Under the financial onslaught of Gwof producing "gold" one after another, the efficiency of the Silk Shop owner was like a wound-up clock, fast enough to make one's head spin.
He personally directed the shop assistants; the measuring ruler flew like a butterfly, the scissors cut with a sharp "click," and the needle and thread for the hems moved faster than a shooting star.
The ready-made clothes, which originally would have taken three days to collect, were ironed flat in less than four hours, folded into neat little piles, wrapped in moisture-proof oil paper, and tied into bundles with red string, looking very pleasing to the eye.
The black coarse cloth coat Gwof ordered had stitches as dense as a line of ants, with extra layers of wear-resistant patches added to the cuffs and collar;
Little Bottle's fine-check short jacket had a clean-cut hem to make it easier for him to kick and fight, and the owner had specially sewn thick leather patches onto the elbows;
For Ben's clothes, the owner found a piece of thick dark brown canvas and made a hooded vest, saying it could block the wind and hold things.
Gwof, Little Bottle, and Ben stood nearby watching, without any particular expression—they probably didn't care much for clothes.
Liya and Lettuce, however, were as excited as two little birds just released from a cage.
Liya held her pink embroidered rabbit dress, the hem shimmering softly in the sunlight. The three rabbits were embroidered vividly: the one eating grass had drooping ears, the jumping one had its front paws in the air, and the smiling one had its mouth stretched to its ears. She looked at it over and over, muttering, "I'm going to wear it tomorrow."
Lettuce's light blue plain dress was folded neatly. She gently touched the fabric; the cool, smooth sensation was like water flowing over her fingertips. The blush on her face hadn't faded, and her eyes were as bright as starlight.
It was likely the natural longing girls have for beautiful clothes that made them cast their previous shyness to the back of their minds.
Soon, all the clothes were properly packed.
The assistants used thick hemp rope to tie the neatly folded clothes into several large bundles, wrapped them in moisture-proof oilcloth, and attached wooden tags with names on them. Piled on the ground like a bulging small mountain, they almost reached the crossbeams of the Silk Shop.
The sunlight shone through the window frames onto the oilcloth, casting shadows on the folds of the fabric; it looked so heavy that one wouldn't be able to move it.
Seeing this, the owner quickly called over a dozen sturdy assistants from the back hall. They had their sleeves rolled up, and the muscles on their arms were bulging—clearly, they were used to hard labor.
"Come, lend a hand and carry these out for the guests!" the owner said with a smile, rubbing his hands together.
But Gwof waved his hand. His gaze moved past the pile of bundles, and he gestured with his chin toward Little Bottle standing in the corner. His tone was as flat as if he were saying the weather was nice today: "These are all yours to carry."
When Ben heard this from the side, he immediately frowned, and his voice involuntarily rose: "Can he manage?"
As he spoke, he deliberately took half a step back, sizing up the pile of bundles—the bottom one was probably half a person's height, the oilcloth stretched tight, with white marks worn into the corners.
"This pile of things looks bigger than that small woodshed across the street. It must weigh a thousand pounds, right?"
To prove his judgment, he even reached out his hand and gave the top bundle a hard push. As a result, the bundle didn't budge an inch; instead, the impact made his palm go numb.
Ben felt even more doubtful: although Little Bottle looked strong, with this weight, even three oxen would struggle to pull it. How could he possibly carry it alone?
Little Bottle didn't respond, merely walking silently to the pile of bundles.
He first crouched down, his fingers fumbling twice with the knots on the bottom bundle, seemingly looking for a point of leverage.
Then he took a deep breath, his chest rising slightly. His originally loose coarse cloth short jacket tightened, revealing the clear outlines of his shoulder blades.
Before anyone could see how he exerted himself, they only heard a soft "hup!"
That "bundle mountain" that looked impossible to move was actually lifted steadily by him. When it was half a foot off the ground, he gave his wrist a light flick and used the momentum to swing it onto his back—the movement was as fluid as picking up a bundle of freshly cut straw, without even a frown.
When he straightened his back, his entire person was covered by the pile of bundles, with only two feet visible moving underneath, like a walking mountain.
Yet his face didn't even show a hint of redness, not a bead of sweat appeared on his forehead, and he even freed up one hand to pat the bag on his back, confirming it was tied securely.
Then he turned his head and grinned at Ben, revealing a mouth full of sharp teeth. That relaxed appearance made it look as if he were carrying an empty basket with at most two wild fruits inside.
"Oh my..." Ben was so shocked his eyes almost popped out. He subconsciously rubbed his eyes and blinked hard twice, wondering if he had eaten too many sweets earlier and was having hallucinations.
He opened his mouth to say something, but for a long time, not a word came out, finally turning into a sharp intake of breath.
Passersby at the entrance of the Silk Shop were also stunned by this sight and stopped in their tracks.
An Old Woman carrying a vegetable basket didn't even notice when the eggplants in her basket rolled onto the ground. She gaped, and after a long while, she tapped her cane on the ground and murmured,
"This... was this person raised on a diet of iron? With such strength, he could probably carry the city gates!"
A girl nearby wearing a blue cloth dress was fanning herself with a handkerchief; now the handkerchief stopped in mid-air as she covered her mouth, her eyes wide as if she had seen some rare treasure.
"He's even more powerful than the strongman in town! Last month, that strongman was huffing and puffing just carrying two bags of rice. What he's carrying on his back must be more than ten bags, right?"
The sounds of discussion surged over like a rising tide.
Exclamations of "Strongman," "Incredible," and "Could he be a god?" rose one after another.
A candy vendor simply left his stall and crowded over to watch the spectacle, even fishing out two copper coins from his purse and thrusting them into Little Bottle's hand.
"Take them, take them, buy some candy! It's worth it just to see such a marvel!"
Little Bottle was a bit embarrassed by this commotion, the tips of his ears turning as red as rouge. However, he still carried the bundles steadily, didn't take the copper coins, and only nodded slightly, following behind Gwof as they walked out.
His steps were steady and fast. Every step he took on the stone road was as light as a leaf falling to the ground; not even the moss on the ground was trampled, let alone leaving any indentations.
Ben followed behind, his eyes still fixed on the bundles on Little Bottle's back. The pile of things swayed gently with Little Bottle's pace, the oilcloth making a soft "rustling" sound that sounded terrifyingly heavy.
He clicked his tongue in wonder, and every few steps he couldn't help but reach out his arm to nudge Gwof's side with his elbow, his voice full of uncontrollable curiosity.
"He... where did this strength come from? Could it be he ate some Strength Pill? Last time I saw the big guy at the blacksmith shop huffing while carrying half a bag of iron sand, but what he's carrying could probably crush an ox!"
Gwof looked back at Little Bottle, who was covered by the bundles. The sun was intense, casting a huge shadow over the pile of bundles like a dark curtain, pressing Little Bottle's shadow short, leaving only two feet moving at the edge of the darkness.
The corners of his mouth curled up, and his voice dropped lower, carrying a hint of mystery that only the two of them could understand.
"He is no ordinary person."
As for how he was extraordinary, he didn't elaborate.
He couldn't exactly tell Ben that Little Bottle's true form was a devil from the depths of the forest, could he?
That fellow usually looked a bit dim-witted, but if he truly got angry, he could turn an entire mountain upside down.
If such a thing were said in public, the people of Clothes Country would probably move out of the city overnight. It was safer to keep it hidden.
Gwof simply quickened his pace, his boot soles making a "tap-tap" sound on the stone slabs.
The sunlight stretched their shadows very long, as if they had been drawn with an ink brush.
The "bundle mountain" on Little Bottle's back cast a massive shadow on the ground, like a moving small house, slowly shifting with their steps, occasionally brushing against the flowers and grass by the road, startling butterflies into flight.
Liya followed along, skipping and hopping. She held a pink scrap of fabric that had fallen from the bundles, the corner still decorated with a golden-thread embroidered rabbit ear.
From time to time, she looked up and shouted toward the pile of bundles where the person was almost invisible:
"Little Bottle, are you tired? If you're tired, take a break! I have candy here; having one will give you strength!"
After shouting, she was afraid Little Bottle couldn't hear, so she ran to the side of the bundles and pressed her face against the oilcloth. Her voice passed through the fabric, sounding muffled like it was separated by a layer of cotton.
Lettuce's steps were very light, her hem sweeping across the ground with almost no sound.
Her gaze occasionally fell on Little Bottle's back, which was obscured by the bundles, her eyes carrying a hint of the initial surprise—after all, no one would have thought this bald man possessed such staggering strength.
But mostly there was a sense of security, as if as long as Little Bottle was there, no matter how heavy the burden, it wouldn't crush this team. Even her steps became a bit lighter.
The exclamations from around them continued.
An old man at the street corner, leaning on a carved wooden staff, watched Little Bottle's back as he moved steadily with the "bundle mountain." He couldn't help but stroke his white beard and shake his head, his voice as loud as a brass gong.
"Tsk tsk tsk, this young fellow must be a natural-born strongman! Looking at that frame and that strength, he could probably compare with the warrior who once carried the city gates!"
The "warrior of old" he spoke of was a legend that had circulated in Clothes Country for a hundred years, said to be able to lift a thousand-pound stone with one hand. Comparing Little Bottle to him now, the admiration in his eyes couldn't be hidden.
Several half-grown children nearby, the oldest no more than ten and the youngest barely waist-high, all ran barefoot after Little Bottle with great enthusiasm.
They imitated Little Bottle's posture, bending their backs and holding their breath, putting their hands behind them and stiffening their necks as they walked, shouting in their childish voices,
"Strongman big brother! Wait for us!"
As a result, one chubby kid lost his balance and fell forward with an "Ouch," nearly straining his back, drawing a burst of laughter from his companions.
He also rubbed his lower back, grimacing as he caught up, but his eyes were still fixed on the bundles on Little Bottle's back, full of worship.
In the crowd, there was even a red-faced man with a coarse cloth jacket draped over his shoulder, his voice even louder than the old man's. He clenched his fist and slapped his thigh.
"Such a rare talent must be made known to the King! Quick, go tell the King! Our capital has produced a strongman ten times more powerful than those Knights in ceremonial dress! He's sure to get a heavy reward, maybe even be dubbed a 'Knight'!"
He was about to run toward the palace when someone pulled him back. He stopped but still craned his neck and shouted, for fear others wouldn't hear.
But as they walked, the steps of those following for the spectacle seemed to become heavy as lead, gradually slowing down.
Because people realized belatedly that the path under their feet was unconsciously drawing closer to the Witch.
The lively discussions from a moment ago were cut off as if by an invisible pair of scissors, coming to an abrupt halt, gradually fading until only a few hesitant coughs remained.
A few timid women, holding children in their arms, quietly backed away a few steps, their eyes darting away from the Witch's direction, muttering "it's time to go home and cook."
The red-faced man who said he would report the news also stopped awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. His heroic ambition from a moment ago had vanished without a trace, an embarrassed smile squeezed onto his face as he turned to duck into a nearby tavern, muttering, "Let's have a drink first."
After all, in this Clothes Country, everyone knew how powerful the Witch was.
The legends about her were more numerous than the King's fine robes—some said they saw her turn the Silk Shop's brocade into venomous snakes with flicking tongues, scaring the owner into a faint on the spot;
Some said she could use embroidery needles to cast spells, making the needles grow sharp teeth to prick anyone who spoke ill of her;
Even more, some said that the last time the King wanted her to embroider a "Number One Under Heaven" pattern for a new robe, she only gave him a cold glance, and the King obediently changed the pattern, not even daring to breathe loudly.
With such a figure, who dared to act up in her presence?
Crowding toward her to watch a spectacle made one's neck feel cold, as if a chilly wind were blowing.
After a while longer, the crowd slowly dispersed like a receding tide.
The beard-stroking old man sighed, leaned on his cane, and turned into an alley, his back hunched as he muttered, "It's still more peaceful at home."
The children who had been running along were grabbed by their parents. Some were still struggling and shouting "Strongman," but their mouths were covered by the adults as they were quickly dragged home.
Even the candy vendor who had been the most excited earlier turned into another street with his shoulder pole, as if saying goodbye to this excitement.
The street that had been packed three layers deep just moments ago was empty in the blink of an eye, leaving only discarded candy wrappers and a few fallen leaves swirling in the wind.
The footsteps of Gwof and his group echoed softly in the sunlight, "tap-tap, tap-tap," the friction between the soles and the stone slabs clearly audible.
Little Bottle seemed to finally breathe a sigh of relief, his shoulders under the bundles moving slightly as if he had unloaded a thousand-pound weight—not because he was tired, but because being stared at by so many people made him feel uneasy.
He buried his head a bit deeper into the bundles, but his ears were pricked, listening to the surrounding movements.
Liya was the cleverest; she leaned close to the bundles and pressed her ear against the oilcloth, hearing a muffled voice from inside, carrying a hint of uncertainty.
"Just now... did they say they were going to tell the King?"
Gwof looked back and smiled, the sunlight falling on his face, reflecting a bit of ease: "Don't mind them."
He paused, his voice becoming clearer, "We are going to meet up with the Witch now, and then we will leave this country."
Little Bottle gave an "oh" from inside the bundles, his shoulders completely relaxing, and his steps became a bit lighter.