Gwof's calm "Stop" was like an invisible sluice gate, firmly holding the spreading white porridge in place.
The surface of the porridge had a warm luster, its thick texture carrying a faint aroma of rice; at least it hadn't truly flooded the entire town into a sticky, watery world.
Several men with shiny, worn cuffs were the first to gather around, their coarse cloth clothes speckled with porridge stains, some even smeared with a bit of mud.
The leader was a broad-shouldered middle-aged man clutching a wooden spoon with a handle polished smooth and bright from many years of use.
He rubbed his rough palms repeatedly against the corner of his clothes, a hint of embarrassment on his dark face, but his eyes were filled with genuine gratitude.
"Little Mister, it's really thanks to you,"
His voice was loud, carrying the lingering fear of a survivor, and his Adam's Apple bobbed slightly as he spoke.
"With that momentum just now, the porridge almost reached the window sills. A moment later, and my newly repaired house would have been soaked until it collapsed."
Two younger men beside him also nodded, chiming in all at once.
"Exactly! My child was still sleeping in the house; I was scared out of my wits just now."
"If you hadn't spoken up, Mister, this town would have truly become a porridge pond."
Gwof looked at their sincere expressions, waved his hand, and smiled.
"It was nothing, don't worry about it."
His gaze swept over the white porridge on the ground that hadn't been cleaned up yet, and his eyes involuntarily drifted toward the Old Woman's house.
That out-of-control porridge pot... though he hadn't seen it with his own eyes just now, Gwof knew its attributes perfectly well.
It was a pot that could produce white porridge infinitely.
His first thought was, of course, to take it; after any, who wouldn't want to collect more treasures?
Just as he had taken the Queen's three treasures before—the Belt, the Comb, and the Apple—even if he hadn't used them.
But then he turned to look at the shaken residents, all of them thin and sallow.
Gwof's desire suddenly faded.
He stood silently in place, watching the warm luster of the sunlight on the white porridge and smelling the faint rice aroma in the air.
That pot was indeed a good thing, able to produce infinite porridge; to him, it might just be a novel collectible, but to these often-hungry people, it was a life-saving reliance.
If he took the pot, what would the Old Woman do? And what would these residents do the next time they faced a food shortage?
"Master, what are you looking at?" Little Bottle approached while munching on his last Spicy Strip, following Gwof's gaze toward the Old Woman's house.
"A treasure that produces infinite white porridge—should we go check it out? Maybe we can get our hands on it?"
Gwof withdrew his gaze and shook his head: "No need."
One shouldn't be too greedy... and so much porridge shouldn't be wasted.
Soon, the townspeople emerged from their houses as if by appointment, carrying a variety of containers—an old lady held a coarse pottery jar usually used for pickling, a man carried a wooden water bucket, and even the usually stingy grocery store owner was willing to bring out a glass candy jar, carefully squatting down.
Wooden spoons, bamboo strips, and even clean shells became tools for scooping porridge.
A "splash" sounded as a wooden bucket was dipped into the porridge, followed by the "scritch-scratch" of scraping.
Someone muttered while scooping, "This porridge is cooked so authentically; I reckon there's a lot of glutinous rice in it, it's thick enough to coat the spoon."
Someone nearby immediately replied, "Exactly! My child hasn't smelled rice in three days; he'll be able to drink his fill tonight."
Several barefoot children crowded at the front, their little feet stepping on the cool stone road, unbothered by the porridge grains sticking to them.
A Little Girl with braided hair took advantage of an adult's turned back to quickly dip her finger into the porridge, taking a large dollop and stuffing it into her mouth before she could even blow on it. She hissed from the heat but squinted her eyes and smiled, the porridge foam on the corners of her mouth looking like a layer of cream.
A little boy nearby, not to be outdone, followed her example and took a big mouthful, but he lost his balance and sat right down in the porridge. Instead of crying, he giggled, the golden hair on the back of his head covered in white porridge like a freshly bloomed dandelion.
In the shadows of a street corner, several well-dressed figures were watching from afar.
The Mill Owner, with his round belly straining his shiny satin vest, tapped his cane loudly on the ground, his tone full of impatience.
"I wondered why so few helpers have been coming to the mill lately; turns out they've been lured away by that damned Old Woman's porridge! A bunch of lazybones, forgetting to work as soon as they have a mouthful of porridge. Just wait and see how I dock their wages!"
Standing beside him, the Manor Lord wore a well-pressed black vest and held a silver pipe between his fingers. His gaze swept over the people holding porridge bowls as if he were looking at a herd of disobedient livestock.
"No wonder no one has been selling slaves lately; they were all thinking about the cheap handouts here.
Hmph, I'll have to show them what's what."
At the very edge stood the Priest, obese, with a crucifix glinting coldly on his chest.
He first leaned forward slightly, his nose twitching at the porridge aroma in the air, his Adam's Apple rolling gently as if he were enchanted by the warm fragrance.
A moment later, he straightened up, pressing the crucifix tightly to his chest. As his gaze swept over the people rushing to collect the porridge, it was suddenly tinged with heavy greed.
"This is a gift from God,"
His voice was not loud but carried an unquestionable certainty, as if he were declaring a sacred right.
"It should be kept by the church and distributed to those 'truly worthy'."
As soon as the Priest finished speaking, the Mill Owner immediately stomped his cane, his fat shaking like waves.
"The Priest is right! Do these lowly fellows deserve to touch God's gift? I bet they don't even know how to pray!"
The Manor Lord followed closely behind, his gold ring glinting coldly in the sunlight.
"A bunch of lazybones, they should be starving! Keeping this porridge here is a waste; it would be better served if kept by the church and us!"
Several other wealthy people dressed in silk and satin chimed in, their voices shrill and mean, as if they were afraid others wouldn't hear their "nobility."
They dispersed quickly and gathered even faster.
In just a few moments, they returned to the street corner, but this time they were accompanied by several shady men—each with an open shirt, tattoos of crooked snakes and scorpions on their arms, clutching wooden clubs and iron chains. Their gazes were as fierce as hungry wolves; they were clearly the henchmen they kept.
The Priest looked at this formation, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He slowly raised the crucifix on his chest, his voice suddenly rising with a fake holiness.
"Amen! May the Lord's glory dispel this greedy haze!"
That "Amen" was like a starting gun.
"Charge!" the Manor Lord shouted, waving his hand as spit flew everywhere.
The henchmen howled and pounced, their wooden clubs whistling through the air and their iron chains screeching against the ground.
They specifically targeted the elderly, women, and children carrying containers. An Old Woman holding a pottery jar was struck on the arm with a club; the jar shattered with a clatter, spilling the freshly collected porridge everywhere. The Old Woman curled up on the ground, moaning in pain.
"Put it down! Everyone put it down!"
A Bearded Dwarf henchman snatched a wooden bowl from a child's hand and smashed it against the wall. White porridge splashed all over the child's face, scaring the child into wailing.
"This belongs to God! Do you think you're worthy to touch it?"
Another lanky fellow kicked over the Flower Girl's basket, stepping on the scattered roses as he snatched the porridge bucket from her hand and poured it over her. The hot porridge splashed onto her arms, leaving red scald marks.
The once-lively porridge ground instantly became a chaotic battlefield.
Cries, curses, and the dull thuds of clubs hitting bodies mixed together. The white porridge that had just carried warmth was now stained with mud and tears, becoming filthy and wretched.
Little Bottle watched this scene and immediately began to sneer.
"Look, this is what humans are like. Greed and savagery."
Gwof didn't respond, his gaze as cold as a steel blade tempered in ice as he scanned the faces of the aggressors.
The Priest's fake smile, the Manor Lord's smugness, the henchmen's ferocity... these faces were truly the most direct evil in the Fairy Tale World, unadorned and too lazy to hide.
The good were thoroughly good, and the bad were purely bad, which at least saved the trouble of having to distinguish between them.
Just as a thick wooden club was about to fall on the Woman's back, Gwof finally moved.
No one saw how he passed through the crowd; they only heard a dull thud, like muffled thunder rolling across a stone road.
The henchman wielding the club was hit as if by an invisible giant hammer, his entire body flying out at a bizarre angle, tracing an arc in the air before slamming heavily into the stone wall at the town's entrance.
A crisp "crack" of breaking bone was clearly audible. As he slid down the wall, his eyes were wide open, and he had already lost his breath.
The chaotic scene instantly froze.
The cries stopped abruptly, the henchmen's hands holding clubs froze mid-air, and even the smile on the Priest's face stiffened as the crucifix on his chest trembled slightly.
Everyone's gaze focused on Gwof, who had suddenly appeared in the center of the crowd.
He was still holding half a Strawberry Ice Cream, pink cream staining the corner of his mouth as the cold air mixed with the sweet scent drifted away, but the chill in his eyes seemed to lower the temperature of the surrounding air.
Beside him, Little Bottle had already grinned, revealing a mouth full of sharp teeth, his smile stretching to his ears like a predator about to pounce.
He cracked his neck, his joints making a "pop" sound, as his gaze swept over the henchmen like he was sizing up a group of lambs to the slaughter.
"God's things?" Gwof stuck out his tongue and licked the cream from the corner of his mouth, his voice as flat as if he were discussing the day's weather.
"Stop using God as a front. Are you even worthy?"
The Priest finally came to his senses, his face instantly turning the color of pig liver. He suddenly raised the crucifix, his voice as shrill as a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
"Presumptuous! You heretic! How dare you desecrate the divine!"
"Desecrate?" Gwof laughed, a smile without a hint of warmth, only bone-chilling mockery.
He raised his hand toward the Priest and spat out one word to Little Bottle: "Go!"
Little Bottle received the order and charged out like a cannonball.
He didn't even use magic, relying solely on a devil's brute strength as he swung a palm as large as a cattail leaf fan and slapped the Priest's left cheek hard.
"Slap!"
A crisp sound rang out, making eardrums ache, like a whip striking taut cowhide.
The Priest felt a heart-wrenching pain in his left cheek, and his mouth was instantly filled with the taste of blood as several teeth flew out along with bloody froth.
He was slapped off the ground like a ragdoll, spinning twice in the air before slamming heavily into the mud at the Mill Owner's feet, groaning dizzily, unable to even find the strength to crawl up.
This one slap completely shattered all the arrogance and delusions of those present.
The Mill Owner fell back onto the ground in terror, his fat body shaking like a sieve. He tried to say something while pointing at Little Bottle but only managed to make a wheezing sound.
The color drained completely from the Manor Lord's face as he subconsciously took two steps back, his gold ring digging deep into his palm.
The henchmen who had been so fierce just moments ago now dropped their clubs with a clatter, and two of the more cowardly ones even began to sneak backward.
Little Bottle shook the bloody froth from his hand, stretched his numbing wrist, and grinned at the terrified fellows, his voice sounding like sandpaper on wood.
"Who else? Weren't you quite vocal just now?"
The residents were also stunned, their hands holding porridge bowls trembling slightly. Their gaze toward Gwof and Little Bottle held not only gratitude but also a newfound sense of awe.
The child who had just been protected even forgot to cry, staring wide-eyed at Little Bottle as if looking at some incredible hero.
Gwof stuffed the last bite of ice cream into his mouth, the cold sweetness melting on his tongue, but it couldn't suppress the rising irritation in his heart.
He tossed the empty cone onto the ground; the plastic shell made a light sound as it hit the stone road, sounding like a silent mockery.
His gaze swept over the Priest moaning on the ground—half his face was swollen high, bloody froth leaked from the corner of his mouth, and he still clutched the porridge-stained crucifix as if it were his last life-saving straw.
He then glanced at the wealthy people huddled nearby. They shrank into the corner, their silk vests soaked with cold sweat. Their usually high-held chins were now buried in their chests, and they didn't even have the courage to look up at him.
"Get out!"
The word slammed onto the ground with an icy chill.
The rich people scrambled to their feet as if burned, pushing and shoving each other in their haste to escape. One man didn't even look back when he lost a shoe, and a silk hem caught on a stone step and tore a long gash; they were as wretched as driven dogs.
Gwof's gaze was as cold as ice.
From the Soldiers who first blocked the road to extort him, to this group of rich people who hoarded grain while watching the people starve, to this fellow before him who wore a Priest's robes but was full of schemes...
...these vermin were densely attached to this land, sucking blood while shamelessly talking about God.
He usually couldn't be bothered with such small fry, but seeing them cowering like this only made his stomach churn.
If it weren't for that so-called Bluebeard King backing them up, where would this group get the courage to act so tyrannically?
The Priest on the ground suddenly seemed to catch his last straw and struggled to look up. The swelling on half his face made his speech whistle heavily, and spit mixed with bloody froth sprayed out.
"You dare... stop a servant of God? Do you have no respect for the law? For the divine?"
Gwof ignored him, simply stepping on the empty cone on the ground and crushing the plastic shell to pieces.
He turned and walked toward the edge of town, his back held straight.
Solve these people? There was no need.
If he was going to solve it, he would solve the source sitting on the throne, the one who allowed all this rot.
Bluebeard.
He squeezed his fingers, his knuckles turning white.
Once that old fellow was dealt with, these lowly underlings would naturally vanish like dew in the sunlight.