always lingered on his lips. After a few steps, he would glance down at Liya beside him, the tenderness in his eyes capable of melting the ice and snow outside the corridor.
Gwof's mood was also unusually light.
He kicked at the broken ice beneath his feet, his wolf ears under the brim of his hat swaying gently with his steps, while a grand spectacle played out in his mind.
In his imagination, a wrinkled Witch held a bone staff, her black robe billowing into bat wings in the gale, and a curse formed from a lifetime of magic hissed toward him like a black serpent.
But he merely slowly took off his wide-brimmed hat, his fingertips casually dusting the brim as if there were truly dust there.
The sunlight fell perfectly on his slightly raised chin, outlining the contemptuous smile even more clearly. His voice was not loud, yet it was like an ice-tempered needle, causing eardrums to tremble.
"Have you ever seen an Angel? Inferior creature."
Before the words finished, the Witch seemed to be choked by an invisible force. Her body beneath the black robe convulsed violently a few times, then she fell stiffly to the ground, dissolving into a puddle of black ash emitting green smoke.
The surrounding spells instantly failed, and the black energy wrapped around the people receded like a tide.
Immediately afterward, tens of thousands cheered and knelt in worship.
A Princess in a white dress walked gracefully forward, her skirt sweeping over the petals on the ground, leaving a faint fragrant trail.
She held an intricately woven wreath in her hands, with Lilies of the Valley and Roses intertwined, still damp with morning dew.
When she reached him, her cheeks were red like ripe apples, and the tips of her ears were so red they looked ready to bleed. The hand offering the wreath trembled slightly.
"I... I lo..."
"Lord Gwof?"
A gentle voice, like a feather, lightly brushed against Gwof's thoughts.
He snapped out of his "Angel-Blessed Battle Against the Witch" fantasy and saw The Statue looking at him. The patterns on the silver armor flowed with faint light under the lamps, and the gratitude in his eyes was like clear water held in a jade bowl, pristine enough to reflect a person's image.
Liya had squatted down sometime earlier. A gray cat that had emerged from behind a pillar was gently patting her fingertips with its paw pads, its tail curled into a loop, making a soft purring sound in its throat.
Her eyes curved into crescent moons as she smiled. Though her fingers were tickled by the cat's claws, she didn't pull away, only murmuring softly,
"Do you want to walk with us too?"
"I thank you, esteemed Lord Gwof."
The Statue bowed slightly. His shoulder and chest plates clanged together with a soft 'ding,' like an icicle falling onto a jade plate.
"If it hadn't been for your words, 'Get moving,' I might still be gathering dust in the square, watching the snow bury my base deeper and deeper, watching this country grow colder little by little, until even the wind was too lazy to blow through."
Gwof smiled, raising his hand to press down on his wide-brimmed hat, concealing the flash of smugness in his eyes.
"You did this yourself, didn't you? All I did was speak a sentence while standing in the snow; the one who truly pulled his feet out of the stone was you."
The Statue shook his head, his gaze falling upon his shoulder plate—the gray-blue Swallow was tilting its head, pecking at the pattern on his armor piece, as if trying to discern something.
"No, you made me realize that'standing and waiting' and'stepping forward' are two different things."
His voice carried the clarity of someone who had just woken from a deep sleep.
"Those who stand still can only wait for the wind and snow to bury them; those who move their legs are the ones who can carve out a path."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the lights of the distant commoners' homes. His voice was soft, like something soaked in warm water.
"You allowed this country to regain vitality, you allowed me to recover, and even... you brought her back."
He glanced down at the Swallow on his shoulder plate; the little fellow tilted its head.
"I owe you too much."
Seeing that he was about to say more, Gwof waved his hand to interrupt, tapping his fingertips on the brim of his hat.
"If you want to thank me, it's simple: go and study hard."
The Statue was stunned, his brow furrowing slightly beneath the silver armor: "Study?"
"Learn to be The First Prince."
Gwof stepped toward the window at the end of the corridor. The window was open, offering a view of a corner of the Royal Palace Garden—clumps of green holly peeked out from the snow, the leaves still dusted with unmelted snow grains, like scattered diamonds.
"Learn how to keep the bakeries' ovens from going out, and how to make a single piece of rye bread cost only two coins;
Learn how to make sure a Soldier's scabbard holds mercy, not malice, knowing whom to protect and whom to strike down;
Learn how to let children dare to chase pigeons in the square, no longer needing to hide nervously, afraid of someone snatching the oatcakes from their hands."
He stood by the window, gazing at the distant lights that shone like stars. Silhouettes moved in the windows of commoners' homes, and occasionally, sounds of laughter and friendly curses drifted over, trivial yet vibrant.
"You should have flesh and blood now. Your heart beats, your fingertips are warm. You can't just stand there like a stone, waiting for others to wipe the dust off you."
He gently pressed his fingers against the brim of his hat. The wolf ears beneath the hat twitched, catching the sounds of the common folk carried on the wind.
"After all, you know, the world is vast. The Anvil Kingdom is just a small corner of it."
Liya had followed him over at some point, holding the gray cat. Its claws rested on her shoulder, and its tail wrapped around her neck.
She looked up, her blue eyes sparkling under the lamplight: "Are you leaving?"
Gwof looked down at her. The playfulness in his eyes faded, replaced by a seriousness, like a blunt knife being sharpened.
"I'll leave in a few days. I was just wandering around to begin with. I can't stay in the Royal Palace as a decoration and have people bring me ale every day."
"Besides, that kind of life is far too boring."
He then turned to The Statue, his tone growing more serious, as if entrusting him with something vital.
"This country needs you.
It needs a living King—one who feels pain, who laughs, who haggles with merchants over the price of a loaf of bread;
Not a shadow living in legend, carved into stone, worshipped, yet unable to protect anyone."
The Statue looked at him, then glanced at the distant lights. The lights shone through the windows, casting warm yellow spots onto the snow.
He nodded slowly. The light on his silver armor seemed to brighten, as if absorbing all the lamplight.
"I understand."
Gwof smiled, turning to walk out of the corridor. "Good that you understand."
The wind outside the corridor swept in snow spray, lifting the hem of his coat like a pair of black wings.
Liya quickly chased after him, holding the cat. Her small leather shoes tapped lightly on the stone slab.
The Statue stood still, watching their figures disappear around the corner of the corridor.
He raised his hand and pressed the hilt of the sword at his waist. The sword seemed to sense something, letting out a slight hum, as if responding to a promise that was long overdue.
Just as Gwof's foot was about to step out of the corridor, a clear shout suddenly rang out behind him, accompanied by the resonant hum of silver armor, echoing beneath the empty walkway.
"Esteemed Lord Gwof!"
He turned around and saw The Statue standing in the center of the pillar, his silver armor glowing with resolute light under the lamps. He no longer wore his previous gentle, smiling expression; his back was ramrod straight, like a sword about to be drawn.
"I know your goal is the sea of stars."
The Statue's voice was sonorous and forceful; every word was like a heavy hammer striking the stone floor.
"This small territory of the Anvil Kingdom might be like a roadside pebble to you, not worth mentioning.
You might not care for this small domain, only for the sake of the rejoicing commoners."
Liya stopped beside Gwof, holding the cat, looking up with eyes full of surprise.
The wind poured in from outside the corridor, lifting Gwof's hat, which he grabbed immediately. But this exposed his wolf ears hidden beneath the hat, slightly pricked up, catching every word.
"But I still want to say this."
The Statue took a deep breath, his chest beneath the silver armor rising and falling sharply, as if he had made a momentous decision.
"If you are unwilling to sit upon that throne, unwilling to govern this land, that is fine. But in my heart, I already regard you as King, as the sole Sovereign."
He suddenly dropped to one knee. The collision of his silver armor against the stone slab produced a dull clang, startling the copper lamps beneath the corridor into shaking even more violently.
His voice carried an unquestionable reverence, his right hand pressed against his chest.
"I pledge allegiance to my King, loving what he loves, hating what he hates.
The welfare of the commoners and the safety of the nation—I will use your will as my standard.
What you wish to protect, I will ensure remains unharmed, even at the cost of my life;
What you despise, I will personally eradicate."
The wind and snow surged in from outside the corridor, making his silver armor gleam with cold light, but they could not disperse the firmness in his tone.
"From now on, my every word, my every action, shall bear your mark."
He lowered his head, his forehead nearly touching the cold stone slab.
"Never shall I disobey."