Night in the Anvil Kingdom was like a piece of ink-soaked velvet, pressing down heavily, even the wind carrying a bone-chilling cold.
The palace spires pierced through lead-gray clouds that hung so low they seemed reachable, heavy as if holding back an even greater blizzard.
Snowflakes, fine as needle tips, emerged from some unknown cloud and spiraled down.
At first, there were only scattered flakes that melted upon hitting the walls, leaving fleeting damp marks.
Gradually, the snow grew denser, like countless white moths flinging themselves at the palace eaves, pillars, and stone railings carved with fierce beasts.
Before long, a thin layer of white frost accumulated on the roofs.
King Bluebeard sat on a gilded throne, his deep blue full beard like a clump of fluffy seaweed, hanging down onto the silk lapel of his chest, each strand shimmering with an eerie blue light that flickered in the candlelight.
His floor was half a level higher than the surrounding palace walls; by pushing open the carved wooden windows, he could take in the lights of the entire capital.
At this moment, those lights were scattered like crushed diamonds on black velvet, yet they could not illuminate the shadows deep in the streets—Bluebeard knew that those shadows hid hunger, fear, and curses directed at him.
But what of it?
His crown glinted coldly under the candlelight, the facets of the gems reflecting the violence in his eyes.
The entire Anvil Kingdom was meant to prostrate itself at his feet.
Inside the palace, it was warm and cozy; the long table was laden with steaming roasted goose and stewed venison legs, while ale foamed in silver pitchers, its aroma mingling with the scent of candle wax in the air.
Over a dozen servants knelt on the carpet, their heads bowed low, shoulders trembling slightly, faces wearing fawning smiles, yet none dared to make an extra sound.
The stage was covered in crimson velvet, its edges slightly curled from the heat of the candles.
Three actors in costume stood on stage; the one in the center was wrapped in "armor" made of cardboard, painted bright silver, which failed to hide the coarse cloth undergarments peeking out from behind.
The "holy sword" in his hand was carved from wood and brushed with gold paint; a "creak" of rubbing wood could be heard whenever he brandished it.
"Look! The flames breathed by that Evil Dragon have scorched half the sky!"
The actor on the left shrieked, wearing a "dragon scale" costume covered in chicken feathers, holding a tin tube and shaking it vigorously toward the audience—the tube contained sulfur powder, which emitted pungent yellow smoke when shaken, giving it a somewhat "fiery" appearance.
The "King" in the center immediately puffed out his chest and roared in a gruff voice, "A mere Evil Dragon dares to be so insolent before me!"
He suddenly raised the wooden sword and slashed fiercely at the "Evil Dragon" on the right.
That "Evil Dragon" wore a dragon body sewn from gray cloth, with a head made of papier-mâché painted with a snarling face; it cooperated by letting out an "awoooo," lunging to the ground and intentionally revealing the red cloth sewn onto its back—the "dragon's blood."
"His Majesty the King has split open the Evil Dragon's skull!"
The actor on the right quickly took up the cue; he played the Herald, his hat askew, yet he still shouted at the top of his lungs.
"The warriors of the Anvil Kingdom charge with His Majesty! All those nations that do not submit are trembling!"
"Trembling! They are all trembling!"
The "King" spun around with his wooden sword, the gold paint shimmering with a cheap luster in the candlelight.
"The Wheat Ear Kingdom to the east has offered a thousand wagons of grain! Gem Island to the west presents crates of diamonds! The Island Kingdom to the south has even sent their princess!"
He grew more excited as he spoke, spittle spraying onto his costume.
"They say the flag of the Anvil Kingdom shall be planted across the Seven Seas! King Bluebeard's name shall be carved on every stone tablet!"
"Carved on stone tablets! Carved on stone tablets!"
The two supporting actors shouted along, their voices so loud they seemed ready to blow off the palace roof.
They knew Bluebeard loved to hear this—loved to hear others talk about how much land he had conquered, loved to see others cringing and begging before him, even if it was all made-up lies.
Below the stage, the servants kept their heads down; no one dared to laugh, and no one dared to show disdain.
Listening to the nonsense on stage and the fake "cheers of victory," they could only bury their faces deeper, pretending to be moved to tears by this "magnificent feat."
Only Bluebeard himself sat there, his fingers lightly tapping the tabletop as he held his wine cup.
He watched the clumsy "himself" on stage, watched the swaying wooden sword, his lips curling into a faint, ambiguous smile.
He had seen these plays no less than a hundred times, yet he still hadn't grown tired of them.
"Continue."
He suddenly spoke; his voice wasn't loud, but it made the actors on stage instantly tense up.
"Yes! Yes!"
The Herald nodded quickly, cleared his throat, and shouted again.
"Now! The ships of the Seven Seas all fly the flag of the Anvil Kingdom! Every king of every nation must kneel when they see His Majesty! They say..."
He paused, intentionally emphasizing his tone, "They say His Majesty's blue beard is more majestic than the sky, and His Majesty's wrath is more terrifying than an Evil Dragon's fire!"
"Terrifying! More terrifying than fire!"
The "King" raised his wooden sword and stabbed it hard into the ground; the wooden sword broke a corner with a "crack."
Bluebeard finally let out a light chuckle and drained the ale in his cup.
What if it was fake?
As long as everyone believed it was true, then it was true.
He watched the actors still roaring on stage, watched the swaying yellow smoke and red cloth, the violence in his eyes gradually replaced by a strange sense of satisfaction.
This Anvil Kingdom was meant to live within the lies he wove.
Bluebeard's fingers rubbed the rim of the cup, the cold metallic touch unable to offset the heat in his palm.
The richness of the ale spread across his tongue, yet it couldn't suppress the hostility churning in his eyes.
His gaze swept over those clumsy performances on stage—the exaggerated movements, the fake roars, like a troupe of buffoons.
Yet he loved to hear those tall tales of "conquering the Seven Seas," as if by hearing them a few more times, those lies could become reality.
His gaze returned to the window; the snow had woven a vast white net, blurring the silhouette of the capital.
He saw a light in a window in the slums to the south of the city go out with a "poof," like an eye suddenly closing.
"Heh."
He gave a sneering laugh, his Adam's apple bobbing as he drained the wine in his cup.
It was snowing; winter was truly coming.
Those ants living in dilapidated shacks probably couldn't even afford oil for their lamps anymore, could they?
Last winter, the corpses frozen at street corners were piled up like firewood, half a wagon full; when they were burned in the spring, the smoke was so acrid he hadn't slept well for days.
But what of it? If a few commoners died, would it really affect him sitting on this throne, drinking and watching a play?
He thought of the gossip he'd heard during the day, saying some townsfolk were cursing him behind his back, saying "Bluebeard will be killed by a hero sooner or later."
He hadn't lashed out then; he had simply dragged the Soldier who spread the gossip to be fed to the dogs.
But the fire in his heart, as if doused by this snow-water, burned even more fiercely instead.
"Winter..."
He twirled his deep blue beard, his fingertips brushing those strands that glinted with an eerie blue light.
"The more that freeze to death, the more fertile the land will be in the spring."
When the snow melted and the ice thawed, he would add another thirty percent to the taxes.
Those who hid grain—if they dared not hand it over, he would tear down their houses; those who dared to gossip—he would cut out their tongues to feed the crows.
He wanted to see how much energy these ants, who struggled even to keep warm, would have left to wag their tongues behind his back.
He slammed the cup down on the table; the liquid splashed out, soaking into the silk tablecloth and leaving dark stains.
The performance on stage continued, the actors shouting even harder as if to shake off the chill in the palace.
Bluebeard leaned back into his seat, gazing at the increasingly heavy snow outside, the cold sneer in his eyes deepening.
The winter of the Anvil Kingdom was never prepared for the pitiful.
And he was that very winter, holding the power of life and death.
"Crash—!"
Suddenly, a piercing sound of shattering, like a bolt of thunder, fiercely tore through the fake merriment in the palace.
The glass of the carved wooden window exploded into countless shards under a massive impact, flying out with a sharp whistling sound and hitting the carpet with a "patter."
Splashed wine slid from the edge of the silver tray, soaking the actor's cheap costume and staining the chicken feathers on the "dragon scales" dark brown.
Two dark figures, carrying a bone-chilling wind, landed silently on the red velvet carpet in the center of the hall like two dark clouds swept in by a gale.
Snow fell from their hems, and upon touching the warm air of the palace, it instantly turned into tiny water droplets, soaking two dark marks into the carpet.
"Ah—!"
The servants' screams suddenly erupted like cats having their tails stepped on.
Some scrambled under the long table, their hands clamped tightly over their ears, their bodies shaking like fallen leaves in an autumn wind;
Some tried to run out of the hall but were tripped by their companions, piling up in a heap, their cries for help mixing with the "clatter" of overturned tables and chairs into a chaotic mess.
The actors had long since thrown their prop swords far away, their figures in ridiculous costumes shrinking behind pillars in a panic; the once-passionate "conquest declaration"—
Had now turned entirely into tearful whimpers, unable to utter a single complete word.
Bluebeard suddenly sprang from his gilded throne, the sword at his waist drawn with a "shring."
The cold, glinting blade reflected the dancing candlelight, casting flickering shadows across his face.
His signature deep blue full beard stood on end like an enraged sea urchin, his fierce gaze like poisoned arrows fixed dead on the two dark figures.
A low roar rumbled from his throat: "Who is it?! Tired of living, to dare break into my palace?! Guards! Where have all the guards gone?!"
There was no response from outside the hall, only the whistling of the wind and snow through the corridors.
The dark figure standing in front looked up, revealing a clean-lined jaw beneath a wide-brimmed hat, his complexion appearing somewhat pale in the candlelight.
He had a thin build, like a reed swaying in the cold wind, yet he carried an inexplicable sense of pressure.
The Bald Strong Man behind him was like a black iron tower, his bulging muscles stretching his coarse cloth clothes tight; the scar extending from his brow to his chin glinted with a menacing white light in the candlelight.
He was grinning, revealing a mouthful of sharp teeth, like a beast that had caught the scent of blood.
Bluebeard's gaze swept back and forth between the two, suspicion and alarm coiling around his heart like vines—these two faces were very unfamiliar; they had neither noble crests nor Soldiers' armor, and their entire presence exuded a rustic air, yet they dared to break into his royal palace at night? They were simply insane!
He was about to demand, "Who are you—"
When the Boy in front raised his hand and pushed his wide-brimmed hat up slightly.
The moment the edge of the hat slid up, a pair of eyes was revealed.
They were a pair of unusually calm green eyes, like the surface of a lake frozen by ice and snow, without a single ripple.
There was no emotion in the depths of his pupils—neither the resolve of a palace intruder nor the fear of facing a tyrant—only a bottomless silence, as if they had sucked in the candlelight, the clamor, and even the violence on Bluebeard's person all at once, without causing even a single ripple.
The candlelight fell on his eyelashes, casting faint shadows that made that hint of green appear even deeper.
Bluebeard's hand on the sword hilt tightened inexplicably—he had seen countless pairs of eyes: fearful, fawning, angry, desperate... but he had never seen a pair like this, so calm it was almost eerie, as if looking at a long-decayed corpse rather than a king who held the power of life and death.
The Boy's fingertips still rested on the brim of his hat, his movement as casual as if he were merely adjusting its position.
Yet the coldness in those eyes spread through the air, making the warmth in the palace seem to drop by several degrees.
Bluebeard's throat tightened, and the rebuke that had just surged to his lips suddenly got stuck.
He suddenly felt that the green in this Boy's eyes was more dangerous than any poison he had ever seen.
"Bluebeard?"
The Boy's voice was very light, as flat as if he were talking about the snow outside, yet the three words were like three pebbles thrown into the chaotic palace, causing all the screams and cries to pause for a beat.
Bluebeard's hand on the sword hilt suddenly tightened, his knuckles turning white as he roared: "I am! You..."
Just as the word "You" left his mouth, he suddenly felt a blur before his eyes.
The Bald Strong Man who had been standing behind the Boy just now appeared before him with a "whoosh," like a bolt of black lightning!
His speed was absurdly fast, the resulting gust of wind overturning the nearby solid gold candlestick.
The flame leaped up half a foot high, licking the velvet carpet twice before being forcefully snuffed out by the airflow he carried, leaving only a wisp of acrid blue smoke.
Bluebeard didn't even see how the opponent had made his move.
He only felt a burst of dazzling red before his eyes—not the warm glow of candlelight, not the shimmering light of the gems on his crown, but a thick, scalding light of blood.
His consciousness became blurred in that instant; his ears seemed to hear the "crack" of his own cervical vertebrae shattering, or perhaps he heard the heart-wrenching cries of the servants.
He wanted to raise his sword to resist, but a heart-wrenching pain came from his neck, as if a mountain had pressed down; the scene before his eyes began to spin and fade.
The last thing he saw was the Bald Strong Man withdrawing a hand as large as a palm-leaf fan, the blood droplets dripping from between his fingers hitting his proud deep blue full beard, like strange and enchanting red roses blooming among dark seaweed.
"Thud—!"
After a dull sound came the "thump" of a heavy object hitting the ground.
Bluebeard's head rolled onto the floor, his deep blue full beard stained with warm blood, his eyes still wide open, his pupils reflecting the crystal chandelier on the palace ceiling, seemingly not yet understanding what had happened.
His body swayed like a severed tree trunk and collapsed onto the gilded throne with a "boom," blood gushing from his neck like a red snake, quickly staining his luxurious silk lapel, flowing over his gem-encrusted belt, and soaking the white fox fur spread on the throne.
It turned that chair, which symbolized the highest power of the Anvil Kingdom, into a shocking patch of red.
Like a belated firework exploding in the center of the palace—brief, yet carrying a destructive brilliance.
"He... Help!"
"His Majesty the King! His Majesty the King is dead!"
After the dead silence, even more frantic screams and cries instantly drowned the entire palace.
Some tried to run out, but their legs were as soft as noodles; they had just stood up when they fell with a "thud," their knees hitting the floor so hard that tears flowed from the pain.
Some covered their mouths tightly, their nails digging into their flesh, tears and snot covering their faces, their throats making "he-he" gasping sounds, unable to even utter a complete cry for help.
Gwof looked at the head rolling on the floor, then at the headless corpse slumped on the throne, his face expressionless, his green eyes still calm and rippleless.
Little Bottle flexed his wrists, his knuckles making "crack-crack" sounds, his face filled with uncontrollable excitement.
He kicked the head on the ground; the furry blue beard brushed against his sole, making him frown in disgust.
"This old guy's beard is really prickly; it's more disgusting than the moss I stepped on in the swamp last time."
Outside the palace, the snow was still falling; fine snowflakes drifted in through the shattered window, landing on Bluebeard's gradually cooling corpse and melting into water droplets that flowed slowly with the blood.
They also landed on Gwof's wide-brimmed hat, accumulating into a thin layer of white.
In the distant capital, the lights were still sparse.
Those people huddled in cold houses would not know that the tyrant who had terrified them for over a decade, ruling this land with an iron fist and bloodshed, had become a headless corpse that still held a trace of warmth.
Gwof's gaze swept over those shivering servants and landed on the crown that had rolled off the throne.
The gems still sparkled under the candlelight, but they would never again reflect the face of that Bluebeard King.
Outside the palace, the snow continued to fall.