Connections at the Pop-Up Store (2)

The Hankook Ilbo.

It was one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of South Korea's three major newspaper giants. Given its colossal scale, the paper was frequently embroiled in controversies and public gossip, yet it firmly held its ground as an unshakable titan of the domestic press.

A craft liquor pop-up store inside a major department store was rare enough on its own, but with an open-run frenzy drawing massive crowds, it was only natural that an investigative reporter would come hunting for an interview. Common sense dictated that any small business owner would jump at the chance for free front-page publicity. Yet another phrase kept hovering stubbornly on the tip of my tongue.

I'm afraid I won't be able to do an interview.

Even before my regression, I had crossed paths with many journalists. Breweries in Korea daring to declare their intent to craft a diverse spectrum of world-class spirits were exceedingly rare, which naturally attracted media attention. Yet back then, almost every reporter approached me with the same condescending smirk.

"Look, business is struggling anyway, isn't it? I'll make sure to paint you in a good light."

"There's no downside for you here, President Song. Let's scratch each other's backs."

They were vultures obsessed with exploiting their press badges to churn out sensational, click-driven articles. It was true that public curiosity about Songhadang had spiked after those initial features ran. But in my youth and naivety, I had failed to realize a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠brutal truth: public attention was a ravenous beast that could sprout fangs at any moment and tear you to shreds.

And for Songhadang, that beast became an utter catastrophe.

The very moment Songhadang's experimental spirits failed to win over the mass public, those same reporters turned on a dime, spewing relentless vitriol. After all, nothing racked up page views quite like tearing a struggling artisan to pieces. From that day forward, I flatly rejected every interview request.

Yet whether I agreed to be interviewed or not made little difference in the end.

"Tsk. You'd better reconsider, President Song."

"Things are already looking pretty grim for you. Are you confident you can handle what happens when this goes to print?"

Veiled threats, followed by cheap, fabricated hit pieces. Every single one of them entrenched an overwhelmingly negative perception of Songhadang in the public eye. To be fair, my own desperation had played a role; I had jumped at media coverage far too hastily in my youth. Even so, our liquor had never been so flawed as to warrant such ruthless malice.

And yet...

"President Song? Is everything all right?"

I stripped away the professional title from the man standing before me. When I looked past his badge, all that remained was a single customer. I noticed his raw, chapped hands, which looked as though they had frozen stiff in the biting winter chill before slowly thawing out. His scruffy face and ruffled hair showed he hadn't washed in half a day, and a streak of dried mud clung to the hem of his dress suit.

"Did you happen to wait in line for the open-run?"

"Pardon? Ahaha... well, to be honest, that was my intention. But I had to step out of line for a moment, and I ended up getting pushed all the way to the very back..."

He must have stepped away to use the restroom. Even through his self-deprecating chuckle, a distinct tinge of sorrow flickered plainly in his eyes. Looking at him, a thought crossed my mind. With someone like him, wouldn't it be different? This wouldn't be a transactional interview with a cynical vulture, but a sincere conversation with someone who genuinely appreciated Songhadang's liquor.

"Er... I completely understand if you'd rather decline, so please don't feel burdened—"

"I'll do it."

"I underst—wait, what? You will? Really?! Let me give you my business card first!"

He had clearly braced himself for an outright rejection, and his eyes widened in comical disbelief. I found myself liking that unvarnished reaction even more. He hadn't barged into the booth shoving a camera into my face. He had stood shivering in the early-morning cold just to purchase a bottle of Meori: Autumn, and only after the event completely concluded did he approach me courteously to ask for my time. He stood in stark contrast to every journalist I had ever crossed paths with in my previous life.

And once I glanced at the name printed on his card, I recognized him immediately.

"Yes. Because I believe someone like you, Reporter Choi Yoon-sung, is worth trusting."

Choi Yoon-sung. He was currently a journalist at the Hankook Ilbo, but years later, he would strike out on his own, establishing a small independent newsroom dedicated to unearthing societal corruption and neglected incidents. Though he had no professional connection to brewing, I remembered his name vividly because of his unyielding professional creed: to publish only thoroughly verified, objective facts. Even when biased rhetoric and paid PR spin ran rampant across mainstream outlets, his reporting had always maintained a fiercely upright core. Rumors had even circulated that his refusal to compromise was the exact reason he was eventually forced out of the Hankook Ilbo.

"We have a brief window before we pack up, so shall we begin right away? Have you turned on your recorder?"

"Oh! Have you done interviews like this before, President Song?"

"Not personally, no, but I've seen how it goes here and there. Haha."

"Aha, understood. Then let's get right down to it. Thank you so much for your precious time amidst your hectic schedule. Could you please give a brief introduction of yourself?"

"Hello. My name is Song Yeonwoo, and I run a traditional craft brewery called Songhadang in Yeongwol, Gangwon Province."

From that moment on, the interview unfolded with surprising ease. True to his reputation at a top-tier paper, Yoon-sung knew how to pinpoint essential topics while keeping the dialogue warm, natural, and engaging.

"In your view, President Song, what is the single most important secret to brewing exceptional liquor?"

"Waiting until the rice, nuruk, and water harmonize entirely of their own accord. Only through patient waiting do harsh off-flavors dissipate and profound aromas arise. That is what creates a truly wholesome spirit—one that leaves your stomach light and comfortable the next morning."

"It sounds like to you, 'exceptional liquor' ultimately comes down to delicious liquor?"

"In my book, absolutely. Haha."

Carried along by lighthearted humor and honest talk, our allotted time flew by in a flash. Having carved out this brief pocket amidst the bustle, I needed to head back and help dismantle the pop-up stall anyway.

"Thank you so much for your time today despite your packed schedule. Um... if it's all right with you, perhaps next time..."

"Of course. Whenever we have meaningful news to share, I'll be sure to reach out to you first."

"Thank you! Please, make sure to keep in touch!"

Leaving those heartfelt parting words, the reporter bowed deeply and hurried off into the thinning department store crowd. Holding his business card in my hand, I quietly reflected on his name once more. Hankook Ilbo reporter, Choi Yoon-sung. It felt as if another invaluable bond had taken root—one I had never been blessed to meet in my previous life. A man with his integrity would surely write an honest, faithful story about whatever spirits we crafted going forward.

"President Song! Are you finished with the interview?"

Lee Ha-jeong walked over, gazing curiously after Yoon-sung's retreating back.

"Yes. I believe he's going to write a wonderful article."

"Well... if that's your decision, President Song, I trust you completely! Besides, President Sejun mentioned that you've seemed quite different lately!"

"Pardon? Me?"

Her casual remark caused my heart to drop into my stomach. I hadn't committed any crime, yet for a fleeting second, it felt as though my greatest secret—my regression—was teetering on the verge of exposure.

"He said you've become so much more dependable! Honestly, before, he said it felt like you were just rushing headlong into every crazy idea without thinking—oops! Ah! Please, you didn't hear that from me! Don't ever tell President Sejun I said that!"

Startled by her own slip of the tongue, Ha-jeong slapped both hands over her mouth before frantically busying herself with folding display banners. Certainly, what Sejun had said was true of who I was back then. Had it been the dizzying pressure of inheriting Songhadang from my grandfather? Or had it been because I leaned far too heavily on the loyal people standing by my side? In my early twenties, I had plunged recklessly into every trial and error without a shred of hesitation.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"I did talk a big game with grand hopes back then, but in truth, I was drifting without a clear compass."

"Really? I can hardly believe that! The way you are now, President Song, I feel like you could turn anything into delicious liquor, even if you brewed it out of powdered baby formula!"

"I was like that in the past, I mean. But do you really think so?"

"Of course! I'd believe you in a heartbeat! President Sejun said he feels the exact same way now!"

"Theoretically speaking, even baby formula might actually ferment, but..."

"R-really?!"

I traded playful banter with Ha-jeong partly to fend off the bitter pang of guilt stabbing at my chest. Sejun didn't know, but in my past life, I had stubbornly refused to let go of that futile brewing ambition right up until the brewery's doors were shuttered forever. In truth, that lingering regret still smoldered in the deepest recesses of my heart. If I had simply abandoned my dream before Songhadang fell to ruin, would things have turned out differently? Could Sejun have lived a peaceful life, starting a warm family of his own instead of drowning in private debt sharks' ledgers? And would I... have been a proud, upright son before my father and grandfather?

"Well... everything is going wonderfully, but there is one thing that worries me a little right now."

"Worries you?"

"Yes. President Song, you look far too impatient."

"Me?"

If anything, I had grown accustomed to people calling me an old soul trapped in a youth's frame, so her blunt observation caught me completely off guard. She wasn't teasing. Ha-jeong's gaze was crystal clear, earnest, and locked straight onto mine.

"How should I put this...? It's true that you're remarkably cautious and meticulous in everything you do, but to me, it feels like that caution comes from pure anxiety! As if you've convinced yourself that you're never allowed to fail, not even once..."

"Ah."

Her words pierced right through me. I understood instantly what Ha-jeong was seeing. In my previous life, I had been utterly shattered by consecutive failures. I had collapsed into the dirt, incapable of ever standing back up. But what about now? I had Sejun and Ha-jeong. I had the spiritual companionship of Songha and Old Man Moktong. And I had forged countless new, precious ties. Was that why the fear of failure haunted me so intensely? Because I was terrified of losing even a single one of them again?

"I think you can afford to relax a little, President Song. You brew spirits because you love the craft, don't you?" Having finished boxing up the leftover merchandise, Ha-jeong offered a warm, bright smile. "We're going to keep doing this together for a long time anyway, aren't we?"

Clang.

It felt as though the invisible iron collar cinching my throat had snapped and fallen away. Light. Wonderfully light. Just as I placed my faith in them, they were placing their unconditional trust in me. Enough for her to remind me, without an ounce of hesitation, that we were walking this road together until the very end.

"You're right," I replied, meeting Ha-jeong's steady gaze. "Because we're in this together."

Which was all the more reason to ensure that tears and heavy sighs would never await us at the finish line.

"Oh! Yeonwoo! Did everything wrap up smoothly?"

The moment we stepped through the threshold of Songhadang after wrapping up our schedule, Sejun greeted us with open arms. I had been worried sick that holding down the entire brewery alone might have overwhelmed him, so seeing him bursting with energy was an immense relief.

"How did things go here today? You're not completely worn out, are you?"

"Worn out? What's there to be tired of? It was just the same work I do every single day."

"That daily routine is backbreaking labor, and you know it."

"Eh, it's just raw muscle! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Haha!"

Could anyone ever match a physical constitution as naturally gifted as his? He had spent the entire day single-handedly hoisting heavy earthenware onggi jars and oak casks, yet he didn't show the slightest trace of exhaustion.

"Now that we're unpacked, shall we pick up where we left off earlier?"

"Ah, the national liquor competition? I went ahead and pulled together the materials for that too."

The contest we intended to enter was the Korean Sool Awards, where hidden artisanal masters from every corner of the country converged to test their skills. As South Korea's sole government-sanctioned traditional liquor championship, certified master sommeliers and technical judges subjected every entry to mercilessly strict sensory evaluations.

"And because it carries such official prestige, the submission criteria are notoriously stringent." Handing printed reference packets to Ha-jeong and me, Sejun walked us through the details. "An active liquor manufacturing license and an item manufacture report are the absolute baseline. On top of that, they conduct a full audit to verify that our core raw ingredients consist of 100% domestic agricultural produce."

"Then we're clear on that front. The cask is strictly a maturation vessel, not a primary raw ingredient."

"Right. Though we'll still need official quality assurance documentation proving our facility satisfies every regulatory benchmark. And..." Sejun flipped through the pages, tapping his finger firmly against a highlighted clause. "Here are the sample volume specifications. For takju, it requires six to eight bottles of 750 ml each. For distilled spirits or yakju and cheongju, it calls for around five bottles of 375 ml to 500 ml."

"Then for our category, that's five bottles," Ha-jeong noted, scanning the sheet before pausing. "Wait... there's also a stipulation stating that any entry must already be a commercially circulating product available on the open market."

"That's correct."

"Why would they have a rule like that?"

Ha-jeong tilted her head in confusion, but the rationale behind requiring commercial availability was quite straightforward. First and foremost was safeguarding the fairness of the competition. By restricting submissions to products already actively sold to the general public, every entrant competed on an even playing field rather than submitting one-off luxury vanity batches.

"Furthermore, if a spirit wins a grand prize here, that medal becomes the centerpiece of all their marketing," I explained. "If consumers rush to purchase an award-winning bottle only to discover it was never actually produced for sale, it creates severe backlash and feels like deceptive advertising."

"Aha! That makes total sense!" Ha-jeong nodded in enlightened agreement.

Whichever angle we looked at it, submitting an entry right this second was an impossibility. Our Dongjeongchun aged in the bokbunja oak cask was still quietly resting in the maturation cellar, and considerable time remained before it reached our targeted flavor profile.

"We should clear every administrative hurdle we can handle ahead of time."

"Agreed," Sejun said. "I'll keep a sharp eye on the cellar's condition, so why don't you look into whether there are any alternative regulatory pathways, Yeonwoo?"

"That part is manageable. The real bottleneck is time."

Sejun nodded grimly. And with good reason—winter was already nearing its end. Even with Moktong's supernatural assistance accelerating the oak interaction, the spirit wouldn't achieve full structural maturation until late April at the earliest.

"There's an unbelievable mountain of paperwork," Sejun muttered. "Just commissioning a certified testing body like the Korea Foods Industry Association and waiting for safety analysis reports will take at least two weeks under ideal conditions."

Starting with registering product specification records and securing accredited chemical safety certificates, every procedural step was a crawl. Getting the official product label approved by the Ministry of Food and Drug Safety or the regional public health center would easily swallow another two weeks. The calendar was ruthlessly tight. Unforgivably so.

"In that case, I'll start drafting label designs right away!" Ha-jeong chimed in enthusiastically, raising her hand high before anyone had even assigned her the task.

"That would be a huge help, Ha-jeong. But we can't compromise on artistic quality, so please sketch out several different visual compositions first."

Yet even label design was an art that could only truly culminate once the spirit revealed its final character. What could be more foolish than painting a label for a liquor whose soul hadn't even finished brewing? Now that connoisseurs were already praising our bottles, claiming that 'Songhadang's labels illustrate the very flavor of the drink,' we had to be all the more meticulous.

"Are you planning to taste the mature spirit before making the final call on the packaging?" Ha-jeong asked.

"Yes. Because none of us can predict its exact sensory harmony just yet."

I could have directed the visual motif based on my memories from before regression, but too many miraculous variables had altered the equation. If richer layers of wild berry tannins and velvety rice aromatics developed under Moktong's watch, failing to capture them visually would be a tragic waste. In the end, no matter how frantically human hands moved, brewing was an art governed by the patience of time.

Just as we concluded our meeting and stood up from the wooden table—

Rrrrring!

The landline phone mounted in the corner of the office shrilled with startling urgency.

"I've got it," Sejun called out, lunging across the room to lift the receiver. "Hello, Songhadang speaking... Yes, hello. What? Come again?!"

Sejun froze, gripping the plastic receiver with white knuckles. And in a fraction of a second, every ounce of warmth vanished from his face, replaced by a pitch-black shadow of shock.