---

“You’ve turned time a few months forward to autumn.”

They say a decade can change landscapes.

Connections between people may continue or sever.

Even the bones of dead gods, known as adamantium, can melt away.

Preservation magic and void magic do not last forever.

However, there are things in this world that remain unchanged.

For instance, the elf’s love for wine.

The history of this affection goes back to the mythological era, and the wars over wine number in the four digits.

And there’s a race renowned for loving alcohol even more than elves. Though elves may not acknowledge it.

Dwarves.

In history, it’s told that in five out of ten wars waged by Bersengzeto, the opponent is Eisenwald, and among those, three involve the beer-related wars.

The fertile lands for grapes or brewing ingredients, the clear waters from mountains and lakes essential for making alcohol, the sabotage from spies who add impurities to the storages, and questions from fools about which of the two drinks tastes better, among others.

Additionally, various trivial reasons spark alcohol wars between Bersengzeto and Eisenwald.

– Notification that financial assistance for demon tribe damages is delayed due to the crime of those sneaky eared folk contaminating the water source of the barley fields. –

Thus, even Friedrich, the head of the Beolseong family, who had been furious moments ago, calmed down after receiving a letter from the chief summarizing such matters.

“Ah, there’s nothing we can do about those sneaky eared folks.”

“Chief, should I simply reply that I understand?”

“Also say to crush every pointed ear! Please write that for me.”

The attendant bowed deeply until his head touched the ground and left. Friedrich heard the door close and temporarily stepped out of his office, accompanied by his warrior guards.

He moved busily, replying adequately to those who greeted him until he arrived at a reconstruction site at the outskirts of the fortress.

Pafnirgrabe, constructed by carving out an entire rocky mountain, was not only the family estate of the Beolseong family but also a fortress and a city.

Parts of the expanded outer castle were crumbling and undergoing reconstruction.

This was where the largest Schwarz Brewery, which filled more than half of the beer demands of Pafnirgrabe, was located.

Friedrich closed his eyes gloomily at that sight.

“Well, it seems we’re done for a while.”

“Chief, there was no loss of life, at least. The dwarves will understand.”

“Yeah, they will.”

Fortunately, at the moment the Schwarz Brewery collapsed, it was empty, as the place was being prepared for a regular thorough cleaning.

They had also caught the culprits, who were part of the demon tribe.

“But will they really accept that once the beer prices rise?”

In Eisenwald’s history, how many chiefs have been dragged off of shields due to failing to control beer prices?

Why was the important Schwarz Brewery located on the outskirts, you ask?

Because the existing brewing capacity fell short and they needed to expand the brewery outside.

However, Friedrich had also made preparations.

Exempting taxes during the reconstruction period.

Lowering beer prices during the exemption period through cooperation with brewers.

Importing missing beer from outside.

Simultaneously scraping together funds from the family treasury for territorial management to prioritize urgent construction costs.

Now he sought support from the chief to resolve the gaping hole in territorial management expenses…

“Hmm, can’t help but hit the sneaky eared folks.”

“What reason is it this time?”

“They claim those rascals contaminated the barley field’s water source.”

“Ah, then we can’t help it.”

The guards quickly understood Friedrich’s words.

To dwarves, who become extremely sensitive when it comes to beer, the water source for making malt from barley was a sufficient reason for war.

However, while the rulers must prepare for such matters, even when brewing beer, it’s necessary to vent the gas.

Friedrich finished a brief inspection and returned to his office, seeking a moment of rest. A small beer barrel, serving as a footrest, had been placed on the desk.

Golden-orange liquid, almost matching the brilliance of glass, filled the crystal-clear goblet, topped with snow-white foam.

The ratio was 7 to 3. The golden ratio for drinking beer. Some may argue 8 to 2 is the truth, but Friedrich could not accept that.

“Who talks about an 8 to 2 ratio? Those outdated country folks who still think that’s fashionable.”

The aroma of freshly baked bread.

The tingling sound of carbonation.

The golden ratio of beer and foam in the goblet.

As Friedrich carefully observed this, he tilted the beer goblet but then raised his head.

Knock, knock, knock—

“Chief? There’s an urgent audience request.”

“Tell them to wait a bit longer.”

Friedrich frowned and shook his head. Just as he was about to drink from the goblet again, he furrowed his brow at the attendant’s words coming from beyond the door.

“A-Class Adventurer, Sigurd IV, has both good and bad news.”

“…Then let him in.”

Creeeak—

Sigurd IV, a well-performing A-Class adventurer among his clan, entered carrying a wooden box. Friedrich frowned slightly at the sight and instinctively grabbed a nearby axe.

Swoosh! Pffft!

“Chief! Why the grimace again—Wha—what!? Why so sudden!?”

“Seeing your face reminds me of that crazy, disgraceful brat. Just spill it, Sigurd.”

“That’s just it.”

“What?”

With a pop, Sigurd IV pulled the axe lodged in the door and prepared to speak, holding the box.

“I found that crazy disgraceful brat.”

“Pffft!”

“Ahhh!”

Friedrich, about to drink, spat out the beer at the unexpected news. Sigurd IV evaded just in time, horrified.

“Geez! Chief!”

“I’m sorry! But what? You found Zigmeser?”

“Ugh, yeah. Could you lend me a handkerchief?”

“Where was that little rogue?”

“Seophone Island.”

Friedrich blinked in disbelief and took a sip of beer. He then asked again.

“Ahem. What did you say?”

“Seophone Island. A backwater. My friend became a baron there—”

“I couldn’t care less about your friend’s situation.”

Friedrich interrupted Sigurd IV and waved his hand dismissively, tapping the table with his ringed finger.

“You’re saying he shaved all his hair and beard to cook on Seophone Island?”

“That’s in Iceland.”

“What kind of lunatic goes that far?”

Friedrich’s resigned statement earned an enthusiastic nod from Sigurd IV, his beard waving like a cape.

He shaved off his own identity to cook in Iceland? While he’s certainly cut himself off from his roots, one can’t help but acknowledge that kind of insane passion.

“It seems he’s doing quite well. He became the head chef of the Duke’s family.”

“Speaking of which, I’ve heard Iceland’s situation has improved?”

For decades, when winter thaws, it’s no secret that they draw in about a third of all legitimate sons and bastards of Europa as laborers.

“Oh, it’s so favorable that there are no starving people. The quality of food has drastically changed too.”

“…All of that came from Iceland?”

“Yes. It’s all thanks to a human chef named Karem, who has just turned young. I have seen it myself.”

Sigurd IV chose to gloss over the age-related remarks. Speaking of it might get him hit by a beer barrel for talking nonsense.

“Seems it was indeed one person’s effort!”

“Yes. Zigmeser was flustered around Karem, whom he called the recipe wizard.”

“Hahaha. That disgraceful brat?”

Although Zigmeser was only a distant relative, his shocking behavior had reached even the main family.

Disregarding elders, turning away from the path of success laid by his parents, and even shaving off all the hair his ancestors passed down.

Yet still, he was blood-related.

How ironic that blood could succeed and yet still be flustered.

Friedrich felt a mix of joy and schadenfreude.

“Zigmeser isn’t flustered for no reason; his cooking skills are truly incredible.”

“So, is that the good news then?”

“The disgraceful brat doing well is actually bad news. The good news is different.”

Sigurd IV carefully pulled out a silken scroll from his pocket. Upon seeing the seal, Friedrich squinted his eyes.

Seeing that made Sigurd IV feel genuinely uneasy.

“Though dwarves believe ‘We are kin!’, dwarven society is much more rigorous in public matters.

One of the peaks of that society, Friedrich, had become notable as the chief of the Beolseong family, known for their martial prowess across generations.

Thud—shshshsh—

“Hmm, it says they want exclusive rights to sell a new product. Accompaniment? Smoked Ship’s Claw Crab? I’ve heard that’s Varmint?”

“I brought a sample.”

“That wooden box?”

Sigurd IV placed the box on the work desk and opened the lid.

“Hmm, this smoked aroma… it’s quite unique. You’ve smoked it whole without removing the shell.”

“Seems you have beer on hand too.”

“How’s it eaten?”

“I’ll show you. Excuse me for a moment.”

Sigurd IV seized a leg, still rich in smoky scent, and ripped it off in one go. Though bits of powder scattered on the ground, Friedrich didn’t care.

“The shell comes off surprisingly easily.”

“Just eat it in succession, and wash it down with beer.”

“Hmm, sounds good. Let’s give it a taste.”

“The product name is Nichtswin.”

Dwarves would never refuse such a thing, but you can never be sure about humans. Sigurd IV swallowed nervously as he gazed at Friedrich’s hand. His hand inspected the smoked crab leg, sniffed it, and then, just like Sigurd IV, peeled off the shell.

Crack—slurp—

“…Hmm. A smoky scent reminiscent of orc. Not bad.”

Then he took a bite. While Sigurd IV looked on with bated breath, Friedrich savored Nichtswin, breaking down each piece with his teeth.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t bad at all.

As a chief of the Beolseong family, one of the thirteen clans, Friedrich had naturally sampled fresh seafood frequently. He knew very well how delightful fresh shellfish could be.

Thus, when he heard it was smoked, he was a bit skeptical, but thanks to the moisture loss, each bite burst with the concentrated taste of the sea, salty intensity, and, above all, a unique aroma that pairs exceptionally well with alcohol.

Having gone to meet a friend, he returned with quite a decent snack. It appeared the opposing side was positively considering the exclusive proposal. It could turn around, but given the Grand Prince’s name was attached, that possibility was slim.

Even if a war broke out in Eisenwald, or a drought struck, or calamity descended, there are three things that must never die.

Beer, the ingredients for brewing beer, and accompaniments.

He was in dire need of cash due to the incident with the Schwarz Brewery. Yet it would take months to formalize production and contracts, but he still had enough to get by for now.

Therefore, as long as he opened up the market, it was bound to happen.

“But a night gift? That seems a bit out of the blue.”

“It has to be smoked in a special way for over half a day…”

“Why the delay?”

As Friedrich urged him to speak faster, Sigurd IV shared a lewd grin typical of a dwarf swimming in a pile of gold coins.

“It’s said to be good for stamina.”

“…Stamina?”

“Yeah. The cook backed by the Felwinter family boasted that.”

Friedrich’s eyes sparkled like gold coins at Sigurd IV’s casual remark.

“I’ll need to verify that…”

If what he just heard was true, the value of smoked Ship’s Claw Crab legs, Nichtswin, would soar several times over. Dwarves, known for their longevity and scarcity, would particularly appreciate it.

An accompaniment good for vitality.

This is bound to sell!

 

---