Booze Duel (1)
My bold response drew a hearty laugh from Count Grosz. He chuckled deeply and popped the cork off a large leather pouch with a satisfying pop.
"Hahaha! Excellent, excellent! I like that spirit. A real man needs that kind of guts. But Prince Ian, this isn't some sweet champagne or tame wine."
Count Grosz brought the pouch to his lips and gulped down a hearty swig, letting out a satisfied ahh as he wiped his mouth.
"I love the finest wines from every corner of the Empire. I love whiskies bursting with woody and fruity aromas. Hell, I even enjoy the rum those pirate scum guzzle by the seaside... But nothing compares to the Empire's traditional brew."
"Traditional brew... Judging by that leather pouch, it's something your people have been drinking long before the Empire was founded. A nomadic tribe's drink?"
"Exactly. Let me tell you a tale from long ago, back when the great Emperor Uzarat wasn't yet an emperor or a king—just the chieftain of a small tribe."
My curiosity spiked at the historical anecdote he was spinning.
For a liberal arts guy like me, nothing beat the thrill of history popping up at a drinking party.
"One day, during a war with a neighboring tribe, Emperor Uzarat took a poisoned arrow to the side. It was a lethal toxin that would've killed an ordinary man on impact, but the mighty emperor endured through superhuman willpower. Still, no one survives that kind of venom unscathed. Burning with fever in his delirium, he mumbled about wanting this very drink. But in the heat of war, how easy do you think it was to find booze?"
"So what happened?"
"One of his loyal warriors risked his life sneaking into the enemy camp's tents to steal some. When he presented it, the emperor lamented that a mere mutter from his lips had nearly cost the man's life. Then he downed it in one go—and like a miracle, he recovered."
Count Grosz caressed the leather pouch fondly.
"This drink is the Empire's root, its pride."
"...Impressive."
"I've lived my whole life breathing horses. This is the finest mare's milk liquor, fermented from the milk of mares raised on the best grass in the imperial stables. If you know how precious and expensive horses are in the Empire, you can imagine the devotion and effort poured into every sip."
The count continued with a proud smile.
"That said, for foreigners unaccustomed to our ways, its unique aroma and flavor can be... overwhelming. Care to give it a try?"
He poured a cloudy ivory liquid into an empty glass nearby and handed it to me.
I took the glass and sniffed it lightly.
A sharp, tangy acidity stung my nose, mingled with the musky, animalistic scent unique to beast milk.
With feigned bravado, I tossed back a swig in one go.
...Huh?
The thick texture slid heavily down my throat, leaving a sour-sweet tang lingering in my mouth.
Made from animal milk? The first thing that came to mind was well-fermented makgeolli.
Milk-flavored makgeolli...?
Of course, in my past life, I wasn't a huge makgeolli fan.
It gave brutal hangovers—and more than that, it carried some trauma.
Why do those Anam-dong guys love makgeolli so damn much?
I recalled a drinking session from my previous life with college buddies from that neighborhood.
Those lunatics poured makgeolli into dented tin washbasins, mixing in soju, honey, and god-knows-what-else, then slurping it up with plastic ladles.
After witnessing them shove those same ladles at us wide-eyed uni kids—"Try some!"—makgeolli at any party just soured my mood.
Still, it's drinkable.
Long story short, it wasn't undrinkable poison by any means.
"Oh, surprisingly good. Yeah, it has that beastly milk smell, but it goes down smooth, and the sourness really whets the appetite."
I drained the glass casually and gave my verdict. Count Grosz's eyebrow twitched.
"Oh ho? You endured that funky smell in one go? Looks can be deceiving—you've got some mettle. But how about this?!"
This time, he pulled out a smaller, stiffer leather pouch carried by his attendant and poured into a fresh glass.
It was clearer than before, almost transparent but strangely viscous.
"Try this. It's the nomadic soul itself—our mare's milk liquor, distilled four times the traditional way."
Casual as ever, I grabbed the glass and knocked it back.
"Gack...! Khk, cough...!!"
For a split second, I thought fire was erupting from my throat.
An intense, sour milk stench assaulted my nose like nothing before, and the alcohol—easily over 40 proof—scraped my throat raw.
And the lingering aftertaste in my mouth: greasy, fishy, nauseating.
"Kahahaha! How's that! Fourfold distilled mare's milk spirit nearing 40 proof—true arkhi!"
Count Grosz clutched his belly, roaring with delight at my teary-eyed state.
"Still up for the drinking bet? Admitting defeat is manly too."
He meant it kindly, but it only stoked a strange fire in my gut.
Back down to this smelly distilled swill?
I wiped the tears from my eyes with my sleeve and flashed a grin.
"Of course I can keep going. But Count, since we're men pitting our guts against each other... isn't sipping daintily like this a bit lame?"
"This is lame?"
"Yes. If we're doing this, let me suggest a real drinker's way to settle it. The method we use back home to crown the ultimate boozer. Ever heard of a booze duel?"
Intrigued, Count Grosz stroked his chin beard at my audacious proposal.
"Ho, a booze duel? How's it work?"
"Simple. Get me twenty glasses and some booze."
I cleared the table and lined up twenty empty glasses in two rows.
"We sit facing each other across this table. Fill these with that killer distillate."
I nodded to the attendant, who filled each glass to the brim with the potent stuff as I spoke.
"No water, no snacks. Just pure booze."
"..."
"Here's how it goes: We toast, down one glass each in one gulp. Catch our breath, then toast again and empty another. No breaks—we keep draining until one pukes, passes out, taps out... or, y'know, I've never seen it, but dies. Loser."
Even the battle-hardened Count Grosz looked taken aback by my rundown.
Chugging 40-proof firewater nonstop without a bite? Insanity, plain and simple.
"...No, even so, slamming straight spirits without chasers is dangerous..."
As he hesitated, pulling back, I unleashed the magic spell that works on every man alive.
"What's wrong, Count? Scared...?"
"...What did you say?"
"I said you're scared. You claim to be the Empire's top drinker—surely you won't chicken out when it's time for the real duel."
"Y-You little... Hahaha! Fine, I accept the duel!"
My taunt hit home; his face flushed tomato-red.
Whether imperial noble pride or drunkard's bravado, he crossed to my side, yanked a chair with a thunk, and plopped down opposite me.
"Very well! If you crave hell, I'll grant it! To your health, Prince Sterling!"
"It's a duel, Count Grosz. One-on-one, until the loser becomes the dog."
"H-Hahaha! Splendid, splendid! It's been ages since I met a real man!"
I grinned, hoisting a brimming glass of the killer brew.
Liver, hang in there!