The matter was "resolved" in such an absurd manner.
Jack gripped those two cold copper coins and turned to leave.
The hem of his colorful clothes swept through the dust of the Square. He didn't look back or argue, and even the bells on his hood didn't ring again. Like a puppet drained of all strength, he disappeared step by step at the town entrance.
Everyone's eyes followed him, some with sympathy, some with regret, and some with a bit of indifferent detachment, until that splash of color completely merged into the distant twilight.
The Mayor's daughter still stood where she was, watching that departing back from afar. She suddenly spat hard on the ground, her voice sharp and thin.
"What are you acting for! Just a filthy pauper looking for a free meal!"
It was as if she were putting on a show of defiance for her momentary panic just now, or as if she were convincing herself there was no need to be afraid.
She smoothed her skirt, as if those few wrinkles were more important than a reputation for breaking promises.
"Then our money..."
An old man crouching at the base of a wall suddenly spoke in a low voice, his voice trembling like a fallen leaf in the autumn wind.
These words were like a stone thrown into stagnant water, and the crowd suddenly became lively again.
"Right! If we're not giving him money, then refund half to us!"
"I carried three bags of grain to pay my share!"
"Refund the money quickly! Don't try to cheat us!"
The sound of discussion buzzed and rose. The sympathy for Jack from a moment ago turned in an instant into a calculation of their own losses.
The Mayor's daughter's expression darkened instantly, and she stamped her foot impatiently: "Fine, fine, I get it! You'll get your share! Come here in three days to collect it, and it'll be paid back to you slowly!"
As she spoke, she lifted her skirt and walked away quickly without even looking back, as if the complaints behind her were just noisy flies.
With her departure, the crowd also gradually dispersed like a punctured balloon.
Some people walked home grumbling, calculating how to get their money back;
Some shook their heads and sighed, moving toward the tavern, wanting to borrow a glass of wine to drown their frustration;
Others pulled their children along, walking hurriedly as if afraid they would be tainted by some bad luck if they were late.
"Daddy, Mommy."
A little Boy with soft blonde hair looked up, the sunlight gilding the tips of his hair.
He still held a piece of unfinished malt candy in his hand. The syrup dripped down through his fingers, sticking to his wrist, but he didn't bother to wipe it, his clear blue eyes full of confusion.
"He clearly promised to give gold," the Boy pointed in the direction Jack had left, his small brow furrowed tightly.
"How can someone not keep their word? Isn't that breaking a promise? Yesterday, I heard the old grandpa at the tavern tell knight stories. It said that people who break their word aren't even fit to wear a knight's badge, let alone be a gentleman."
His father was looking down, kicking a pebble at his feet. Hearing this, he suddenly turned his head, the veins on his forehead throbbing. He glared fiercely at the Boy, his voice heavy like a stone hitting the ground.
"What do you know, Child! Stay out of grown-ups' business!"
He glanced around, and seeing that no one was paying attention, he lowered his voice further.
"Talk any more and don't even think about eating tonight! You won't even touch a breadcrumb!"
The mother quickly stepped forward, pulling the Boy into her arms. She knelt down and took out a handkerchief, gently wiping the candy crumbs from the corner of his mouth and lightly rubbing his furrowed brow. Her voice was as soft as freshly baked cotton bread.
"Be good, don't ask anymore. In a few days, I'll take you to the Sweet Shop in town and buy you honey cake, okay?
The kind you stared at in the window for a long time last time, with thick honey poured over it and a handful of crushed almonds sprinkled on top."
The Boy's eyes lit up instantly, like small lanterns being lit.
The confusion about "breaking promises" from a moment ago was instantly washed away by the sweetness of the honey cake. He nodded vigorously and clapped his small hands, laughing, the malt candy squeezed into a sticky lump in his palm.
"Okay, okay! I want two! One for me, and one for Daddy and Mommy!"
That crisp laughter was like a string of silver bells, floating across the empty Square, hitting the bare flagpole and bouncing back, but it was soon swept away by the wind blowing through the passage, like a stone thrown into a lake, leaving only a faint ripple that gradually vanished without a trace.
The last few people lingering in the Square also moved their feet.
A peddler carrying an empty shoulder pole walked toward the town entrance, humming an out-of-tune tune;
A drunkard, swaying and leaning against the wall, shuffled toward the tavern, muttering words no one could understand.
The Square was empty, leaving only a mess of footprints all over the ground, some deep and some shallow, like a painting that had been trampled into a mess.
A few fallen leaves crushed by people's feet stuck to the ground, their veins clearly visible, but they could no longer dance with the wind.
Only Gwof remained where he was, standing where Jack had played the flute. At his feet was that copper coin thrown away by the Mayor's daughter and quietly picked up by him.
The sunlight shone obliquely on him, stretching his shadow very long, like a silent pillar.
Leah's fingertips tightly gripped Gwof's sleeve, the fabric bunched into several deep wrinkles.
Her small face was full of sadness, her eyes as red as cherries soaked in water. Tears welled up in her eyelashes, looking as if they were about to fall.
"How can they be like this? The flute-playing guy clearly helped them... Those rats were so scary, he was the one who drove them away, and they promised to give gold..."
The Ugly Duckling in her arms seemed to understand her sadness. It gently rubbed its fuzzy head against her chin, making a soft "Guji guji" sound (meaning don't be sad, but Leah couldn't understand), as if clumsily comforting her.
But Leah's tears still couldn't be held back, sliding down her cheeks and dripping onto the Ugly Duckling's dusty feathers, blooming into a small dark wet patch.
Little Bottle held a strawberry ice cream, shoving the spoon into his mouth rapidly. Pink cream stained the corners of his mouth as he said indistinctly,
"Don't think about it, we didn't lose anything anyway. The people in this crummy town don't keep their word, what's there to miss? Let's just pack our things and leave early to save ourselves the frustration."
The ice cream was melting badly, and the sweet, sticky juice dripped down his wrist, wetting his cuff, but he didn't care at all.
Ben stood to the side, looking in the direction Jack had left. Only the empty stone road remained there, with the wind swirling a few fallen leaves.
His brow was tightly furrowed, as if a stone were blocking his heart. After a long while, he let out a heavy sigh. That sigh was heavy, echoing across the empty Square.
"I'll go give him some travel money to get home."
He suddenly spoke, his voice carrying a hint of subtle determination, as if speaking to Gwof and the others, or as if making up his own mind.
In fact, he was indeed saying it for them to hear—did they want to go together?
Gwof was silent for a moment.
He looked toward the town entrance. Jack's colorful shadow had long since disappeared at the end of the road, but it seemed to have carved an imprint in his heart.
"Yeah, let's go together."
He spoke, his voice calm but carrying an unquestionable certainty.
He was, of course, full of interest in this guy who could control rats by playing the flute.
After all, they had stayed here fishing for several days, and he was the one they were waiting for.
He wanted to see if he could learn a few flute-playing tricks from Jack—being able to command even rats meant there was surely an unusual secret behind that flute;
He also wanted to see if he could make friends with this mysterious guy. After all, in the Fairy Tale World, friends are very important. And who wouldn't want to make such a powerful friend;
Similarly, he had to change something—it was impossible to really let him drown all those children.
Hearing this, a flash of a smile appeared in Ben's eyes, like a stone thrown into still water, creating faint ripples: "Good."
He raised his hand to adjust the collar of his cloak, his steps becoming a bit lighter, as if that heavy sigh from before had never existed.
Little Bottle licked the cream from the corner of his mouth, a pink stain on the tip of his nose. He curled his lip, his tone carrying a bit of reluctance, but he still quickened his pace to keep up.
"What a hassle."
Leah quickly wiped away her tears with her sleeve. Crystal droplets still hung on her eyelashes, but she nodded forcefully, her voice raspy from crying.
"I'm going too... I'll give him the money I saved."
The Ugly Duckling in her arms seemed to agree, letting out a "Guji" and rubbing its head against her arm.
So they pursued in the direction Jack had left.
The stone road gradually turned into a dirt path. Dandelions by the roadside were blown into the air by the wind, sticking to Leah's skirt like a handful of stars.
Walking on the road, Ben seemed exceptionally happy.
From time to time, he turned to look at Gwof, then at the bouncing Leah and the muttering Little Bottle. A faint smile always hung on the corner of his mouth, and even his steps had a light rhythm, as if some good news was hidden in his heart.
This unusual behavior was noticed even by Gwof.
He raised an eyebrow, and seeing Ben look over once again, he asked, "What are you looking at?"
Ben was like a cat that had its tail stepped on, giving a sudden jolt. The smile on his face froze for a moment, and he quickly turned his head away, his gaze falling on the wild chrysanthemums by the road: "No... nothing."
There was a hint of subtle panic in his voice, as if some secret had been poked through.
Well, since Ben didn't want to answer, Gwof couldn't press further.
It was just that a dark thought suddenly flashed through his mind—this guy better not be some kind of priest, since it's well known... He shook his head, tossing aside this far-fetched idea, though his pace quickened slightly.
Before long, a faint sound of water came from the river ahead.
They rounded a patch of woods and saw Jack's figure.
The man in colorful clothes stood by the river, motionless, like an abandoned colored sculpture.
He did nothing; he didn't play the flute, nor did he look at the water. He just stood with his back to them, looking at the distant reed beds, not even noticing the sound of their approaching footsteps.
The wind lifted the corner of his colorful clothes, revealing the patched coarse cloth shirt underneath, looking somewhat thin in the sunlight... Jack, of course, was not playing the flute, nor was he looking at the water.
He just stood by the river, looking toward the place where the distant reed beds met the sky, his face expressionless.
The sunlight cast dappled light on his colorful clothes, but it could not reach the heavy shadow deep in his eyes.
His face still bore some theatrical greasepaint, red on his cheekbones and white on his forehead. When he smiled, the laugh lines deliberately painted at the corners of his eyes would bunch together, making him look like a cheap puppet, so comical it made one want to laugh.
But now the greasepaint was a bit blurred by the wind, and those laugh lines were frozen on his face. Paired with his expressionless features, it actually gave off an indescribable eeriness—like a puppet whose strings had suddenly snapped, his eyes so empty it was frightening.
In fact, he was reminiscing.
Memories were like weeds in the river, entangling him until he could hardly breathe.
He remembered what he was like when he first completed his apprenticeship, carrying a tattered cloth bag containing three hats for magic tricks, wandering through streets and alleys to perform.
As a Colorful-clothed Man, he was actually half an acrobat or magician, able to do somersaults, imitate bird calls, and turn a white handkerchief into a pigeon.
But his life was more bitter than the wild grass by the road. Sometimes he would perform all day at the market, and his hat would only contain a few rusty copper coins, not even enough to buy a piece of black bread.
Until that misty morning three years ago, when he saw an Old Woman collapsed in a thicket of thorns in the forest, her lips as dry and cracked as old tree bark.
He hesitated for a long time before handing over the only half-piece of wheat cake he had in his arms.
While munching on the cake, the Old Woman suddenly pulled an ivory-white flute from her sleeve and pressed it into his hand: "This flute can make obedient things follow you. Don't learn to be bad, and don't let others bully you."
At the time, he just took it as the Old Woman's nonsense, but he didn't expect the flute to really have magic.
When he played a specific tune, even wild dogs would wag their tails and follow him for three miles—it was a gentle hypnosis that could make all things drop their guard and follow the melody.
But his life was still very bitter.
Because he couldn't learn to use the flute to do bad things.
In his hands, the flute was more like an obedient pet than a weapon for evil.
Once, passing a bakery with his stomach growling loudly, he couldn't help but play a tune, wanting the apprentice to give him an extra slice of bread.
The apprentice indeed dizzily handed over half a baguette, but before Jack had walked three steps, he heard the shopkeeper's angry shouting from inside, mixed with the apprentice's suppressed crying—the Child was likely going to have his wages docked.
That night, Jack hid the flute back at the very bottom of his cloth bag, wrapping it in three layers of rags, as if afraid the magic would sneak out on its own to cause trouble.
He also tried playing a short tune for a stall owner who was collecting money after he performed at the market.
The stall owner indeed stuffed a few extra silver coins into his hand. They felt heavy and hot in his palm, so hot it felt like he was holding a piece of red-hot iron.
As he watched the stall owner turn around, seeing the patch worn by the keys at his waist, he suddenly remembered this man always said his daughter was sick and he needed to save money for medicine.
Early the next morning, he quietly stuffed the silver coins into the stall owner's money box, even leaving two extra copper coins he had earned himself, as if this could alleviate the unease in his heart.
He still relied on doing somersaults to earn money, the old injuries on his knees forming layer after layer of scabs that throbbed with pain on rainy days;
He relied on imitating bird calls to make people laugh, his voice practiced to hoarseness, no amount of water able to soothe it.
That flute was only taken out when children gathered around him clapping, clamoring for "mice dancing," to play a light tune and watch a few grain-stealing rats spin in circles on the ground as a treat for the little ones, in exchange for the half-piece of candy in their pockets they couldn't bear to eat.
Until this time.
He thought he had earned dignity through his own skills.
Those Farmers whose granaries had been gnawed by rats, the Women who lost sleep at night from the "squeaking" sounds, and even the young lady from the Mayor's house who was always losing her shoes, they should all remember his kindness.
He had specifically put on his cleanest colorful clothes and polished the flute until it shone, thinking that after getting the gold, he would first go buy a new pair of shoes—the holes in his soles were already large enough to see his toes.
But in the end, two boxes of gold became two copper coins. The crisp sound they made when they rolled onto the ground seemed to be mocking his naivety.
Those people who had cheered for him and treated him like a savior just a second ago were silenced by the Mayor's daughter's scolding the next, their eyes darting away as if the person who had just applauded for him was someone else.
The words "filthy pauper" were like poisoned needles, stabbing into the softest part of his heart.
Did it hurt? Yes.
But even colder was the chilling of his heart—it turned out that the rats he had exerted all his strength to drive away were, in their eyes, actually more valuable than him, a living human being.
It wasn't that he hadn't been insulted before.
Previously, while performing acrobatics outside a noble's manor, he had been splashed with cold water by a butler, shivering in the cold wind while soaked through; while performing at the docks, he had his money stolen from his hat by a drunkard, and after chasing him for three streets without catching him, he finally crouched under a bridge pier and cried for half the night.
But at those times, he always had a spark in his heart, feeling that as long as he worked harder, he would eventually be looked up to.
But never had there been a time that made him feel as cold as today.
Or perhaps he had never realized that no matter how warmly he smiled or how hard he did somersaults, in the eyes of these people, he was nothing more than a buffoon for their amusement.
When useful, they'd offer a few words of praise; when useless, even two copper coins were considered too many.
The wind lifted the corner of his colorful clothes, revealing the worn lining inside, dusty and gray, just like his mood at this moment.
He slowly raised his hand, his fingertips tracing the flute at his waist. The ivory-white body of the flute glinted coldly in the sunlight, the carvings on it pressing painfully against his fingertips.
Footsteps came from the distance, very light and carrying hesitation, as if afraid of disturbing something.
But Jack did not look back. He just looked into the distance, where the river flowed toward the end, a misty horizon.
In the emptiness of his eyes, something gradually emerged, like a drop of ink falling into clear water, slowly spreading with an indescribable chill.
A voice was whispering in his mind, becoming clearer and clearer:
I suffer so much for being a good person, so what's the point?
"Hey, Jack!"
Suddenly, a voice rang out from behind him.