Shoes (3)
Footwear forms an essential pillar of daily survival, anchored firmly within clothing, food, and shelter—and its importance cannot be overstated.
For creatures that walk upright on two legs, shoes are an absolute necessity. Stepping out barefoot leaves one vulnerable to punctures from sharp rocks, sudden slips, and countless unseen hazards. From their earliest inception, shoes had to be rugged, protective, and thoroughly dependable. Without durability, there was simply no reason to put them on in the first place. Carrying the entire weight of a bipedal body across unforgiving terrain meant the performance criteria were inherently demanding.
As eras passed and craftsmanship matured, footwear transcended sheer utility to become statements of personal fashion. Practicality was sometimes traded away in favor of aesthetics, while gear originally engineered for brutal endurance found new life as stylish street attire. The dawn of professional sports served as the true catalyst for this revolution. Ordinary civilians valued convenience over battlefield-grade resilience, caring little for the rigorous specifications demanded of elite athletic shoes—save perhaps for a decent non-slip tread. Driven by such broad public demand, the sporting and apparel industries expanded at a blistering pace.
The existence of beastfolk exerted a massive influence on the evolution of shoemaking. Beyond daily footwear, specialized categories branched out endlessly: reinforced combat boots marched across battlefields on the feet of soldiers, while impenetrable expedition boots carried adventurers into the continent's most treacherous frontiers. Depending on who slipped their feet inside and what hazards they faced, the craft evolved in infinite directions.
"So you're telling me to craft this?"
"Don't want to? Then forget it."
"Whoa there, hold your horses, you stubborn dwarf. Who said I didn't want to?"
Stout of stature, built with thick, sinewy arms, broad shoulders, and crowned with a trademark bushy brown beard, the dwarven artisan caught the shoulder of his departing companion. The dwarf who had turned away swung back around. His bleary eyes were slightly glazed with drunkenness, and his nose was as bulbously red as a ripe strawberry. Anyone with working eyes could tell he was plastered. The unruly crimson beard bristling from his chin matched his flushed face to perfection.
This was Gareth, better known on the forums as Passing Dwarf—a notorious drunkard whom one could stumble across in any tavern across Mountain, the sovereign dwarven realm.
"You got brains in that skull of yours or not?"
"Of course I've got brains. But what do I get out of making this rubbish?"
Gareth's longtime comrade, Wagner, posed a perfectly sensible question. Having weathered decades of hardship side-by-side, the two shared a bond close enough that they would grant almost any favor without a second thought. Even so, the request Gareth had dropped on his workbench gave him serious pause.
"Barging in here demanding top-tier footwear is fine and dandy. But look at this schematic—it's plain as day designed for a human, isn't it?" Wagner asked, waving the parchment in his hand. It was the list of specifications Gareth had handed over.
Gareth glanced at the paper, then gave a curt nod. "Aye, it is."
"Where in the blazes did you even pick up a contract like this?"
"On the Gallery."
"That blasted Gallery again." Wagner's face twisted into a deep scowl.
Wagner was well aware of the Gallery's existence, yet he had never logged in a single day in his life. He simply saw no reason to. Ordinary folks grinding through the daily trials of reality rarely had spare moments to idle away on an extradimensional forum. Dwarves hardly suffered from a lack of entertainment either, considering that mechanical innovation was practically in their blood. In that sense, Gareth was an eccentric among eccentrics—a dwarf who abandoned invention to wallow in internet forums. Still, Gareth possessed an undeniable artisan's gift, ensuring he never went hungry despite his questionable habits.
"Just what kind of down payment did they promise for you to take an order like this?"
"Ah. That's a bit awkward to lay out plainly."
"What's so awkward about it?"
"Well, it involves booze. Hic!"
"Booze?" At the mere mention of the word, Wagner's eyes went wide with rapt attention.
Dwarves and alcohol shared a bond inseparable by any mortal force. Far more than a personal preference, drinking stood as the quintessential trait of their entire race; households across Mountain were considered incomplete without private cooling cellars or full-fledged microbreweries. They had even invented steam locomotives and massive airships for the express purpose of distributing cold casks across rugged peaks without letting the frost thaw. Mountain's entire mechanical civilization had flourished around a single pursuit: the love of fine drink.
"Aye. Booze," Gareth murmured, leaning in. "You remember that steeped liquor I shared with you a while back?"
"'Course I remember! That brilliant crimson stuff. By the ancestors, it was magnificent." Wagner practically drooled, swallowing hard at the memory.
The experience remained etched into his tongue. Gareth had somehow acquired an exotic crimson root and steeped it in hard spirits before bringing over a jar. Usually, heavy drink dulled the senses and invited deep slumber, but that batch had done the exact opposite. The instant it slid down his throat, a surge of raw vigor had roared through his limbs, clearing the fog from his mind like a mountain breeze. And the flavor! The earthy, bittersweet nectar of the root had fused with the sharp bite of distilled liquor to create an immaculate, pristine finish. Just conjuring the memory made his mouth water uncontrollably.
"Well, that same human needs a proper pair of boots," Gareth explained. "The poor bastard is stranded in a deathtrap of a wilderness and desperately needs high-performance footwear."
"And he offered to pay you in that liquor?"
"Not the liquor itself, but the raw herb. Said he'd hand it over. If you want it, I'll pass the whole thing to you."
"By the forge! I'll hammer it out this instant!"
Here were two dwarves viewing a priceless Adult Mandrake Root purely as pickling ingredients for homebrewed moonshine. Had Wild Grylls overheard their barter, he would have shaken his head in exasperation before shrugging it off, so long as the final product was flawless. But had any continental alchemist witnessed the exchange, they would have foamed at the mouth in horrified fury at the blasphemy of degrading an Adult Mandrake Root into common damgeumju.
Yet to a dwarf, alcohol reigned supreme. What outsiders deemed a crude pastime was, to them, the pinnacle of mortal happiness.
"So what was that root called again? It looked like rare medicine, considering that deep blood-red hue."
"He called it an Adult Mandrake Root, though I don't know much about fancy weeds. Just think of it as a prime mandrake."
"Hmm. Standard mandrake liquor already hits like a hammer, so this must be leagues above it, eh?"
"Far above it. I heard a single mature root can brew a supreme-grade Elixir."
"Is that so? Then shouldn't it cost a fortune?" Wagner furrowed his thick brow. Elixirs commanded astronomical sums across the civilized realms. To a dwarf, top-shelf liquor served as the only true elixir of life, but gold was still gold. He couldn't help feeling a spark of doubt.
"Hic! Bloody expensive, aye. But chew on this for a second."
"Chew on what?"
"It's steeped liquor brewed from the core ingredient of a supreme Elixir! How could any true dwarf walk away from that? Selling a treasure like that just to swill common tavern ale would be an absolute crime against our ancestors!"
"Ah. Forgive my small mind! You're a bloody genius, Gareth!"
"Don't mention it. Hic!"
To an outsider, the pair resembled two bumbling fools cheering over absurd logic, but such was the dwarven soul. They were a people who loved spirits so deeply that alcohol was woven into their very flesh and bone. Their natural lifespan far exceeded that of humans, yet chronic liver disease dragged their average mortality down to roughly the same level. Finding a lifelong teetotaler among their kind was statistically impossible. Forbidding a dwarf from drinking was tantamount to handing down a death sentence.
"Still... looking closely at these specs, it's a mighty tall order," Wagner muttered, scratching his beard as he studied the parchment.
Gareth nodded in somber agreement. "That's why I came straight to your workshop. I know my way around hot iron and steel, but when it comes to leathercraft, I'm all thumbs."
"Aye, that you are... But look here: unbreakable structural durability as the foundation, complete waterproofing, advanced anti-slip treads—it's asking for every single performance enhancement under the sun!"
Being a dwarf did not grant universal mastery over every trade. Each artisan possessed their own specialization. Gareth's calling lay in metallurgy, while Wagner reigned over the tannery and leathercraft.
"We'll have to source top-grade hides from the reserve stash. You said this human is stranded in the wild, right?"
"Aye."
"Then endurance is paramount. If I assemble the layers like this..." Wagner produced a charcoal stylus and began sketching rapid concept designs over the margins. True to his reputation as a master tanner, even his rough drafts possessed an elegant, sturdy symmetry. "Building it this sturdy means it's bound to carry heavy weight. Make sure you warn him he'll have to deal with the heft."
"Understood. The lad's practical; he'll accept that much."
"By the way, where on earth did this human get dropped that he can casually barter an Adult Mandrake Root?"
"Said he woke up stuck inside the Forest of the Four Seasons, though the details are hazy to me."
"Tsk, tsk. Of all the cursed pits..." Wagner had heard grim tales of the Forest of the Four Seasons—an ancient, shifting labyrinth from which no mortal soul ever walked out alive. A bespoke pair of boots wouldn't miraculously guarantee survival, but if it bumped the poor sod's odds by even a sliver, the work carried genuine meaning. "Well, the blueprints are settled. Hic! How long until you finish?"
"I have all the premium hides on hand, so give me about a week..."
"Hey. Look at this." Gareth cut Wagner off mid-sentence, shuffling toward a heavy satchel he had left in the corner.
Wagner tilted his head in mild annoyance, but the moment Gareth hoisted the object into the lantern light, Wagner's jaw dropped slack.
"Th-That's...!"
It was an exotic glass flagon rarely seen outside the Central Plains, crafted with a slender waist and an expansive mouth. Floating submerged within the crimson fluid was a fleshy root shaped uncannily like a screaming human face, its mouth frozen open in an eternal wail. The jar was brimming with luminous, ruby-red alcohol—Gareth's personal batch of mature mandrake steeped liquor.
"Hic! Shorten the deadline, and you get to drain this entire jar."
"Kh-Khm! Then... three days—"
"Plus tomorrow's drinking snacks. Fresh river crab. The kid promised to send some my way."
At those words, Wagner's expression hardened with supreme, unwavering resolve. He held up a single, calloused index finger.
"One day."
A dwarf did not require mountains of coin to perform miracles. Rare, intoxicating drink was all the currency that mattered in heaven and earth.
"Done deal! We crack this open the second the boots are finished. But hear me well: if you cut corners, the bet's off."
"What kind of half-baked cobbler do you take me for?! Sit your drunk rear down and wait. I'll forge boots so magnificent they'll make the gods weep!"
"Aye. I'll hold you to that."
Wagner vanished into the heat of his inner workshop. Gareth made no move to leave; remaining behind to serve as both supervisor and drinking companion suited him just fine.
'If the kid really is in the Forest of the Four Seasons, there must be herbs out there even more potent than an Adult Mandrake Root,' Gareth mused, staring fondly at the crimson flagon. A single cup of this nectar sent vitality roaring through his veins like liquid fire. What if the human managed to harvest something even rarer? The mere thought of steeping such mythical flora into liquor made his mouth water. 'Even if it's not herbs, gourmet bar food is just as grand.'
The mandrake root was a glorious prize, but the culinary snacks were just as alluring. Just yesterday the boy had landed a colossal river fish, and today he was catching freshwater crabs. Mountain was completely landlocked, nestled within craggy mountain peaks with zero access to the open sea. Naturally, seafood fetched exorbitant prices, and scouring the Gallery's auction house was the only way to acquire it. Even then, the platform's murderous transaction fees made regular purchases painful.
'Wonder what the lad's up to right now?'
Lately, interacting with Wild Grylls had become Gareth's favorite pastime. The Adult Mandrake Root had come as an unexpected reward for a small gesture of goodwill, but trading with the kid was genuinely entertaining even without the treasures.
Gareth opened the Gallery interface to kill time, only for a trending headline to catch his eye.
"Why, this little bastard...!"
Gareth could stomach many things, but cheap rage-bait targeting his heritage was not one of them. He slammed his finger onto the thread. Inside, hundreds of users were already engaged in a venomous free-for-all. A massive contingent of commenters was frothing at the mouth, their identities painfully obvious—they were dwarves.
Insulting a dwarf's short stature was tolerable; it was simply a racial reality. But questioning their mastery over brewing, fermentation, and distilled spirits? That was an unforgivable declaration of war. It was the ultimate berserk button, a perennial flame war that flared across the Gallery whenever someone grew bored.
"You filthy sons of whores!"
BAM!
Unable to contain his volcanic fury, Gareth slammed his heavy fist onto the sturdy wooden table, rattling every chisel in the room.
It was just another peaceful, ordinary day on the Gallery.
"Why is this guy having an absolute meltdown now?"
Having demolished three succulent crabs alongside his animal companions in record time, Wild Grylls was lounging comfortably, casually scrolling through the Gallery boards to unwind. As he browsed, he stumbled upon a post boasting an absurdly bloated comment section and clicked inside out of curiosity, only to find an unhinged digital brawl underway.
The entire debate boiled down to anonymous users arguing that demonic alcohol tasted vastly superior to traditional dwarven brewing.
'Is this the fantasy equivalent of someone arguing cheap mass-produced Chinese kimchi tastes better than your mother's homemade recipe?'
Framed in those terms, Park Jonghyuk found he could sympathize entirely with the dwarf's sudden explosive rage.