When the time for the King's procession arrived, the streets, which had already been like they'd been sprinkled with sugar, instantly boiled over like a soup pot with its lid just lifted.
The crowd surged even more densely toward the center of the street.
Amidst the pushing and shoving, no one was annoyed; every face wore an irrepressible excitement, and even their breathing was thirty percent faster than usual.
The candy vendor had moved his stall to the corner long ago, fearing it would be knocked over by the surging crowd—he guarded his stall while standing on tiptoe to peer forward, still clutching a stick of unsold maltose syrup that could stretch half a foot long.
The Woman holding a child hoisted the little one further up onto her shoulder; the child, likely having just learned to walk, kicked their little feet against the Woman's arm, babbling "Candy, candy."
The Woman freed one hand to laboriously push aside the arms blocking her way, while her other hand tightly held the child's waist, fearing a stumble might drop the baby, yet her face was beaming with a smile, her eyes sparkling with the same anticipation as the child's.
Even the calico stray cat on top of the wall pricked up its ears, its tail gently tapping the bricks, a purring sound coming from its throat.
It was probably startled by this spectacle, yet reluctant to leave, squinting into the crowd as if also expecting something—perhaps pastry crumbs accidentally dropped by the King's entourage, or perhaps simply enchanted by the bustling excitement of the whole city.
The roadside tavern had its wooden doors removed, and the owner brought out a long bench for several regular customers to stand on and watch;
The shop assistant from the fabric store simply climbed onto the counter, leaning half his body out of the window, still clutching a piece of freshly dyed red silk, looking as if he were waving a flag and cheering for the King's procession.
The air wafted with the wheaty aroma of toasted bread, the sweet scent of candy, and the fragrance of wild flowers tucked into the hair of the Woman; mixed with the clamor of voices, it brewed into a jar of spicy, bustling street wine unique to this moment.
Gwof and the others also pressed forward with the crowd, relying on Ben's great strength; his broad shoulders pushed into the gaps between people, forcibly carving out a small space barely large enough for five.
All around were bobbing heads, enveloped by waves of laughter and cheers, making even the air feel hot and humid.
Gwof was squeezed in the middle, his back pressed against Ben's sturdy chest, the faint scent of sweat and leather from him lingering at the tip of his nose.
"I can't see!"
Leah stood on tiptoe, her small leather heels clicking softly on the flagstones, her head bobbing in the crowd like a little Squirrel eager to see something new.
The tips of her hair were messed up by a man in a wide-brimmed hat nearby, and a few stray strands stuck to her sweaty forehead, but she didn't care to fix them, her eyes wide as she strained to look forward.
Gwof was taller than her, but his view was also mostly blocked by the bobbing heads in the front row; he could only see the silk banners hanging on the distant street corner swaying in the wind—red like fire, green like a touch of spring—but he couldn't see the excitement further ahead.
Just as he was frowning and thinking of pushing forward more, a broad hand suddenly reached from under his arm, steadily supporting his waist.
Gwof hadn't even reacted before he felt his body lighten as if lifted by the wind, and in the next second, he landed steadily on Ben's shoulders.
Ben's rough palms supported the back of his knees, his voice carrying a hint of a smile.
"At this height, you should finally be able to see, right?"
Gwof made a token struggle, pressing his hands on top of Ben's head, wanting to jump down—Ben's shoulders were broad and hard, making his legs feel a bit numb from the pressure.
But out of the corner of his eye, he saw the veins bulging on Ben's neck like earthworms, and realized that in order to steady him, this fellow was secretly exerting himself.
"Look over there!" Ben gestured forward with his chin.
Gwof followed his gaze and happened to meet Little Bottle's eyes.
At this moment, Little Bottle was somewhat uncomfortably scratching his newly grown golden hair.
The hair was a light honey color, shimmering with fine luster in the setting sun, as if gold dust had been sprinkled on the tips.
You should know that before this, he had proudly made himself bald, his head as smooth as a freshly peeled egg, saying it looked "fierce" and suited a Devil's aesthetic.
But for some reason, since entering Clothes Country, he had secretly changed his look.
This golden hair rested softly on his forehead, reaching just to his eyebrows with slightly curled ends, looking unexpectedly well-behaved, which didn't match his usual boisterous personality at all.
Right now, as he scratched his hair, his fingertips were a bit clumsy moving through the strands, probably because he wasn't used to having so much "clutter" on his head.
When he saw Ben's action, he was stunned for a moment, an embarrassed smile flashing across his face, but his hands moved quickly as he bent down, also picking Leah up horizontally and placing her on his shoulder.
"Hold on tight!"
Little Bottle said.
Leah gave an "ah," quickly grabbing his hair, and after sitting steadily, she smiled until her eyes narrowed into crescents: "Thank you, Little Bottle! Your hair is so soft!"
Gwof stopped struggling.
Sitting on Ben's shoulders, his field of vision suddenly opened up—the entire street looked like someone had sprinkled it with sequins; the silk banners of the shops on both sides fluttered in the wind, red like ripe cherries, green like newly sprouted willows, purple like grapes soaked in the night, dizzying to the eyes.
Even the tops of the carriages passing through the street were tied with colored silk, and as the wheels rolled over the flagstones, they made a "rumbling" sound that joined the excitement.
Just then, a sudden "crackling" burst of sound erupted, making people's ears go numb.
Firecrackers!
A string of red firecrackers as thick as an arm was hung on the archway at the street entrance, lit by some mischievous child.
Sparks fell to the ground like jumping golden beans; the smell of gunpowder mixed with the sweet aroma wafting from the fried cake stall, carrying a bustling atmosphere of daily life that made people cough involuntarily, yet they were reluctant to look away.
Gwof's attention was instantly drawn away, watching those jumping sparks trace golden lines in the twilight, like countless little golden snakes scurrying on the ground, and the corners of his mouth unconsciously turned up slightly.
Ben seemed to notice his smile; the hand supporting his knees steadied further, and he moved forward with the crowd to let him see more clearly.
Leah clapped and laughed on Little Bottle's shoulder:
"So many little sparks! It's like stars are falling down!"
Little Bottle swayed as she shook him, but he held her firmly on his shoulder, muttering, "Sit still."
The laughter, cheers, and the crackling of firecrackers in the crowd mixed together like a boiling pot of sweet soup, enveloping everyone in a warm glow.
Soon, a deafening sound of music came from the street corner, like a sudden explosion of fireworks, instantly drowning out the noise on the street—the King's procession had finally appeared.
At the very front was the band; about twenty musicians wore uniform crimson uniforms with musical notes embroidered in gold thread on the cuffs.
The cheeks of the trumpet players bulged as if they were holding two walnuts; the brass bells shimmered, blowing out high-pitched and cheerful tunes like a flock of newly released larks singing;
The burly men playing the drums had bare arms, their muscles twitching with the drumbeats; the large cowhide drums boomed, vibrating the flowerpots on the roadside windowsills, and even the flagstone road seemed to be beating time with the rhythm.
The musicians marched with steady steps, sweat dripping down their faces, but their mouths were stretched wide into grins; that joyful energy was like they'd just drunk three jars of honey wine, and even the air was soaked sweet by the melody.
Behind the band were two rows of Knights.
They weren't wearing heavy iron armor; instead, they wore crisp Royal Ceremonial Uniforms—ink-black tight-fitting jackets embroidered with silver-threaded Royal crests, snow-white cravats at their necks, jujube-red breeches, and trouser legs tucked into polished tall boots.
The royal blue sashes draped across their shoulders fluttered in the wind, and the scabbards of the swords at their waists were inlaid with agate, clinking with every step.
The Knights were all upright, looking straight ahead, their boot heels clicking sharply on the flagstones.
Combined with that sharp outfit, they truly looked dashing, causing the girls by the roadside to blush and secretly tuck handkerchiefs embroidered with roses into their hands.
At the end of the procession, the King, known throughout the world for his obsession with beautiful clothes, finally made his appearance amidst the crowd's long-necked anticipation.
He walked at a leisurely pace in the very center, his tall and fat body like a rounded little mountain; with every step, the fat on his belly trembled.
His round face was piled with flesh, squeezing his eyes into two crescent moons; when he smiled, the corners of his mouth stretched to his ears, revealing a somewhat childlike innocence, though that smile always carried a hint of spoiled smugness.
The Crown on his head was golden and as large as the mouth of a bowl, its edge inlaid with a ring of rubies as big as pigeon eggs; under the sun, they were as red as burning fire, so bright that one had to squint to see clearly.
Judging by its weight, it must have been over a pound, forcibly pressing his already short neck into his fat; with every step, he subconsciously straightened his neck like a white goose trying to hold its head high.
The Scepter in his hand was even more astounding.
The staff was ebony wrapped in gold wire, wound so tightly that no air could get through, shining golden in the sun;
At the top was a sapphire as large as a fist, as blue as a deep winter lake or fire-tempered ice, exuding a cold, noble air.
Every few steps, he would thump the Scepter on the ground, producing a dull "thud" that made the pebbles at his feet jump; he didn't look like he was using a cane, but rather showing off how heavy and precious this treasure was.
The most eye-catching thing was the robe he wore.
The fabric was woven from gold thread mixed with silver wire, shimmering with a water-ripple luster; it was densely embroidered with scrolling leaf patterns, every leaf and flower bud embroidered vividly—it was said that just embroidering this pattern took twenty weavers three whole months.
The cuffs hung down to his knees, and the hem dragged on the ground, sweeping up dust along the way; the pearls and diamonds adorning the edges were denser than the stars in the sky, with large ones the size of thumbnails and small ones like diamond chips; with every step,
those gems shimmered with fine light as he moved—red, white, and gold dancing before the eyes, making one feel dizzy as if the entire person were wrapped in a flowing river of stars.
The robe was simply too heavy; the gems on it alone were enough to crush an ox.
Behind him followed twelve Ministers, all wearing decent clothes, but all bowing their backs until they were nearly at a ninety-degree angle, carefully lifting the hem of the robe, their steps even slower than the King's, fearing he might accidentally trip on his own hem.
Sweat dripped from their faces, but they didn't dare let go; they didn't look like they were following the King, but rather carrying an untouchable, rare treasure, even their breathing becoming thirty percent lighter.
"His Majesty's new robe is thirty percent heavier than last month's!"
In the crowd, a peddler carrying a shoulder pole stood on tiptoe to watch, whispering to the person next to him with a twitch of his mouth, his tone carrying a hint of mocking amusement.
"If he keeps wearing things like this, he'll probably have to be carried!"
"What do you know?"
The flower girl nearby chimed in, her eyes fixed on the robe, not even noticing that the roses in her hand had wilted.
"I heard the diamonds on it alone are enough to buy ten manors! We won't see this many treasures gathered together in our entire lives!"
Leah clapped her hands on Little Bottle's shoulder, laughing like a little Sparrow that had stolen some honey.
"He looks like a walking jewelry box! The kind that's about to burst from being stuffed with gems!"
Leah's crisp laughter mixed into the crowd like a pebble thrown into a lake, creating a circle of fine ripples.
Several people nearby heard her words, were stunned for a moment, and then also began to laugh.
An old grandmother holding her grandson wiped the corners of her eyes with her apron, nodding with a smile.
"This little girl is right! Exactly, wrapped up like a jewelry box, even walking is a struggle!"
The man next to her agreed: "He looks a bit ridiculous, but you can't deny the clothes are truly magnificent! Look at those gems, they're so bright they make your eyes dizzy; he must have stripped all the treasures from the national treasury and sewn them onto himself!"
The discussions spread like a tide, some teasing, some marvelling, some envious, a cacophony of voices creating a bustling wave of sound:
"I heard this robe took three months to make, and just the gold thread used fifty catties!"
"I saw his clothes from last month outside the palace walls; they had half as many gems as this one. Who would have thought that in such a short time, he'd have a new one!"
"Being a King is great, being able to wear such fine clothes..."
These discussions were neither loud nor soft, just enough to drift into the King's ears.
But he wasn't annoyed at all; instead, he laughed even more heartily, his round face squeezing into two lumps of flesh, his eyes narrowing into slits that sparkled with excitement, like a child who had just received a new toy.
He deliberately slowed his pace, thumping the Scepter on the ground again, the "thud-thud" sound carrying his smugness.
Every few steps, he would raise his hand to tidy the corner of his robe ruffled by the wind; as his fingertips brushed those cold gems, even his knuckles showed a sense of showing off.
The sunlight shone on his Crown, and the reflected red light fell on his face, making that smugness even more conspicuous—this was exactly the effect he wanted; he wanted everyone to stare at his clothes and marvel at his magnificence; this made him happier than any achievement in governing the country.
The Ministers behind him felt a bit embarrassed hearing the surrounding discussions; they wanted to remind him but didn't dare, so they could only lower their heads and quicken their pace, holding the hem even tighter for fear a gem might fall off and spoil the King's mood.
Leah was even more amused on Little Bottle's shoulder: "Look, look! He heard them and he's still laughing!"