Booze Duel (2)
“How long has it been since I last threw myself into such a manly contest! Not since my younger days, rampaging across battlefields at His Majesty's side…!”
The Gros Count's eyes gleamed with a feral, beast-like fighting spirit.
“Alright, let's do this!”
I raised my glass high, the 40-proof firewater sloshing inside.
Thoroughly pleased by my resolute spirit, the Gros Count wiped the liquor from his lips and proposed in his booming voice,
“Just chugging them down in silence would make us no better than beasts. How about we shout out something precious to us—or our deepest wishes—with each glass?”
“Excellent idea. I accept. You start us off, Count.”
“Good! First glass—to the eternal glory of our great Empire!”
“I'll drink to that too!”
Clink!
With the cheerful sound of toasting glasses, we downed our first shots in one go.
“Urk…!”
The moment the over-40-proof liquor scorched down my esophagus and hit my stomach, a ferocious burning erupted inside me like an explosion. It felt less like swallowing booze and more like gulping down fire itself.
But I didn't let it show. This was nothing.
“……”
We slammed our empty glasses down and locked eyes, staring each other down for a moment.
“—Hahahaha!”
“Hahaha!”
Then, without a word, we burst into roaring laughter.
This guy in front of me? A real man.
“Cheers!”
The second glasses clashed in midair right away.
“Second round! To His Majesty's health and long life!”
“Same here!”
Clang!
“Grk—!”
As the second shot followed hot on the heels of the first, a wave of molten lava-like heat surged from my gut, spreading through my entire body. The Gros Count's face started to flush faintly, and he grinned with excitement.
“Third glass! To the great warhorses that uphold our Empire!”
“To my steadfast friend, His Highness the Second Imperial Prince Arthur!”
After draining the third, the alcohol raced through my veins at a noticeably faster clip. My vision shimmered ever so slightly, and my heartbeat thundered in my ears like war drums. Every breath reeked of hot mare's milk, and the backs of my eyes burned, but I had no intention of backing down. The Gros Count let out a bizarre hiiing noise.
“…How long has it been since I last faced a man who could go head-to-head with me in a drinking bout… Ian Sterling, you're that kind of guy!?”
“We haven't even started. Fourth glass—your lead!”
“Right! Fourth glass! To those arrogant bastards from the Kingdom of Lorang, who will one day kneel before the Empire!”
“To Her Highness Princess Chloe!”
As the fourth shot went down, a weird groan escaped me against my will.
“Wait, Gros Count…! What the hell is this stuff?! My body's heating up like crazy—hehahaha!”
“Kahahaha! Excellent, Prince Ian! Feel that burn? Perfect!”
The Gros Count slapped his thigh in hearty agreement and snatched up the next glass with rough gusto. Heat poured off his massive frame, wafting across the table like a furnace blast.
“I'll lead the fifth! To Crown Prince Maximilian's health!”
“To the beautiful Gros Count family—and my two darling daughters, whom I wouldn't trade for the world in my eyes!”
Five straight shots of 40-proof firewater in rapid succession.
The chandelier lights overhead splintered into dozens of whirling fireflies before my eyes. No snacks to chase them down, so my stomach churned like it might revolt—but seeing the Gros Count across from me, glaring like a tiger and snorting defiance, ignited that strange stubborn pride I'd honed across two lifetimes. The undisputed king of drinkers from my administrative grad school's infamous all-nighters—me—wasn't about to lose here.
“Hey, over there… are they dueling or something…?”
“W-what!? A duel on the first day of the social season…?”
“No, it's… a drinking duel? With Gros Count and some hostage…?”
“Drinking with Gros Count? Is he insane?”
“Someone who can drink with that guy exists?”
By then, nobles from the main hall had swarmed our table like a thundercloud, forming a massive circle to gawk at our mad spectacle.
“What the hell are they doing?”
“Chugging straight 40-proof with no water chaser! They're trying to kill themselves!”
Most of the noblewomen and the refined aristocrats sipping champagne gasped in horror and clicked their tongues.
But the martial nobles with nomad blood boiling in their veins—and the men who idolized raw masculinity—saw it differently. To them, this brutal clash was every bit as manly as swords drawn in combat.
“My God, look at Prince Sterling! He's not yielding an inch to the Empire's top drinker, Gros Count!”
“Ooh…! No blades drawn, but this is a true man's honorable duel!”
Amid the spectators' thunderous cheers and feverish roars, we gripped our sixth glasses with trembling hands.
“S-sixth glass…! To Her Highness Princess Victoria's shining martial prowess…!”
“To the Empire's finest steed… that damn stubborn bastard Marengo…!”
By the sixth, we were properly sloshed, slurring hard.
But the fire in our glaring eyes burned hotter than ever.
“S-seven, seventh glass…! Hah, to my ever-reliable… steadfast lady knight, Dame Amber White…!”
My tongue-tied mumble drew sweat-beaded, beet-red laughter from the Gros Count.
“Kehihi! Dame White, eh… uhahaha! To Dame White's… successful marriage…!”
The eighth glass—and by now, we'd both shattered our limits, brains melting into mush. Rational thought? Gone. All that remained was the primal instinct to drop the bastard across from us.
“E-eight… out of nowhere, but… to the true alpha male, Gros Count…!”
As I hoisted my glass high and bellowed, the Count's eyes welled up, and he roared back.
“Grk! To the brave southern warrior, Prince Ian…!”
We thumbs-upped each other like idiots, cackled, and drained our glasses.
And finally, the ninth.
Our pupils fully unfocused, we shared some soul-deep intuition: this was the last round. Propping ourselves on the table, we lurched to our feet. We thrust our near-lifeless arms forward and slammed our glasses together in the air.
Clang—!! The glasses nearly shattered from the impact, liquor spraying wildly.
The two doomed men's final roars echoed through the banquet hall.
“To victory… and glory…!!”
Gulp, gulp.
We emptied them without breathing, then locked eyes again, gasping raggedly.
1 second. 2 seconds. 3 seconds.
A suffocating silence hung.
“—Well fought.”
The Gros Count chuckled, then toppled backward onto his chair with a thud, snoring like a buzzsaw.
A hostage on his first social season had just sunk the Empire's #1 drinker—and one of the Emperor's closest confidants.
“……”
I gazed down at the slumped count.
My own rational tether was frayed to threads, but one final full glass remained on the table.
'Gotta finish this to claim victory.'
With a wobbling hand, I snatched it up, raised it triumphantly to the hundreds of silent onlookers holding their breath, and poured it straight down my throat.
“……Grraaah!”
The final shot seared my esophagus, snapping my last thread of reason.
'…I won.'
Even as consciousness sank, I didn't fall.
Right arm rigid, clutching the empty glass skyward, eyes shut, I stood tall and blacked out.
My legs rooted firm to the floor, unmoving.
The silent main hall erupted in explosive heat.
“WAAAAAAAAAH—!!!”
Through the fading haze, I heard countless Imperial men roaring like madmen, cheering the hall to pieces.
The first day of the social season—the victor of history's first survival drinking duel: Ian Sterling.