The continuous howling wind and snow finally showed signs of stopping, with only sparse snowflakes drifting aimlessly in the sky.

  But as the saying goes, a cold snap follows frost and snow. The cessation of heavy snow did not warm the weather; instead, it became even colder.

  Several horses huddled in the drafty stable, abandoning their long-held habit of sleeping while standing. They buried themselves completely in the haystacks prepared for them, trying to minimize heat loss.

  Only Stephen's white horse remained spirited.

  The horse was bored in the stable, occasionally letting out a whinny or two, as if hoping Stephen would take it out for a ride soon.

  But Stephen was still lazily lying in his blanket, unwilling to get up, clinging tightly to the fire.

  In such weather, even the most diligent person would be unwilling to work, and he, as a bounty hunter, was no different.

  The heavy snow had buried the nearby roads, making it impossible to descend the mountain for now.

  And the O'Driscoll gang had disappeared, so he simply stayed with the others in Shady Belle to rest, planning to deal with things after spring arrived.

  He lazed around until almost noon before reluctantly rising from the warm blanket, intending to find a place to relieve himself.

  After all, if he didn't get up soon, his bladder would burst.

  As soon as he opened the door, a gust of cold wind enveloped him from all directions, desperately trying to penetrate every bone in his body.

  Stephen couldn't help but shiver. This damn weather was killing him, he muttered.

  He didn't run far, just found a spot behind the house, shivered again, and completed the first task of the day.

  Now that he was up, he didn't plan to go back to sleep. Stephen decided to find something to eat to reward his stomach.

  He tugged hard at his coat, wrapping himself even tighter, and then walked step by step toward Pearson's kitchen.

  Pearson was the fat man Stephen had seen cooking in the telescope earlier. He was the Van der Linde gang's cook.

  However, the taste of his cooking was truly hard to describe.

  When he and Arthur and the others had just returned from fighting the O'Driscoll gang, he had used the abundant supplies they had captured to cook a celebratory feast for everyone.

  Suffice it to say, Stephen felt he could have done better cooking with his feet.

  He sauntered over to Pearson's kitchen.

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  The place, though called a kitchen, was actually quite crude.

  It was simply a wooden shed built along the side of a dilapidated house. Underneath, in the middle, a stone square was built and a fire was lit, which served as a stove.

  Two pots were hanging above the stove, simmering meat inside.

  Stephen glanced at the messy things inside and the strange smell emanating from it, and immediately lost his appetite.

  Pearson saw Stephen walk in and, regardless of how familiar he was with Stephen, babbled, "Arthur and Charles hunted two deer this morning. We finally have someone who can hunt prey. Bill and Lenny are two fools who can't hunt anything. They can only catch things that don't move."

  As he spoke, he took a bag of powder, of unknown origin, from a nearby bag and sprinkled it into the pot, making Stephen's heart pound.

  Was this guy a cook from a dark sect?

  But his words also reminded Stephen. He turned to look at the wooden shelf behind him, where two cleaned deer were hanging, and there was half a cut deer leg on a cutting board beside them.

  Seeing the plump venison, Stephen felt his stomach rumble uncontrollably.

  He found a few relatively clean small branches in the firewood pile and wiped them a few times in the snow. Then, he pulled out his knife and cut a few slices of meat with snowy white fat from the deer leg.

  Stephen's knife skills were excellent. The cut meat was as thin as cicada wings, making it the most delicious to eat.

  He found a small pot, put it on the fire, hastily got some clean snow, and used a large bone to make broth.

  He also found a can of vegetables in a nearby basket and dumped it all into the pot.

  The canned soup had a salty taste, which conveniently eliminated the need for salt. And the sliced meat would be used as hot pot soon.

  Pearson's stew was ready. He asked Stephen if he wanted him to serve him a bowl, but Stephen politely declined. Pearson then prepared to carry the pot to deliver food to the others.

  This bone broth version of hot pot was thoroughly enjoyable. Stephen ate until he was sweating all over.

  Stephen was full and satisfied. He stood up and stretched, just thinking about finding something to do, when he heard a cry for mercy from not far away.

  He followed the sound and saw Bill interrogating the prisoner they had captured two days earlier.

  The poor fellow was tied to a tree, and Bill was holding a red-hot pair of fire tongs, gesturing at his crotch, seemingly planning to give him a long-lost surgical procedure.

  "Haha, why don't you give it a try? It's very enjoyable. After it's done, you'll be full of energy, never running out, just like those horses in the stable," Bill said with a strange smile on his face, constantly intimidating the guy.

  The guy was sweating all over from fear, emitting heat in this weather, which Stephen found a bit amusing.

  "You can't do it like that. You have to use other methods to deal with hard bones," Stephen said slowly as he approached the two, playing with his knife as he smiled.

  "Oh, do you have any good ideas?" Bill asked curiously, looking at the knife flying up and down in Stephen's hand.

  "Of course, it's very simple." A playful smile appeared on Stephen's face. He grabbed the knife and lightly slashed the man's chest, easily cutting open his thin clothes.

  "Please, I really don't know anything! I'm just a stableman who raises horses!!" the man cried out in fear, tears streaming down his face, his body writhing non-stop.

  "Don't worry, don't worry." Stephen pressed the guy down hard, the cold knife against his body, making him shiver involuntarily, his whole body breaking out in goosebumps.

  "I heard that in ancient Orient, there was a kind of torture where a knife was used to slowly cut a person's body, cutting off only a fingernail-sized piece of flesh at a time," Stephen said softly in his ear, like a devil.

  "A good executioner can cut over 3,000 knives on a prisoner's body and ensure that the prisoner doesn't die. Do you know what the prisoner will become in the end?" Stephen asked with a smile.

  "W-w-what will become?" The man's teeth chattered wildly as he asked tremulously.

  "Will become a skeleton –" Stephen said with a curious smile on his face, "My skills aren't that good, but one or two thousand knives are still possible. Let's give it a try."

  "Ahhhhh!! Devil, you are a devil!!"

  "I'll say anything, I'll say anything you ask! But... but I really don't know anything!!"