When Little Bottle followed the group of servants and actors, who had regained their spirits, out of the palace,
Gwof was standing by the broken window lattice, his fingertip unconsciously tracing the window frame where glass shards remained.
The wind and snow swept their figures toward the palace gate. Before leaving, Little Bottle specifically turned back and shouted roughly at him, "Master, rest assured!"
His voice was so loud it shook the accumulated snow off the eaves, making it rustle down, adding a touch of liveliness to the dead silence of the palace.
Gwof turned away from the window, his leather boots making a "sticky" faint sound as they stepped over the still-liquid bloodstains on the floor.
He pushed open the heavy palace door.
The wind and snow immediately surged in as if finding a gap, swirling fine snowflakes onto his face, bringing a knife-like chill, yet it cleared the post-killing chaos in his mind somewhat—like being doused with ice water, a bone-chilling sobriety.
Perhaps it was the lingering excitement in his blood after a satisfying slaughter, but despite traveling all day, he felt no fatigue at all.
So he simply took a walk in the snowy night, letting the snowflakes fall on his hair and shoulders, sliding through the gaps in his cloak and into his collar. The icy touch against his neck skin was like countless tiny ice crystals leaping, stirring a subtle shiver.
The night was deep, like spilled ink, too thick to dissolve.
Other than the wind whistling through the palace eaves, sounding like someone weeping softly in the dark, no other sounds could be heard.
Occasionally, a bright light shone through the windows of a few palace halls—likely the palace staff who hadn't managed to escape cleaning up the aftermath—but that light was quickly swallowed by the wind and snow, leaving only a fleeting bright spot on the ground, which only emphasized the surrounding deep silence, like a bottomless well.
Gwof stepped on the thick accumulated snow, his feet making a light "crunching" sound, which was exceptionally clear in the deathly silence.
He walked aimlessly, passing through corridors hung with icicles—the icicles were finger-length, crystal clear, looking like strings of crystal daggers hung on the pillars;
He walked past gardens piled high with snow, where the rockeries were covered roundly by snow, resembling gigantic beasts curled up asleep;
Many statues of Bluebeard stood by the roadside. Some held swords pointing straight up at the sky, as if flaunting the glory of conquest;
Others rode tall, magnificent horses, their manes flying, fully displaying "heroic spirit."
But now they were all draped in white by the snow, looking instead like they were wrapped in shrouds, revealing a sense of comical sorrow.
Moonlight occasionally leaked through the cloud gaps, coating the snow with a faint silver sheen and illuminating his green eyes.
That green appeared exceptionally deep in the snowlight, like two clusters of eerie flames hidden deep within a thick forest, burning quietly without reflecting much emotion.
Cold wind filled his lungs. Gwof stopped, tilted his head slightly, and exhaled a puff of white mist.
The ball of white mist dispersed before his eyes, then was shredded by the howling wind and snow.
His thoughts settled down—no longer the heat from killing Bluebeard moments ago, nor the indifference he felt toward the sycophants, but rather an empty, quiet peace.
He suddenly recalled the past, when he first met Groot, and the story Groot told about The Statue.
He said—
"The people of the capital loved him very much. They saved money for a long time and built a huge statue for him, standing right in the center of the Square. He held a mighty sword and smiled so gently."
Later, he also heard David speak about it.
David's eyes were full of admiration: "The Statue was truly well-carved. The stonemason carved The First Prince's gentleness right into the stone.
I heard that on the day it was finished, the entire city came to see it, crying and laughing, making it livelier than a festival."
Later, when he met residents of the Anvil Kingdom, whether it was the Old Woman selling flowers or the old artisan repairing shoes, their tone always carried a hint of careful nostalgia when mentioning The Statue
They said it was the only thing in the capital that still radiated warmth—especially during the years of Bluebeard's rule. The Statue was like a cherished memory, making them feel that no matter how difficult life was, there was always a gentle hope.
Gwof looked up at the flying snow. Snowflakes landed on his eyelashes, quickly melting into tiny droplets that slid down the corners of his eyes, feeling cool, like silent tears.
Since there was nothing to do now, and Little Bottle had three days to cause trouble, he might as well go see The Statue.
He oriented himself and walked toward the Square described by the residents in his memory.
The snow underfoot grew thicker, reaching his ankles. Every step required effort to pull out, and his leather boots sank into the snow with a soft "squish."
The wind whipped snow spray onto his face, stinging slightly, but making him feel even more awake.
The moonlight had completely hidden behind the clouds, leaving only vast white snow between heaven and earth; even the outlines of the distant palaces were blurred.
Gwof's figure moved across the snow, like a lonely black dot, gently enveloped by the boundless white—it was gentle because the snow was very quiet, disturbed by nothing but the sound of the wind;
It was lonely because, looking around, there wasn't even the shadow of a flying bird.
He knew The Statue was still there—the residents' tone contained certainty, unlike speaking of something that had vanished.
But how much was left? Had Bluebeard smashed its arm, splashed it with black ink, or was it deliberately forgotten in a corner, covered thick with dust and snow?
He wasn't sure.
After all, a tyrant like Bluebeard could least tolerate relics left by the previous dynasty, especially such gentle memories cherished by the common people.
Yet, he inexplicably felt in his heart that it must still be gentle—even if the sword was broken, even if its face was dusty, the smile carved into the stone must still be there.
Gwof's leather boots were stuck in the snow, each step accompanied by a muffled "crunch."
The wind and snow whipped snow spray onto his face. He raised a hand to wipe his face, and just as he was about to continue forward, his peripheral vision caught a blurry figure standing in the distant snow.
The figure was hunched over, wrapped in a faded, thick cotton jacket, resembling a withered old tree branch between the vast expanse of white earth and sky.
Gwof frowned and quickened his steps to approach—it was an Old Woman, her hair as white as if covered in snow, her facial wrinkles deep enough to hold snowflakes. She leaned on a smooth wooden staff, the tip of which was still coated with ice chips.
"Old Woman," Gwof stopped, lowering his voice slightly, "The snow is so heavy, and it's so dark. Why aren't you home resting?"
The Old Woman slowly raised her head. Her cloudy eyes brightened slightly in the snowlight, and she suddenly laughed, causing the snowflakes in her wrinkles to rustle down: "Home? My home was buried by the snow long ago."
Her voice rustled like dry leaves scraped by the wind, yet carried an inexplicable warmth.
"Young man, you walk forward, and you will come to a crossroads. When you do, take the left path."
Gwof was bewildered.
Left? Where does the left path lead?
Just as he was about to ask again, his vision suddenly wavered, as if blinded by the snow glare.
He focused his eyes again—the snowfield was empty. Only his own footsteps trailed forward. Where the Old Woman had just stood, there was only a shallow snow depression, as if no one had ever been there.
...
A sudden chill shot up the back of Gwof's neck, colder than the wind and snow.
He subconsciously took half a step back, looked down at the snow depression, then looked up at the vast snowy expanse—where was the person? That wasn't an illusion, was it? The marks where the wooden staff had rested were still there, and the instruction "take the left path" still echoed in his ears.
This Fairy Tale World... isn't a horror movie, is it?
He squeezed his fingers; his fingertips were stiff.
The more he thought about it, the stranger it felt. Gwof gritted his teeth and simply sped up his pace, forging ahead.
Whether she was human or ghost, he would go see The Statue in the Square first.
However, he hadn't walked far before another figure emerged in the snow.
This time it was an old man, wearing an ill-fitting black raincoat, the hood pulled low, obscuring most of his face. He carried a wicker basket covered with a blue cloth, slowly shuffling step by step through the snow. Each step sank deeply, yet made no sound at all.
Gwof's heart skipped a beat, and he subconsciously stopped walking.
The old man also stopped, slowly raised his head, and the eyes revealed beneath the edge of his hood glanced at Gwof.
There was no malice in those eyes, only pure confusion, as if looking at someone who shouldn't be there—as if... as if seeing something strange.
Gwof's scalp instantly prickled.
That gaze... was too wrong.
It wasn't the curiosity of a living person looking at a stranger; rather, it was like looking through a layer of something, empty and utterly devoid of warmth.
Did I just run into a ghost?
The moment this thought arose, a chill ran down Gwof's spine.
After all, ghosts definitely exist in the Fairy Tale World.
!
The old man didn't speak. He just looked at him, then continued walking slowly forward, carrying the basket. The black raincoat dragged a strange trail in the snow, like a wriggling snake.
Gwof couldn't hold back any longer. His heart hammered against his chest, and he took off running, as if wind had sprung beneath his feet.
The leather boots made a muffled "thump-thump" sound as they stepped on the snow, startling the accumulated snow on the branches into rustling down.
He didn't dare to look back or around him, his mind filled with only one thought:
Hurry to the Square, hurry to see The Statue—at least The Statue wouldn't suddenly vanish or look at him with that kind of gaze.
The wind and snow howled in his ears, as if countless voices were chasing him.
Gwof's green eyes shone startlingly bright in the darkness, carrying a hint of panic, but more so a stubborn refusal to yield—whether you're a ghost or a monster, should I, a dignified Wolf Wizard, be afraid of this?
But the snow under his feet grew deeper, and the wind became fiercer, as if intentionally trying to stop him.
The intersection in the distance was vaguely visible, the snow at the fork in the road swirling in the wind like an indistinct vortex.
Left... or right?
The Old Woman's words suddenly echoed in his ears again. Gwof paused, looking at the pitch-black intersection, and a tide of unease surged in his heart.
He stood at the intersection, the wind and snow whipping snow spray around his feet, like countless icy hands pulling at his trouser cuffs.
The path on the left was hidden in deeper darkness; the snow was being swept by the wind almost into a straight line, making the end invisible.
On the right, he could vaguely see a few faint yellow lights, as if houses had their lamps lit.
The Old Woman's phrase, "Go left," was still turning over in his ears, carrying a strange echo.
Gwof gritted his teeth, but ultimately lifted his foot and stepped onto the snowy path on the left.
Since he had already run into the vanishing old person and the strange old man in a raincoat, what stranger things could happen if he continued forward?
Besides, I, Gwof, haven't done anything bad so far, right? The Fairy Tale Will wouldn't harm me like this.
The path on the left was harder to walk than he imagined; the accumulated snow reached his calves, making every step feel like pulling up a radish.
The wind was also fiercer, as if trying to knock him over, stinging his cheeks painfully.
Gwof pulled his hat down lower, revealing only a pair of green eyes that warily scanned the surroundings in the darkness.
Not long after, in a lull in the wind and snow, Gwof suddenly glimpsed a small, dark shadow lying in the snow ahead.
The shadow was huddled beneath a restaurant, mostly buried by half a foot of accumulated snow. If not for the warm light slanting out from the restaurant window, making the snow reflective, it would have been impossible to tell it was a living person.
Gwof slowed his steps, the sound of his leather boots on the snow much softer, as if fearing to disturb something.
Only upon getting closer did he see clearly—it was a Little Girl, looking no older than ten, wearing only a thin, summer cotton dress.
The dress was originally light blue, but now it had been weathered gray by the wind and snow. The hem was torn in several large gaps, revealing the equally tattered petticoat underneath, which didn't even cover her knees.
Her left foot was encased in an oversized cloth shoe, the upper so worn down that the fabric was barely visible, with only a few loose hemp ropes holding the sole together.
Her right foot, however, was bare. The small foot was red and swollen from the cold, like a frostbitten radish. Every step she took in the snow was like moving on the tips of knives.
Her exposed arms and lower legs were even more distressing.
Her slender arms were covered in chilblains, red and purple patches. Some had already broken the skin and formed dark red scabs. When the cold wind blew, the pain likely permeated even her bones.
Her calves were covered in dirty snow, frozen stiff. Bluish-purple veins were clearly visible beneath the pale skin, like thin icicles, making her lower legs look more fragile than winter's dead branches, as if they would snap with a slight touch.
She was curled up, her head buried deep in her knees. Her slender shoulders were narrow enough to be grasped by one hand, making her look like a kitten drenched by a downpour, almost devoid of the strength to even shiver.
Her light golden hair was covered in snow, which had formed into tiny ice granules, like scattered crushed diamonds.
Her eyelashes were coated with white frost, and every time they fluttered, tiny ice crystals rustled down. Clearly, she had been sitting stiffly here for a long time, long enough for her body temperature to be thoroughly chilled.
Scattered around her feet were several thin matches. A few had burned out, leaving only charred sticks of wood.
Two others were broken in half, their flames flickering weakly, casting a hint of warmth onto her frost-white fingertips, yet unable to melt even half an inch of the surrounding snow.
The restaurant she was leaning against, however, shone brightly, like a piece of honey just pulled from a jar.
Behind the glass window, polished brass racks were hung with glistening roasted geese and ducks. Their skins were roasted crispy, radiating an inviting golden red, and thick meat juices dripped down the seams of the skin, collecting in small pools of grease on the white porcelain plates.
Even through the glass, Gwof could smell the aroma of rosemary, butter, and charcoal mixed together. The heat steamed against the window, forming a thick layer of white condensation, making the figures inside, raising their cups in toasts, appear blurry yet warm.
The Little Girl remained motionless, only her frail shoulders trembling slightly. It was impossible to tell if she was shaking from the cold or crying silently.
Gwof walked half a step in front of her and realized her eyes were fixed on the window—specifically, on the roasted goose hanging in the most prominent spot. The ice flowers on her eyelashes reflected the firelight inside the window, twinkling brightly.
When he approached, her eyelashes suddenly fluttered, but she still didn't look up, as if the aroma and warmth inside the glass window were the only piece of driftwood she could grasp in this endless cold night; even just looking at it allowed her to hold on for a moment longer.
Gwof stood a few steps away, looking at the tiny figure that was almost being swallowed by the wind and snow, then turned his head to glance at the steaming food inside the window.
The fear he felt from encountering the strange people suddenly dissipated.
He remembered this scene. The Little Match Girl, a story from a fairy tale book.
No wonder that Old Woman had suddenly appeared and then suddenly vanished.
That was probably the Little Girl's grandmother, unable to rest easy in the other world, who used the wind and snow to guide someone to help the child.
As for the old man in the black raincoat... Gwof recalled those empty eyes and vaguely found an answer in his heart.
Perhaps it was the God of Death, carrying a basket, slowly waiting in the snow for this last spark of fire to extinguish so he could take the child away.
The wind picked up again, fiercer than before, whipping snow spray against his face like scattered salt, stinging painfully.
Gwof bent down, avoiding the oncoming wind and snow, and picked up the match still burning by the Little Girl's feet.
The flame flickered on and off at his fingertips. The tiny light reflected in his green eyes, and also on the charred matchsticks near the girl's feet—the hopes she had just lit and extinguished.
He straightened up and looked at the girl's small, purple face. Her cheeks, which should have been rosy, now looked like a frozen, cracked apple. Her lips were pressed tightly together, completely drained of color.
Gwof lowered his voice, softer than he had been with the Old Woman who suddenly vanished, as if afraid of startling a fragile snowflake.
"Hey, wake up."
An ice particle on the Little Girl's eyelash dropped off with a "patta" sound, shattering into smaller ice crystals on the frozen hard snow.
She finally raised her head slowly, a faint "creak" sound accompanying the movement of her neck, as if her joints were frozen stiff.
Her eyes were astonishingly large, taking up most of her small face, blue like a frozen lake surface, glazed over and blank, without any focus.
Only when she clearly saw the flame flickering between Gwof's fingers, and the hand he was offering, did she blink. A faint light slowly surfaced in her eyes—the light was weak, like a dying ember caught by the wind, suddenly brightening by half a degree, yet enough to reflect the contours of his face.
Gwof's heart softened. He raised his hand and drew a circle in the air in front of him.
A faint green light flashed, and a bottle of steaming syrup appeared out of thin air in his palm. Fine droplets of water condensed on the bottle wall; it was warm and capable of dispelling the bone-chilling cold.
"Here you go."
He handed over the syrup. The cap was already unscrewed, and the sweet aroma mixed with warmth wafted out, circled in the wind and snow, and entered the girl's nostrils.
However, no sooner had he spoken than a gust of whirlwind, emerging from nowhere, suddenly swooped over, carrying snow spray, and "whoosh" it lifted the wide-brimmed hat off Gwof's head.
The hat spun in the air and landed in the snow far away, revealing the secret hidden beneath the brim—two tufts of grayish-black wolf ears, fluffy and soft. Blown by the wind and snow, they trembled slightly, with a snowflake clinging to the tip of one.
The Little Girl's eyes suddenly widened, and the shadow of the wolf ears was clearly reflected in her pupils.
She opened her mouth, her chapped lips moving. After a long moment, she squeezed out a sound so faint it was like a sigh, her breath barely audible:
"Doggy..."