A Vessel to Hold the Spirit (1)
“To think it would be this much of a hit…”
“It’s incredible! Absolutely massive!”
“Right?! Even I was blown away when I saw it!”
“I was… stunned too…”
We had anticipated that Dalvorde would succeed, but the reality shattered every expectation. Not even a full day had passed, and the entire initial run was completely sold out.
“For starters, I think Ms. Subin deserves the most credit,” I remarked.
“No kidding. Her impact was insane.”
Subin hadn’t earned the moniker ‘the Nation’s Actress’ for nothing. The video she filmed at Songhadang took off like wildfire, breezing past one million views in record time. The comment section was an uninterrupted sea of glowing praise.
“Still, isn’t it on the stronger side?” Se-jun asked, tilting his head.
“For a yakju, yes,” I replied.
Despite its lush, honeyed profile and deceptive silkiness, the newly released Dalvorde packed an alcohol content of 16 percent. While nowhere near the searing proof of hard spirits, it was hardly something one could chug like water.
“Does that mean people who don’t know much about us are leaving comments too?”
“Exactly. And that proves our promotional reach worked just as intended.”
People who had never heard of Songhadang still knew Jeong Subin. Her genuine, spellbound reaction sparked immediate curiosity: What could possibly taste so amazing that even she looks like that? That alone was enough to draw eyes to our brewery.
“Even to me, she made it look insanely appetizing. Her reactions are pure celebrity magic.”
“Honestly, I thought it was some kind of nectar from heaven!” Ha-jeong chimed in.
“Me… too…”
Subin’s reaction upon taking her first sip had indeed surpassed all imagination. Her face lit up with an unfeigned, almost transcendent bliss, looking like a portrait of pure emotional revelation. The twins weren’t the only ones enchanted; viewers all across the internet had already started clipping her face as a reaction meme for when food tasted otherworldly.
Yet buzz was merely the match that lit the flame. The heart of it all was Dalvorde itself.
“People are raving about the packaging design too,” Se-jun noted.
“I poured my soul into it through countless all-nighters! There’s no way it could be lacking!” Ha-jeong beamed proudly.
Dalvorde’s packaging was undeniably breathtaking. Bathed in a radiant golden-yellow palette, the label depicted an opulent palace crafted entirely of sweet pastries wrapping around the bottle. Honey trickled down slender spires, while the courtyard bloomed with bushes and trees bearing colorful confections and fruits. It embraced Songhadang’s signature label philosophy: a visual landscape capturing every note of the liquor’s taste and aroma.
“By the way, what on earth is this little fairy?” Ha-jeong asked, scratching her temple as she pointed to a discreet corner of the bottle.
“That’s a dokkaebi.”
“Ah, right! A dokkaebi. I drew him in chibi style, so I got confused for a second. But why did you ask me to include him?”
In the spot she pointed to, a figure lay sprawled out across the garden grass with a blissful, drunken smile. Though stylized into an adorable, miniature cartoon, the intricate wrinkles, snowy hair, and clean white hanbok left no doubt that it was an elderly man.
“Oh, that’s just a personal preference of mine.”
“…You’re into dokkaebi, boss?”
“I have my reasons.”
In truth, it was a modest tribute. Oak barrel aging was a painstaking craft that demanded years, yet Old Man Moktong had made it possible to achieve perfection and release this spirit in a fraction of that time. I had actually considered adding Songha alongside him, but…
“I know you cannot answer right now, but hear me once more: have him draw me on a far finer liquor later.”
“Tch! Ye trying to pick a fight with me right here and now, friend?!”
“For all your grumbling, Moktong, your grin is stretching from ear to ear.”
“Ahem! Khem!”
Well, since they had settled it among themselves, there wasn’t much else to say.
“Any reviews on the taste yet?”
“Hardly. Most people haven’t even received their bottles in the mail.”
It was a slight pang of impatience. Dalvorde’s greatest triumphs lay in its lingering bouquet and layered palate. But now was a time for patience. Yoon Juho, the CEO of Juju Daily, had promised to pull out all the stops to deliver orders swiftly and introduce people to its exquisite flavor. That meant I needed to focus on what lay right before me.
“Shall we get back to our craft, then?”
“Our craft?”
“What else would it be? Brewing liquor.”
“Yes! I’ll… do my best!”
What else was a brewer meant to do if not brew?
“Hold on, Yeonwoo. Brewing is an everyday thing, but why does it feel like you’re psyching yourself up today?” Se-jun asked, blinking.
“Exactly! You don’t seem like your usual calm self, boss!”
“Because it’s time to craft a new spirit.”
“What? Already? We haven’t even seen the reviews for Dalvorde yet!”
“Come on, you know as well as I do how incredible it tastes,” Ha-jeong said, puffing out her chest. “Once the reviews roll in, they’re guaranteed to be nothing but rave applause.”
“W-Well, sure, that’s true enough… But my point is, even if you want to make a brand-new liquor right this second, it’s not like it pops out of thin air with a snap of your fingers, does it?” Se-jun shrugged, voicing his grounded hesitation.
Every brewery needed someone like him—someone who didn’t just nod along, but voiced reasonable counterpoints out of genuine care for Songhadang. It was thanks to his level-headed friction that I could articulate my course with absolute clarity.
“Just as Ha-jeong said, Dalvorde will undoubtedly succeed.”
I wasn’t relying solely on my own conviction. Two dokkaebi, practically the living avatars of traditional brewing, had praised it in unison as an extraordinary spirit.
“Naturally, we’ll monitor the sales channels, distribution strategies, and market feedback closely to adapt as needed. But that’s all the more reason to ride this wave of momentum and introduce our next lineup.”
“Alright, so what do you have in mind this time?”
“I’ve already decided.”
Our very first creation, Meari—the Nokpaju—had stood tall on crisp clarity and the refreshing breath of pine. Our next triumph, Dalvorde, the aged yakju derived from Dongjeongchun, brought forward decadent, honeyed sweetness.
To establish Songhadang as a prestigious brand in its own right, we needed to showcase a diverse spectrum of expressions early on. We had to engrave the perception that we weren't just masters of one style, but masters of exquisite flavor across the entire craft.
“This time, I’m going to brew a liquor that is heavy-bodied yet sharply acidic.”
“Heavy-bodied… yet acidic? Wouldn’t that just turn out brutally sour?”
“Under normal circumstances, very likely.”
A heavy body in alcohol typically signaled high density. When it touched the palate, even a modest sip delivered an intense, concentrated weight. If pronounced acidity were introduced to such a profile, instead of a pleasant tartness, it ran the risk of assaulting the tongue with the jarring sourness of raw lemon.
“That’s precisely why we need something special before we can even begin.”
“Need something… Like what?”
“…Need what?”
“An onggi.”
And not just any ceramic jar, but an onggi crafted under an extraordinary set of hands.
“So that’s why we drove all the way out here?”
“We’re almost there.”
Se-jun gazed through the passenger window, taking in the rolling countryside. After gripping the steering wheel for hours, our journey brought us deep into Hongcheon County, Gangwon Province. Venturing further inland toward Gyeorun-ri, clusters of rustic brown jars began appearing in huddled rows along the roadside.
“Oh, look at that. You can already see onggi everywhere.”
“Indeed. This is Gyeorun-ri Onggi Village.”
Legend had it that the entire valley once overflowed with so many potters that people simply called it ‘Onggi Village.’ For generations, artisans fired clay vessels directly in wood-burning climbing kilns and loaded them onto riverboats to be ferried down the Hongcheon River. It was a storied pottery enclave boasting centuries of heritage.
Or rather, it was more accurate to say that it used to be.
“Though not anymore.”
“Huh? Weren’t you just passionately talking about onggi a second ago?”
“The name Onggi Village remains, but the masters who shaped this valley have long since packed up and gone.”
The passage of time was an unyielding, cruel tide. All that lingered in this once-thriving artisan colony were local eateries hung with faded vinyl banners boasting regional delicacies, and sprawling apple orchards flanking the narrow roads.
“Now that you mention it… those jars back there were all shattered pieces, weren't they?”
Slowing the car to a crawl, the true landscape revealed itself. The brown silhouettes lining the wayside weren't intact jars, but cracked shards and broken rims caked in decades of dust and moss. Thick weeds encroached upon the roadside dirt, revealing how rarely human feet traversed these paths.
“So why come here at all?”
“Because there is still one person left.”
“Wait, didn’t you just say everyone left?”
“Most did. But one master remains.”
When everyone else abandoned their kilns, weathering through relentless economic storms and modern mass-produced substitutes, one solitary craftsman had dug his heels into this earth with unbending grit and obstinate pride. An artisan who strictly adhered to traditional wood-ash glazes—a master whose skill was nothing short of living cultural heritage.
“Someone like that has got to be famous, right? Anyone in the know should recognize his name.”
“That’s the thing. He isn't.”
“What?”
My knowledge of this man was entirely thanks to a bittersweet encounter in my previous life. Strictly speaking, I had never met the master in the flesh. I had merely stumbled upon one of his surviving jars years later and stood breathless at its sheer perfection. It was during that encounter that I heard his story from his son, who held custody of the remaining vessels.
“He had no interest in fame or commercial success. He just wanted to throw clay and fire jars right here in total isolation.”
“How on earth did you track down someone like that?”
“One way or another.”
“Man, he sounds like an archetype straight out of a novel. An old hermit refusing the spotlight, firing pottery out in the wilderness.”
Listening to Se-jun, my fingers tightened against the steering wheel. In truth, that romantic isolation was part of why I had hurried here.
‘My father passed away.’
‘Pardon? How did…’
‘We don’t even know. He cut off contact at some point… But when he entered the kiln to fire pottery, he would routinely vanish for days, sometimes months on end, so we didn't suspect anything…’
They never even discovered the exact cause of death. By the time his family grew uneasy over the prolonged silence and came looking for him, the old master had already been deceased for over a month.
“Is his onggi really that extraordinary?”
“Without a shadow of a doubt.”
The jar his weeping son had shown me was the most flawless vessel for fermenting spirits I had ever witnessed in my entire life. Narrow at the mouth and swelling generously at the belly, its geometry was tailored to preserve a protective layer of carbon dioxide above the fermenting mash. Furthermore, it was glazed with authentic lye water infused with oak charcoal ash before being fired at grueling temperatures—a traditional method that coaxed an incomparable depth of aroma and respiration from the fermenting liquid.
To brew the spirit I had envisioned, Master Lee’s onggi wasn’t merely desirable; it was irreplaceable.
“I was told it was around here…”
“Doesn’t look like the car can go any further, does it?”
“Seems that way. Let’s park here and walk.”
“Aigoo. An artisan down to his marrow, alright…”
Grumbling under his breath, Se-jun hauled the wooden cases from the trunk and set off with brisk strides down the untamed path. I followed close behind him, watching his back as we pressed through the overgrowth.
“Still, how do you plan on convincing a guy like that? Let’s be real—Songhadang might be an inheritance from your grandfather, but we’re hardly a household name yet, are we?”
“You’re right. Aside from our scenic view, we don't have much flashy prestige to boast about. Except for one thing.”
“What?”
“What you’re carrying right now. We have total confidence in that.”
The ultimate trump card to sway a stubborn, unyielding artisan: the very spirits we had poured our lives into creating.
“Ha! That, I won’t deny. We're unbeatable there! Hahaha! Alright, let’s go knock on his door! Only… where on earth is his house supposed to—?”
“What kind of scoundrels come barging in here looking for a house?!”
A thunderous roar crashed down behind us like a lightning bolt.
Startled, we whipped around to find an elderly man glaring down at us. His beard and hair were stark white, bound tightly back away from his face. Deep creases scored his weathered skin and calloused hands, yet his eyes blazed with a fierce, razor-sharp fury.
The old man drew in a breath and bellowed once more, his voice rattling our eardrums.
“Get the hell out of Lee Kyeongsik’s home, you worthless bastards!”
I found him.
The master of onggi I had longed to meet since my previous life.
Master Lee Kyeongsik.
“What are you standing around for?! GET OUT!”
…Though our first meeting was off to an undeniably rocky start.