The Taste of Rotting Potatoes
The sensation of possession was suffocating. The disgusting foreign object clogging his throat made Kim Jae-han cough violently as he sat up. The pungent stench of vomit assaulted his nose. Hurk, hack, hack! He kept coughing harshly, expelling whatever had blocked his airway. His throat, scorched by stomach acid, burned as if on fire. With bloodshot eyes, he looked around. ‘…Where the hell am I?’
What he saw was a crude yet somehow antique ceiling. More than anything, the headache threatening to split his skull overwhelmed all other thoughts. It felt like someone had shoved a tube down a goose’s throat to make foie gras and was force-feeding it. A flood of memories—completely unfamiliar yet vividly real—poured into his brain. The revolting smell of vomit mixed with the metallic scent of blood. Drip. Something hot flowed from his nose. Sticky fluid from his eyes blurred his vision. Moaning in pain, he rolled around on the bed.
How much time had passed? When the storm-like injection of information finally stopped, he knew everything. Mikhail’s memories. The gentle afternoons spent enjoying tea with his kind mother, Alexandra. The colorless, odorless poison. The horrifying metallic taste and smell that wormed its way through the aroma and flavor of the black tea. The sight of his mother collapsing in front of him, vomiting blood. After that, everything fell apart.
The grief of losing his mother and the burning desire for revenge consumed him, but there was nothing he could do. He didn’t even have the power or connections to confront the heavyweight who had dared to poison a member of the imperial family, let alone identify the culprit. The inherent limitation of being the son of a former slave concubine. Despair turned him into a complete wreck. Every night he got drunk, caused chaos, smashed palace furnishings, and hurled abuse at the servants. In the end, he fell out of the Emperor’s favor and was exiled from the capital. And here, in his own territory—the Grand Duke’s Mansion in the Far East Maritime Province—he drank every day until… his airway was blocked by vomit and he died.
Having fully absorbed Mikhail’s memories, Kim Jae-han—no, the one who was now Mikhail—let out a hollow laugh. This was the world of the romance fantasy novel he had once read, Blood, Lilies, and the Double-Headed Eagle. The plot was hazy. The female protagonist, chosen as a saint, got involved with the somewhat foolish but kind Second Prince, flirted with other men along the way, and fought against political enemies… something like that. He couldn’t remember if he had dropped it because it was boring or because he was sleepy, but it was a novel he had quit reading halfway through.
Regardless, he clearly remembered what kind of character this “Mikhail” he had possessed was. The pitiful extra occasionally mentioned by the male lead, the Second Prince. A device used to illustrate the brutality of the imperial succession war. In a way, this was perfect. The original Mikhail had wanted revenge, but he didn’t. To him, Alexandra was merely a person from “memory,” evoking no emotion whatsoever.
‘Revenge, huh…’
In the original story, the culprit behind both Alexandra’s poisoning and the attempted poisoning of the Seventh Prince Mikhail was the Second Princess, Anastasia. A star of high society and a powerful contender for the throne, backed by the Kimberly Marquis family—the empire’s top luxury conglomerate. Above all, she was the great evil who ruled the empire’s underworld with opium and cocaine.
‘Go against that woman? Impossible. Besides, she’ll be ruined by the Second Prince and the Saint according to the original plot soon enough.’
If a corpse floated down the river, he could just piss on it and call it a day. Revenge was pointless. That kind of thing didn’t matter at all. What mattered was that the pathetic, miserable life of “Kim Jae-han” had ended, and the life of the empire’s Seventh Prince, “Mikhail,” had begun.
A life where he didn’t need to sacrifice one thing to do another. A life where he didn’t have to force himself to do things he hated, at least for the sake of delicious food and a soft bed. That alone was enough.
Only…
Mikhail frowned as he looked down at the vomit soaking his clothes and bedsheets. The room was littered with scattered liquor bottles and unidentified stains. It was filthy.
Ding—
He shook the small bell on the bedside table. It was enchanted so that when shaken, it would ring the bell held by the nearest servant. Moments later, hurried footsteps sounded outside the door.
Bang!
The door flew open violently, and a young-looking maid rushed in, panting. “Huff, haa… Y-Your Highness! You called for me?!”
The maid’s face filled with terror as she took in the disaster of a room and Mikhail’s appearance. Her trembling eyes clearly showed she was bracing for another one of his rampages.
“Prepare a bath.”
“…Pardon?”
“Didn’t you hear? I said prepare a bath.”
Mikhail’s lazy, calm voice was completely different from his usual shouting and verbal abuse, which only made the maid panic more. Her face turned deathly pale as she stammered, “Y-Yes, yes! Understood! I’ll prepare it right away! And… should I call a mage? Or perhaps a doctor…”
“Not necessary. While you prepare the bath, clean this room. Change the bedding and pillows for completely new ones.”
“Y-Yes! As you command, Your Highness!”
The maid practically screamed her reply, bowed deeply, and fled the room as if escaping. Mikhail clicked his tongue softly at the sight. He could imagine just how much of a bastard the previous Mikhail had been.
A week passed.
Mikhail writhed in boredom. They said solitude was a poison that ate away at people, but compared to boredom, it was nothing more than caffeine or capsaicin.
“Haa…”
The scenery outside the window was still beautiful, but that only lasted a day or two. The only joy in his life was the delicious meals the chef prepared with care three times a day. But that alone was nowhere near enough to endure twenty-four hours.
Sleep only took up eight hours at most. He had tried horseback riding too. Galloping aimlessly around the territory had felt refreshing at first, but it quickly lost its appeal. Hunting? Catching a few rabbits in the forest left him feeling empty. Fishing? Sitting by the river and staring endlessly at a fishing rod was practically torture.
“Maybe I should read a book…”
Mikhail frowned as he recalled the books filling the study. They were all boring. Vague philosophical tomes, unrealistic chivalry literature, stale religious texts. There were even a few occult books that were apparently trending in the capital lately, but occultism in a world where magic actually existed? ‘Not even a middle-schooler would fall for that.’
The only remotely readable things were literary novels or poetry, but poring over every sentence to find meaning didn’t suit his current mood. ‘Don’t they have comics or web novels? Something I can kill time with without thinking.’
Of course such things didn’t exist. And even if they did, the people of this world would never accept them as pure entertainment. They’d probably label them immoral, ban them, and burn them—just like those old farts who censored games.
In the end, half-mad from boredom, he reached for a stack of documents. They were administrative reports about the territory. But staring at pages packed only with dense text and numbers, without a single chart, made his head spin. He couldn’t even flip through more than a few pages before setting the documents and pen down. This was torture. Mikhail genuinely thought so.
“Haa…”
Ding—
Unable to endure it any longer, he picked up the small bell on the table and shook it. A sharp, irritated sound rang through the room. Before long, hurried footsteps echoed from down the hallway. Even before the door burst open with a bang, a glimpse of graying hair appeared through the gap. It was the middle-aged servant, Boris.
“Y-You called for me, Your Highness.”
Though panting, he bowed with impeccable posture. Yet his eyes were filled with unmistakable tension and exhaustion. The anxiety of wondering what kind of rampage was coming next was plain to see.
“Liquor.” Mikhail spat shortly. “Bring me the strong stuff. Right now.”
“…Yes, understood.”
Boris frowned for the briefest, slightest moment before regaining his composure. He bowed deeply once more and left the room silently. A short while later, Boris returned carrying a crude glass bottle and a single cup on a silver tray. It was far from the ornate crystal decanters that decorated the capital’s banquet halls in Mikhail’s memories. Even the stopper wasn’t cork—it was a crude thing roughly carved from wood.
Boris poured the liquor into the cup. With a glug glug, the colorless, transparent liquid filled it. The piercing alcoholic scent was acrid. Mikhail silently picked up the cup. Then, without hesitation, he took a swig.
“…”
Gulp. A burning heat scraped down his esophagus. And immediately after—
‘Ugh.’
A foul odor filled his nose and mouth. It wasn’t just because it was strong. It tasted like the musty stench of potatoes on the verge of rotting mixed with impurities that hadn’t been filtered out during distillation. It was as unpleasant as mixing industrial alcohol with mop water. It was on a completely different level from the diluted soju he had drunk as Kim Jae-han. This was simply waste.
Clack!
Mikhail set the cup down on the table. Or rather, he practically threw it. The cup wobbled dangerously with a loud clatter. Boris’s shoulders flinched. He swallowed dryly, bracing for the shouting or rampage that was sure to follow.
But Mikhail’s reaction was completely unexpected. He simply stared down at the cup with calm eyes. His gaze held pure curiosity and disgust rather than anger.
“Boris.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Why does this liquor taste like shit?”
His voice was lazy, yet as cold as ice. It somehow chilled the spine more than any verbal abuse ever could. Boris spoke carefully.
“I apologize, Your Highness. That is the only strong liquor remaining in the Grand Duke’s Mansion.”
“The only one remaining?”
“Yes. The high-quality liquors Your Highness has been drinking until now have all run out. This is the best alcohol available in the area.”
Boris kept his gaze lowered as he continued. A faint hint of resentment colored his voice. Just how many expensive liquors had Mikhail smashed and wasted while drunk over the past several months? The precious wines, brandies, and top-grade vodka brought from the capital had long since been depleted.
“Then just import more.” Mikhail frowned. “Don’t trains run from the capital? There’s a port too, right?”
“Your Highness… that is…”
Boris trailed off, looking troubled like an adult forced to teach a child the harsh realities of the world. “Currently, the empire’s railways prioritize the transport of strategic materials and personnel—grain, coal, military supplies, and the like—according to imperial law. Luxury goods such as liquor require special transport permits, and the shipping fees and taxes are enormous.”
“Maritime transport is slightly better, but it requires sailing halfway around the world… and there’s the risk of the liquor spoiling, so it’s difficult.”
“The liquors Your Highness has been drinking until now were brought as personal cargo when you traveled by train, so it was manageable… but ordering new liquor from the capital at this point…”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but the meaning was clear. ‘Because of all the money you squandered, we no longer have the luxury for such extravagance.’
Mikhail remained silent for a moment. He searched his memories. When the original Mikhail had been exiled, he had taken a large advance on his imperial allowance and converted it into physical goods—jewels, precious metals, and mountains of high-quality liquor. He recalled drinking them like water every day, throwing them around, and wasting them. It made sense. The reason was entirely his own fault.
“I see.”
Mikhail gave a short reply, picked up the cup again, and poured the remaining disgusting liquid down his throat without hesitation. One shot.
“Ugh…!”
His stomach felt like it was twisting, but his expression didn’t change in the slightest. Boris swallowed hard at the sight. In the past, he would have thrown the bottle and thrown a full-blown tantrum.
“Understood. You may leave.”
“……Yes, Your Highness.”
Boris left the room quietly, his face a mixture of confusion and relief. Left alone, Mikhail stared at the empty cup. The faint stench of rotting potatoes rising up his esophagus was revolting.
‘I can’t live like this.’
A comfortable bed. Delicious food. That wasn’t enough. That was survival, not living. When he had lived as Kim Jae-han, he had given up all pleasure for the sake of survival. To avoid doing things he hated, he had even given up the things he wanted to do. But now it was different. He was Mikhail, the Seventh Prince of the Empire. If he had a status that allowed him to avoid doing things he hated, then naturally he should be able to enjoy whatever he wanted to his heart’s content.
‘This is just slowly dying.’
A life without pleasure was meaningless. Boredom was a poison that gnawed at the soul. In that case, he just had to create pleasure himself.
‘Should I sponsor some artists? Painters, musicians, writers, that sort of thing.’
He immediately shook his head. ‘How long would that take? Even if money weren’t an issue, there’s no way anyone in this backwater could meet my standards. Even if I brought in first-rate artists from the capital, who knows how long it would take for them to understand my tastes and produce something worthwhile.’
His standards were calibrated to 21st-century content. Most of what artists of this era produced would undoubtedly look childish and boring to him.
‘Then the only thing left is…’
His gaze fell on the empty liquor bottle again.
‘Liquor.’
He could just make it himself. The kind of liquor he wanted to drink. The perfect liquor that met his standards.
He combed through Mikhail’s memories once more. The taste of the top-grade vodka he had drunk in the capital. The clean swallow with no impurities, and the faint, sweet and savory aroma of grain that lingered ever so slightly on the tip of the tongue at the end.
‘I can make it.’
This world clearly had advanced distillation technology. Otherwise, that kind of flavor would have been impossible. The basic principles were more than enough with the knowledge from his time as Kim Jae-han. Use good ingredients, make a proper still, distill multiple times, and filter it well. And this territory, the Far East Maritime Province, was a place overflowing with high-quality grain and potatoes from its vast plains. The ingredients were more than abundant.
Once his mind was made up, he felt refreshed. He had something to do. And it was something he was very, very interested in.