In the palace's dining hall, the morning light was like shattered stained glass, casting mottled spots of red, blue, and gold across the long table through the window frames. They danced upon the polished oak surface like a pack of mischievous little beasts.
The long table stretched from one end to the other, nearly half a street long. Its edges were inlaid with thin silver threads that glowed softly in the light, making it look like a long river lined with silver.
The table was covered with white porcelain plates edged in gold. Silver knives and forks lay side-by-side, their reflections dizzying to the eye.
Freshly baked wheat cakes wafted their warm aroma toward one's nose, while hot milk bubbled in a nearby silver pot. The sweet scent mingled with the smell of wheat, diffusing into a gentle mist in the air.
Gwof sat in a high-backed chair next to the head of the table.
Lia sat beside him, her short little legs dangling between the chair's legs. Her newly made cotton shoes were cherry red with a small rabbit embroidered on the toes; currently, they were kicking at the air, still half a foot from the floor.
With a swing of her ankles, the cotton shoes would strike the chair leg with a soft 'thump,' like the beat of a small drum.
She held a small piece of honey cake in her hand with cream on her fingertips, but she didn't stop to lick it. Her eyes were fixed on the berry jam on the table—the jam was kept in a crystal bowl, as red as congealed blood. It was made from wild strawberries, sweet with a hint of tartness, and she had secretly dug out two spoonfuls the night before.
The Statue sat at the other end of the long table. The patterns on his silver armor were traced clearly by the morning sun, each plate of mail looking as if it had been dipped in honey, radiating a warm glow.
The plate in front of him was almost untouched, his cutlery lying quietly, though more than half of the wheat cake by his hand was gone.
He held a piece of freshly baked wheat cake with his long fingers, gently tearing it into tiny pieces and spreading them across his palm.
The Swallow on his spaulder fluttered its wings and flew down, its grayish-blue feathers shimmering in the light. It landed on his wrist, its little head bobbing as it pecked at the crumbs, chirping, 'Delicious... sweeter than berries...'
The voice was faint, like tiny pearls falling onto a jade plate.
Little Bottle—this bottle devil—was currently burying its entire face in a plate filled with tender, stewed meat sauce.
Its head rubbed left and right, leaving bits of meat on its ears and mustache, splashing sauce onto the nearby white porcelain plates and leaving small brown marks.
The sides of the long table were filled with officials. Their newly sewn uniforms were navy blue, the fabric crisp and still possessing the stiff touch of fresh starch, with the emblem of the Anvil Kingdom embroidered on the cuffs.
For instance, the Herald.
He sat not far from Gwof. The navy blue uniform seemed to fit him with more grace than the other officials.
He had originally been a stage actor, so his posture was upright and his features were handsome. Though he looked a bit constrained now, the morning light falling on his profile outlined a sharp jawline, revealing a rare handsomeness.
However, the hands gripping his cutlery betrayed his nervousness.
He gripped the silver fork so tightly that his knuckles were white, and the tines were slightly deformed as if he might snap them in two.
His gaze seemed pulled by invisible strings, involuntarily drifting toward Gwof—watching Gwof's Adam's apple roll slightly as he lowered his eyes to drink the berry juice;
Watching as he occasionally looked up, his eyes sweeping across the table with a touch of casual sharpness.
But every time their eyes met, he would snap his head down as if burned, a small patch of his collar darkened by cold sweat.
Yet after only a couple of breaths, he would quickly raise his head again. His gaze was like a startled bird, darting over the surrounding officials—noting the seriousness of the Finance Minister holding his ledger, the steadiness of the Captain of the Guards resting his hand on his sword hilt... with each glance, complex emotions swirled in his eyes.
There was an unhideable inferiority, like wild grass trampled into the mud—yet within that inferiority, a hint of arrogance was wrapped.
"Ahem."
The Finance Minister suddenly cleared his throat. The sound was like wood rubbed with sandpaper, dry and raspy, sounding particularly abrupt in the quiet dining room.
He held a thick ledger with a dark brown cowhide cover, the corners worn white and frayed from years of flipping, revealing the pale yellow fibers within.
His fingers gripped the edge of the ledger tightly, his knuckles straining white as if the book were not made of paper, but a piece of red-hot iron.
"Your Majesty, oh no, Lord Gwof,"
He hurriedly corrected himself, his tongue seemingly tied in a knot that took a moment to unravel. Beads of sweat trickled down his cheeks, flowing through the deep furrows of his wrinkles. He quickly wiped them away with his sleeve, leaving behind even darker gray streaks.
"According to your instructions, we have inventoried the city's granaries. Actually... the grain in storage isn't little; it's enough to provide relief for the people. And now... now there is no longer a shortage of food!"
He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing twice as if he were swallowing something scalding.
His eyes held a mixture of mustered courage and the anxiety of being thought a madman. His voice dropped lower, yet one could still hear an irrepressible excitement, like a fluttering Sparrow trapped in his chest.
"Just yesterday, a blonde girl came to see me carrying a Little Pot.
She said it was a treasure given to her by a witch, capable of producing infinite white porridge.
She said she hoped that with this, the Anvil Kingdom would know no hunger.
We tested it on the spot—as long as you chant the spell to the pot, it starts steaming and produces infinite white porridge. The porridge is hot, and the aroma of rice wafts into your nose, exactly like it was freshly cooked..."
As soon as these words were spoken, the dining room became so silent that one could hear the sound of falling snow outside the window.
The officials looked at one another, their eyes filled with shock—infinite production? Such a treasure actually exists in this world?
The official next to the Finance Minister opened his mouth, not even noticing the wine trickling from the corner of his lips.
The Captain of the Guards tightened his grip on his sword hilt, his thumb rubbing the cold metal as if to confirm he wasn't dreaming.
Lia was using a small spoon to spread berry jam on her cake. Upon hearing this, her cake fell onto her plate with a'splat.' She didn't even wipe the cream that splashed onto her nose, her eyes wide with disbelief in her blue pupils.
"Infinite... production? Does that mean it will never run out?"
Gwof's hand holding the milk cup paused, the porcelain rim touching his lower lip. The warm sensation brought him back to his senses.
He looked at the Finance Minister's face, flushed with excitement, while a subtle ripple stirred in his heart—that Little Pot had actually been offered up?
He certainly remembered that pot, and had even thought about taking it with him.
But she had actually offered it.
Possessing that Little Pot, they could have lived without any worries about food or clothing.
Gwof took a sip of milk. As the warm liquid slid down his throat, his heart suddenly softened.
It had to be said that in a place like this, which was like a Fairy Tale World, the kindness in the hearts of those chosen by treasures could never be hidden.
Of course, certain fellows were exceptions.
As soon as the Finance Minister finished, the Herald spoke up.
"Lord Gwof!"
His voice was an octave higher than usual, carrying a theatrical cadence, yet it couldn't hide his lack of confidence.
"Your subordinate followed your orders and led the Soldiers to wipe out the remnants of Bluebeard's forces. The mission is now a complete success!"
He took a deep breath, pressing his hand to his chest, trying to make his posture look more solemn.
"Under your... under your guidance, and..."
He quickly glanced at Little Bottle, who was eating frantically, and as if suddenly remembering something, he added:
"And with the help of Lord Bottle, the Soldiers each fought heroically, one against ten!"
"The Bandits occupying civilian homes, the thugs hiding in the granaries, and the corrupt officials who embezzled relief grain..."
He paused, his voice gaining a bit of ferocity as if he were playing the role of a righteous knight.
"They have all been put to death! Their heads are hanging at the city gate for public display. When people pass by, they are all clapping and cheering!"
Gwof didn't speak. He simply picked up his refilled milk cup, his fingertips rubbing the cold surface.
Sunlight passed through the window frames, casting shifting light and shadows across his face. The wolf ears beneath his hat brim stood quietly as he listened to the Herald's report.
Three days.
It had only been three days.
He still remembered stepping into the Anvil Kingdom three days ago. Starving beggars were huddled under the city gate, the streets were full of drunken Soldiers, the storefronts were mostly dilapidated, and even the wind carried the scent of despair.
But now, the rhythmic and powerful shouts of Soldiers drilling could be heard from outside the dining room.
The distant market faintly echoed with the calls of vendors, lively and bustling.
Even the smell in the air had changed; the scent of wheat had covered the stench of rot, and warmth had dispelled the gloom.
The entire Anvil Kingdom was like a machine whose gears had been suddenly snapped back into place by an invisible hand. Everything that had been jammed, rusted, or inverted had suddenly turned for the better in just three short days.
The Herald was still saying something about how 'the seized illicit funds have been confiscated' and 'people donated cloth for uniforms,' his tone full of eagerness to claim credit.
Gwof looked up at him and met his drifting gaze—this time he didn't dodge, but instead looked back with a hint of expectation, like a child waiting for praise.
"Mm."
Gwof gave a soft response, his voice as flat as if he were commenting on the weather.
But that single 'Mm' caused the Herald's eyes to redden instantly.
He straightened his back as if he had received a grand reward. His lips trembled as he tried to say something, but in the end, he only gave a deep bow. When he turned to sit down, even the sound of the chair legs seemed joyful... the entire Anvil Kingdom was like a meadow washed by spring rain, with the sweetness of new life permeating the air.
The snow on the streets had been swept clean, revealing the patterns of the bluestone slabs.
The bakery chimneys smoked from morning till night, the aroma of wheat drifting three streets away.
Children wore newly made cotton shoes, chasing pigeons in the square, their laughter startling the Sparrows under the eaves.
Patrolling Soldiers would bow and greet the elderly. Officials walking the streets no longer clutched ledgers of exorbitant taxes, but rather the people's petitions—everything was moving toward the good, so good it felt exceptionally reassuring.
Gwof stood on the palace balcony, looking at the rising columns of smoke in the distance.
He felt it was time for him to leave.
From the very beginning, he had never intended to stay long. He had merely passed through and happened to slay a tyrant, acting as a transient hero; he couldn't just linger indefinitely.
Moreover, he was truly afraid of handling government affairs.
The Finance Minister reported grain prices with his ledger every day, officials surrounded him to argue over tax policies, and even the Herald had learned to pay his respects daily—just thinking about those complexities gave him a headache.
It wasn't that he was putting on airs; he simply found it troublesome. Furthermore, he knew that when it came to governing a country, he was nothing more than a theoretical amateur.
No matter how many principles of 'loving the people as one's own children' he had read in books, they couldn't compare to The Statue's eyes, which had seen through the suffering of the common people.
Once the thought of leaving emerged, it grew like a rampant vine.
He had wanted to leave silently, just as he had come—arriving in the snow and leaving in the snow, without taking a single cloud with him.
But what about Lia? Should he take her?
Gwof felt the half-piece of wheat cake in his pocket. Lia had stuffed it there this morning, and it still carried the sweetness of honey.
He shook his head—better not.
The Anvil Kingdom was now peaceful and prosperous. The Statue protected her like the apple of his eye. She had hot porridge to drink every day and new clothes to wear; there was no need for her to follow him into a life of hardship.
She wasn't like Groot. Back then, Groot had no choice but to follow him.
Lia had a stable home now, and this was where she belonged.
Before leaving, he paid a visit to the National Treasury.
It was a stone chamber carved into the heart of a mountain, its door engraved with the emblem of the Anvil Kingdom. When the treasury guards saw him, they gave a respectful salute and pushed open the heavy stone door with a 'creak.'
The treasury wasn't filled with gold and silver as one might imagine; instead, it held several strange and peculiar objects.
In the corner was the Little Pot that could produce infinite porridge, its rim still stained with a bit of rice milk.
Hanging on the wall was a Silver Thread Needle with a half-finished sweater hanging from it. It was said that as long as you told it 'it's cold, it's cold,' it would automatically continue knitting, with stitches more even than those of the most skilled seamstress.
There was also a Copper Hand Warmer that stayed perpetually hot without burning one's hand... it would be a lie to say he wasn't tempted.
Gwof picked up the Silver Thread Needle. As his fingertips touched the cold metal, a thought flashed through his mind—with this, he wouldn't have to worry about sweaters in winter, and perhaps he could even use it to knit an inescapable net.
But then he thought, how many people were still so cold they couldn't sleep? If this needle stayed in the Anvil Kingdom, it could knit hundreds or thousands of cotton coats.
He gently hung the needle back on the wall, as if setting down something heavy.
In the end, he took nothing. Only Little Bottle followed silently behind him.
But just as they walked out of the palace entrance, a small figure suddenly rushed out from behind a stone pillar and threw herself into Gwof's arms.
It was Lia. Her blonde hair was disheveled, her hat was gone, and her face was streaked with tears. Her cotton coat was covered in grass clippings, and she was sobbing uncontrollably.
"I want to go with you... ugh... you can't leave me behind..."
Gwof was stunned, while Little Bottle beside him showed a wicked smile.
He wanted to push her away and say 'this is your home,' but seeing her red eyes, he couldn't bring himself to say those heartless words.
She had clearly been learning poetry from The Statue yesterday; how did she know they were leaving?
The guards saw this and wanted to come over to persuade her, but Gwof waved them off.
He helped Lia tidy her messy hair, his voice softening.
"If you follow me, there won't be any hot porridge to drink."
Lia shook her head vigorously, her tears falling even faster.
"I'm not afraid... I don't want to stay here, I want to go with you..."
Gwof sighed. Fine, he would just treat it as collecting a heroine for a Fairy Tale World.
In the distance, the people who had heard the news arrived, and The Statue came as well, his silver armor glinting in the sun.
They didn't step forward to stop them, but simply stood in the snow, watching the figures at the palace entrance.
The thoughts they once had of forcibly crowning him as King were now transformed into a silent farewell.
Later, the people of the Anvil Kingdom still made a decision—on the newly cast National Seal, they carved Gwof's name, decreeing that the hero in the wide-brimmed hat was the first King of the New Anvil Kingdom.
At this moment, Gwof held Lia's hand, with Little Bottle following behind and occasionally letting out a piercing laugh, as they walked out across the snow outside the city.
Lia's crying gradually stopped, and she began to chatter away with all sorts of questions. The sunlight fell upon them, stretching their shadows long, long across the ground.
He hadn't been able to leave quietly after all, and he had gained a little tail.
Gwof looked down at Lia's nose, which was red from the cold, and shook his head helplessly.