The candle flames in the main hall flickered in the draft, casting a wavering glow on the mottled carpet, yet they could not dispel the thick scent of blood.
The smell mingled with melting snow, spilled ale, and candle wax, fermenting in the warm air with a nauseatingly sweet cloyness.
The actors and servants were huddled together like sardines on a patch of carpet in the center of the hall that hadn't yet been soaked in blood; their knees sank into the soft pile, but they felt no warmth at all.
Some still had sulfur powder on their costumes from playing the 'Evil Dragon,' which now mixed with blood splatters to form a bizarre orange-red color.
The servants in their ornate silks fared even worse; the wine stains on their skirts spread like dark clouds, and the splattered blood droplets looked like ugly patches, making them appear more disheveled than beggars in a slum.
Everyone kept their heads down, shoulders hunched high as if they could hide themselves that way, keeping their breaths light and shallow for fear that a heavy gasp might invite a lethal blow.
On the throne, Gwof leaned casually against the gilded armrest, his posture as relaxed as if he were sunbathing on his own doorstep.
The intricate carvings on the gilded chair's armrest dug into his arm, making it ache, so he simply shifted positions, crossing one leg over the other, his fingertips unconsciously tapping a soft rhythm on the seat.
The white fox fur covering the seat had a smooth luster, made from the pelts of over a dozen white foxes; it felt soft enough to sink into, but the extravagant, musky scent rising from it made him furrow his brows.
Being a king? He hadn't even considered it.
Listening to a group of people lie through their teeth every day and then reviewing memorials filled with nonsense—just imagining the scene made his temples throb.
He sat here only because the position was high enough to see the dancing snowflakes through the broken window panes and to temporarily escape Little Bottle's noisy chattering for a breather.
Little Bottle stood beside the throne like an iron tower, the sword of Bluebeard in his hand whistling as he spun it.
The blade gleamed with a cold light, reflecting on the scar on his face and making it flicker, adding to his fierce and malevolent aura.
From time to time, he glanced sideways at the group huddled on the floor, letting out low growls from his throat like a fierce dog guarding a chicken coop; if anyone so much as moved, his gaze would instantly become as sharp as a poisoned blade.
It wasn't that these people hadn't thought of running.
When Gwof and Little Bottle had first crashed through the windows, the hall was in total chaos; three servants had crouched low and slipped toward the main doors, their hands moving quickly to pull the bolts.
The actor playing the 'Herald' was even cleverer; taking advantage of his light clothing, he had already pulled back the bolt of the hall door and stepped one foot over the threshold, seemingly about to escape into the wind and snow.
But they had only run two steps before they heard the 'whoosh' of breaking wind behind them.
Little Bottle's massive frame moved like a bolt of black lightning, catching up in a flash; his hands, as large as palm-leaf fans, grabbed the three servants like they were chicks, while his other hand reached out and yanked the 'Herald' back, causing him to stumble.
Finding the door bolt in his way, he actually grabbed the arm-thick iron bolt with his bare hands and twisted it into a pretzel with a series of creaks before tossing it onto the floor with a loud 'clang' that made the floor tiles tremble.
After being caught the first time, there were still those in the crowd who hadn't given up hope.
A fat servant in a brocade vest, who usually threw his weight around in the kingdom by relying on Bluebeard's power, was now crying like a child, his face smeared with snot and tears as he knelt trembling on the ground, begging for mercy.
"My... my lord, spare me! I have a three-year-old grandson at home waiting to be fed, please have mercy..."
As he spoke, he secretly glanced toward the side door out of the corner of his eye; taking advantage of the moment Little Bottle was distracted looking at Gwof, he suddenly rolled away like a ball and scrambled toward the side entrance.
This time, Little Bottle didn't move to catch him, only letting out a cold snort from his throat.
His massive silhouette, like a moving mountain, pursued him slowly; the moment the fat servant's hand was about to touch the side door's knocker, a palm the size of a fan pressed lightly onto his back.
"Crack—!"
A crisp snap, like a dry branch being stepped on in midwinter, echoed clearly throughout the hall.
The fat servant lunged forward half a step before his body suddenly went limp, his limbs twisting at bizarre angles.
He didn't even have time to let out a groan before dark red blood foam spilled from the corner of his mouth, blooming into a strangely shaped flower on the carpet, much like the poppies painted by court artists.
After this, everyone became completely submissive.
The actors, who had been secretly exchanging glances and gesturing escape routes, now buried their heads even lower; the chicken feathers on their costumes were soaked with sweat, clinging limply to their bodies, stripped of the bravado they had during the performance.
The servants didn't dare move a finger or even take a loud breath, fearing their breathing might draw the attention of that bald giant.
Thoughts of escape were like flames extinguished by heavy snow, without even a spark remaining; only a bone-deep fear remained, like invisible chains pinning their knees to the floor, leaving them to wait for the judgment that would fall at an unknown time.
Gwof looked at the people on the floor and then looked up at the snow falling harder outside; the snowflakes had woven into a vast white net, covering the palace roof completely.
He suddenly felt a bit bored, let out a yawn, and stood up from the throne.
The draft created as he rose stirred the white fox fur on the seat, the edges of the fur brushing lightly against his trouser leg.
"All of you, stand up."
His voice was very light, like a snowflake falling on the ground, yet it made the kneeling people shudder violently as if they had heard some terrifying command.
No one dared move; one timid servant's legs even gave way, and he collapsed onto the floor, his face pale and lips trembling, unable to speak a word for a long time, clearly thinking this was the signal for execution.
Little Bottle impatiently raised his foot and lightly kicked the backside of the actor playing the 'King' nearby.
"My master told you to stand up, are you deaf?"
The actor let out a yelp as if pricked by a needle and scrambled to his feet, his legs shaking like sieves; he was still clutching the broken half of his wooden sword prop, having forgotten to drop it.
Seeing this, the others also rose tremblingly, each with their head bowed, hands nervously interlaced with knuckles turning white.
Gwof walked to the long table where the roast goose was still steaming and the ale in the silver pitcher glowed with an amber light.
He casually picked up a piece of untouched wheat cake; it was baked golden brown with slightly crispy edges, emitting a rich aroma of grain.
He broke off half and handed it to Little Bottle while taking a large bite himself; the scent of butter mixed with wheat filled his mouth, finally suppressing the lingering smell of blood in the air.
The 'crunch' of his teeth breaking the wheat cake sounded exceptionally clear in the overly quiet hall.
Gwof chewed the wheat cake, his gaze sweeping over the trembling figures; he knew exactly what he was doing—he had no intention of killing them all.
Bluebeard was dead; if the Anvil Kingdom truly became a leaderless mess, it would be the common people at the bottom who suffered.
He understood the ways of the Fairy Tale World; light usually follows the fall of an evil king, but the chaos before that light arrives is the most grueling part.
Though these people looked as frightened as quails, none of them were simple characters.
To survive so long under a tyrant like Bluebeard, they were either powerful nobles long tied to the king's ship who had squeezed enough wealth from the people,
Or they were smooth-talkers who knew when to bow their heads to the ground and when to hide their talents like a pebble, yet always managed to find a way to survive at critical moments.
Especially those well-dressed servants; though they looked submissive, which of them didn't hold a few secrets over others?
Who didn't know who held a grudge against whom, or who had hidden away how much gold and silver?
Wheat cake crumbs fell onto the white fox fur like a sprinkling of salt.
Gwof clapped his hands to brush off the crumbs from his fingertips and finally spoke, his voice neither high nor low, yet clearly reaching everyone's ears.
"I intend to purge the remnants of Bluebeard's followers. Are you willing to help?"
The hall instantly became so silent that the 'pop' of a candle wick could be heard.
The flickering firelight cast shifting shadows on their faces; some instinctively pulled their feet back, while others quickly glanced at the fat servant's corpse on the floor, letting out audible gulps.
Help? Help this mysterious man who killed the king the moment he arrived to purge the old faction? Who knew if this man was even more ruthless? What if, after the purge, he turned around and wiped out all of them, the 'remnants of the previous regime'?
Gwof didn't rush them; his fingertips just tapped lightly on the throne's armrest—'thump, thump, thump'—the rhythm as steady as a wooden fish in a temple, yet it made their hearts race as if counting down their remaining moments of life.
A moment later, he suddenly changed the subject, his tone still as flat as if discussing the weather.
"Are you worried about the Soldiers Bluebeard left behind?"
No one dared answer, only a few timid ones shook more violently.
Gwof curled his lips into a faint, inscrutable smile.
"They are already dead; otherwise, they would have charged in by now, wouldn't they?"
This was indeed the truth.
Those Soldiers had relied on the king's power to bully the city's inhabitants; killing them not only removed an obstacle but also served as justice for the people, making future governance much easier.
The atmosphere in the crowd grew even more tense, with the sound of sharp intakes of breath rising here and there.
Even the Soldiers were wiped out? Just what was the background of these two? Were they assassins sent by another country? Or devils from the forest?
The first to react was the actor playing the 'Herald'.
He suddenly dropped to his knees with a loud 'thud,' his knees hitting the carpet with a dull sound that made those nearby flinch.
He forced a smile that looked worse than crying, the dust from his performance still clinging to his wrinkles, his voice shaking uncontrollably.
"My lord! This humble one is willing! I have long harbored deep hatred for that tyrant Bluebeard! Two years ago, he forcibly conscripted my daughter to dance in the palace, and she hasn't been allowed back since. Most likely... most likely..."
He stopped there, deliberately sobbing as he couldn't go on, kowtowing on the floor until his forehead turned bright red.
"Please give this humble one a chance, my lord. I will surely devote myself entirely to your service, whatever it takes!"
With the first person taking the lead, the others seemed to have a switch flipped, dropping to their knees one after another.
"My lord! We are willing to assist unto death!"
"Bluebeard's cousin runs a loan sharking business in the south of the city with interest rates so high they devour people; just last month, a family was forced to sell their child. I know where he hides his cellar of silver!"
"The Tax Collector colluded with the Miller to embezzle enough grain every year to fill three large granaries; I have the ledgers of their dealings, it's all recorded!"
For a moment, the hall was filled with shouts of loyalty; the previous fear was suppressed by the will to survive, as everyone scrambled to clear their names and offer substantial 'tributes' to make this mysterious lord believe in their'sincerity'.
Gwof watched the scene with an expressionless face.
Seeking benefit and avoiding harm was human nature; he had expected this.
"Very well." He raised his hand, palm down in a silencing gesture, and the noisy hall immediately fell quiet.
His gaze fell on the 'Herald' who was still kowtowing and pointed at him: "Then you shall be the general person in charge."
The 'Herald' snapped his head up, a flash of unbelievable ecstasy in his eyes, which was quickly replaced by trepidation as he hurriedly kowtowed.
"Thank you for your trust, my lord! I will certainly not fail your expectations!"
Gwof ignored his excitement and continued: "I give you three days."
"First, identify all of Bluebeard's followers—those parasites who relied on his power to bully others. Whether they are his relatives, friends, or officials who took bribes, do not miss a single one."
"Second, draft new rules. Determine how taxes should be collected fairly, how grain should be distributed justly, and how Soldiers should be managed so they don't harass the people. Do not follow Bluebeard's exploitative methods, and don't think of deceiving me, or else..."
He paused, not finishing the sentence, but the coldness in his eyes made everyone shudder.
Finally, his gaze swept over them, his tone softening slightly: "Rest assured, no one will dare stop you."
As he spoke, he tilted his chin toward Little Bottle.
Little Bottle immediately grinned, revealing a mouth full of sharp teeth, the scar running from his brow to his chin gleaming a menacing white in the candlelight.
He slapped his chest and said in a gruff voice,
"Go ahead and do your work! Anyone who dares to stop you or cause trouble, I'll twist their head off and kick it like a ball! I'll make sure they don't even get a chance to regret it!"
Though these words were extremely crude, they made the kneeling people feel much more secure.
With this fierce god who could snap a Soldier's neck with his bare hands following them, what if Bluebeard's followers had an army? Wouldn't they just die one by one?
Gwof didn't look at them again, simply turning toward the broken window and leaving behind one sentence: "In three days, I want to see results."
"Yes! We obey your command, my lord!"
Everyone responded in unison, their voices finally gaining some confidence, even carrying a hint of excitement at being 'entrusted with a heavy responsibility'.
Especially the 'Herald'; as he lay on the ground, his shoulders trembled slightly, not from fear, but from excitement—he, a bit-part actor, actually had the chance to hold the reins of power for a nation? This was even more bizarre than the plays he performed!