That's right; this dusty, half-bald fellow was none other than the Ugly Duckling who had been driven out of the old woman's house.
When it escaped from the old woman's house, its stomach was growling with hunger, its throat was burning with thirst, and its wings were bleeding from the pecks of the rooster that had chased it.
It had run through the wind and snow for who knows how long until it could no longer hold on. Seeing the thin ice on the river, it wanted to go down for some water, but its feet slipped, and it fell into an ice hole. By the time it struggled to climb out, its whole body had frozen into a block of ice. In its fading consciousness, it only remembered falling asleep in the water. When it came to, it had already been carried into a warm place by a pair of rough hands.
Now, in the Farmer's warm house, the Ugly Duckling huddled by the fireplace, motionless, though it quietly squinted one eye.
The flames in the fireplace crackled and jumped, casting light onto the wooden chair opposite, where a coarse cloth jacket hung over the back.
An enticing aroma wafted through the air, like something being roasted until it sizzled with oil—it smelled so good... a hundred times better than the sour porridge at the old woman's house.
It carefully turned its body, its bald wings brushing against the straw on the floor, as it surveyed its surroundings by the light of the fireplace.
The scent came from the wooden table in the middle of the room—a blue checkered cloth was spread over it, holding a large platter with a glistening roast chicken, its skin browned and dripping with oil.
Beside it, a ceramic bowl was piled with fried potatoes, golden-yellow like a handful of little suns.
There was also a white porcelain plate with fried cutlets, sprinkled with bright green herbs, the steam carrying the meaty aroma straight into its nose.
The Ugly Duckling's mouth instantly filled with saliva, and its stomach growled even more fiercely.
So hungry... it thought. I want to eat too... but will they hit me? Just like the chickens on the farm who pecked it on sight and called it an "ugly freak."
But the aroma was simply too enticing, making its very innards cry out.
What if... it just dashed across, took a bite, and ran? Even just licking the grease from the edge of the plate would be enough.
Thinking this, the Ugly Duckling's claws scraped the floor. The hunger in its heart was like a fire, burning so hot that it forgot its fear—it couldn't help it; it was too hungry. If it didn't eat something soon, it might actually starve to death in this warm house.
By then, Gwof and the others were already seated around the table eating.
Little Bottle clearly looked down on this farmhouse fare. At that moment, he had pulled out a wooden box and was happily eating a large wooden tub of ice cream. Chocolate sauce covered his chin, and his spoon made a "shasha" sound as it scraped the box. He muttered to himself:
"This stuff is the real deal; the cool sensation cuts right through the greasiness."
Gwof used his fork to gently peel back the crispy skin at the edge of the roast chicken, the tender white juices seeping out slightly from the tips of the fork.
He chewed nonchalantly, his tongue catching a hint of the farmhouse's rustic flavor—to be honest, this taste was far too simple compared to the partridge simmered in truffle sauce at the Anvil Kingdom's court banquets or the spiced smoked sausages of the Wolf Kingdom's breakfasts.
If one had to talk about flavor, it was even a bit worse than the Dwarf's.
After all, the Dwarf had been doing it for two hundred years.
His gaze flicked over to Leah, only to see the young girl with her head down, scooping mashed potatoes from her bowl and eating them happily with small pieces of roast chicken. Her cheeks were flushed from the steam, and fine beads of sweat had even formed on her forehead.
She seemed to particularly enjoy this rustic meal, chewing every bite seriously, unaware that a bit of sauce was stuck to the corner of her mouth.
Gwof's eyebrows twitched slightly. He turned his fork and precisely speared a piece of the tenderest chicken breast, gently placing it in Leah's bowl.
"Eat more to nourish yourself; look how thin you are."
As he spoke, he simply stopped eating and began piling food into her bowl—glistening roast chicken wings, crispy chicken thigh meat, and even several chunks of melt-in-the-mouth stewed potatoes. In the blink of an eye, Leah's small white porcelain bowl was piled high like a mountain.
Leah's mouth was stuffed full. She let out a muffled "Mhm," and when she looked up, her eyes curved into crescents. Her cheeks bulged like two round grapes, looking exceptionally endearing.
She chewed vigorously, then her throat moved as she let out a soft "hiccup," the sound as faint as wind brushing through grass.
The young girl's face instantly turned red. She hurriedly covered her mouth with the back of her hand, a bashful smile flickering in her eyes. Her shoulders shook slightly as she let out two soft "hehe" laughs, a sound so quiet that perhaps only the flickering candlelight on the table could hear it clearly.
Just before the faint laughter had faded, a dark shadow suddenly "whooshed" up from beside the fireplace!
It was as fast as an arrow from a bow, bringing a gust of wind as it lunged toward the glistening roast chicken on the table—it was none other than the Ugly Duckling, who had been holding back by the fireplace!
Its feathers stood on end from tension, its half-bald wings flapping rapidly. Its eyes were fixed solely on the golden skin of the roast chicken, its claws tensed as if this one bite could satisfy all its hunger.
Little Bottle was just scooping a large spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. The cool sweetness had just begun to melt on his tongue when he saw a dusty dark shadow dash out from behind the woodpile out of the corner of his eye, lunging straight for the roast chicken on the table.
His other hand seemed to have eyes of its own. Without a second thought, he clamped down with a "pa" sound—his palm precisely grabbed one of the shadow's wings, his grip neither too loose nor too tight, just enough to keep it from fluttering.
The one he had caught was indeed the Ugly Duckling.
Its bald feathers stood on end, and its other free wing flapped frantically, creating a gust of wind mixed with dust. A high-pitched, sobbing cry came from its mouth:
"Help! Let me go! I really didn't mean it!"
As its wings flapped, mud from its bald feathers splattered onto the back of Little Bottle's hand, leaving spots that looked like a comical piece of graffiti.
"I've been hungry for so long, I just wanted a peck of chicken skin... Please, just a chicken bone will do, even if it only has a few scraps of meat..."
It trembled all over as it cried. Its already sparse feathers looked even more pathetic, revealing the pink flesh beneath, making it look both pitiful and ridiculous.
Little Bottle licked the ice cream from the corner of his mouth and held the Ugly Duckling up, shaking it before his eyes. He raised an eyebrow at Gwof, his tone tinged with mockery:
"Hey, Master, not only does this ugly thing dare to steal, but it can also talk? That's a new one."
The Farmer and his wife nearby had already turned pale with fright.
The Farmer rubbed his calloused hands, his forehead sweating, as he repeatedly apologized to Gwof.
"Please forgive us, guest! This wild thing... we didn't realize it would be so... so rude as to disturb your meal!"
The Farmers Wife nodded along, hurriedly reaching for a broom: "I'll chase it out right now and throw it onto the back mountain!"
Gwof waved his hand, signaling them not to be nervous, and then fixed his gaze on the Ugly Duckling.
The flames in the fireplace crackled, and the orange-red light reflected in the Ugly Duckling's wet eyes. Its tears were like two drops of rain fallen into coal cinders, both bitter and bright.
It was still sobbing, and its wings' struggles had weakened to a faint trembling.
"What is your name?"
Gwof spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a power that made one feel calm.
The Ugly Duckling was stunned, as if it hadn't expected him to ask that, for who would talk to an animal?
Nevertheless, it sniffed, its voice as raspy as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper.
"I... I don't have a name."
It lowered its head, its bald neck almost shrinking into its featherless body.
"They all call me the Ugly Duckling, or... the ugly fellow."
Little Bottle sneered and poked its head with his fingertip.
"You don't even have a proper name, yet you dare to steal roast chicken?"
The Ugly Duckling flinched from the poke but didn't hide anymore. It just buried its face even lower, its shoulders twitching.