Chapter 11: The Unattractive Flower (7)
Chapter 11: The Unattractive Flower (7)
Translation: Godtl
6 AM.
The opulent private suite of the Litchfield Hotel.
Penelope Rosemore's somewhat early morning begins.
Penelope removed her sleeping cap and silenced the alarm clock blaring noisily.
"Haaam..."
She stretched lazily with a yawn.
Pressing the switch by the head of her bed, the blackout curtains drew back smoothly, revealing the scenery of Litchfield Square.
The sky, shifting from deep navy to a pale orange hue.
Lamplighters moving about, extinguishing streetlights with their long poles.
Adventurers bustling along the frost-covered morning streets.
"Everyone lives such busy lives..."
Sitting on the edge of her bed, Penelope gazed absently at the scene before slipping her feet into her wool slippers.
Though she felt like lazing around a bit longer, she knew all too well that time would slip away in the blink of an eye if she stayed idle.
"Ugh, it's cold..."
The northern regions were frigid by nature, and Penelope kept her room temperature low for the sake of her skin, so leaving the warmth of her bedding always required a bit of resolve.
The bathroom, which she reached with quick steps, was one of the spaces she personally cared for the most.
A bathtub as beautiful as a work of art, a spacious glass shower stall beside it, gold-plated faucets.
Adjusting the water to a balance between cool and lukewarm, a pleasant steam infused with the faint scent of white tea rose gently.
After a quick shower and brushing her teeth, she slipped into a fluffy, pre-warmed bathrobe and headed to the powder room, which doubled as her dressing room.
On the vanity, a breakfast of fruit and a glass of milk prepared by old man Ritz, along with the morning newspaper, awaited her.
"Absolute chaos."
Munching on an apple while skimming the newspaper, Penelope dried her hair.
By now, any lingering drowsiness had completely vanished.
She could go through these motions half-asleep, but...
The real challenge began now.
It was time to pick out today's outfit.
And this wasn't just because Penelope was a young lady who loved dressing up.
In noble society, refined appearances and attire weren't merely about "beauty."
They were an unspoken language that represented one's status and influence—sometimes even a weapon more effective than a sharp blade.
"Hmm..."
Standing before her wardrobe, Penelope tapped her lips thoughtfully before carefully selecting her outfit.
Today's choice: a luxurious velvet skirt with a glossy sheen and a cream-colored silk blouse.
She checked herself thoroughly in the full-length mirror, ensuring there were no wrinkles.
"Perfect."
After tying up her hair and finishing her light makeup, it was 7 AM—Penelope's morning routine was complete.
And with that, her official daily duties were also over.
It might sound strange, but the fact that Penelope, the noble daughter of the Rosemore Count Family, handled her entire morning routine herself was already unusual.
Instead of an alarm clock, maids would have woken her with polite inquiries like, "Has the young lady coughed yet?"
They would have bathed her, dried her hair, and even chosen, dressed, and adorned her.
Penelope would have drowsily nodded off without lifting a finger, letting everything be done for her.
That was the environment she grew up in as a child.
Though now, it felt like a distant memory.
These days, the family only permitted her the bare minimum to maintain the dignity of their name.
Like letting her play the role of a figurehead at The Litchfield Hotel or allowing her to use a suite as a substitute for a private villa.
Conversely, nothing beyond that was permitted.
No investments in her ventures, no support for Penelope herself.
So, the only things Penelope did in a day were...
Occasionally signing documents brought by the hotel's general manager, old man Ritz.
Pointlessly bashing her head against the wall of alchemy research that had long been at a standstill.
And stubbornly, shamelessly, making appearances in high society.
There was one thing all these tasks had in common.
They were meaningless.
No matter how diligently she fulfilled her figurehead role, the family's opinion of her never changed.
The barrier of the 5th-Rank remained as unyielding as ever.
And high society grew increasingly blatant in ostracizing her.
No matter how much effort she poured in.
In the end, she was just running in place.
A cogwheel spinning round and round in its fixed place, slowly wearing down.
That was Penelope Rosemore's daily life.
But recently, a small change had occurred.
It was meeting that eccentric general store owner who spoke to her so bluntly.
She'd discovered rich coffee with its splendid aroma, and most importantly, she'd discovered cola.
You could say she'd gained a small goal—to taste that mysterious beverage again.
Though the shopkeeper had scammed her by saying he'd make it "right away," making her drink a bunch of terrible samples...
Even that had breathed life into her otherwise dull and monotonous existence.
"...Should I go make some cola?"
She'd even caught herself absentmindedly thinking things like that.
Both ingredient gathering and flavor extraction had been completed smoothly.
He'd thought all that remained was assembling the cola like putting together a puzzle, but...
A complication had arisen.
"What a disappointment."
In the process of finding the right flavor ratio to recreate cola, he'd hit a snag.
He hadn't expected it to be easy from the start—even during his time as Minister Han-bin, reverse engineering had been tedious work.
Chemical fertilizers, antibiotics, disinfectants—that sort of thing.
But reverse engineering cola presented a critical problem different from those times.
Take the process of making chemical fertilizer, for example.
Nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium.
All you had to do was mix these three elements—commonly called the fertilizer trio—and test them out randomly.
At first, it might not work well, but eventually you'd get something like, "Oh, this one's effective."
It didn't necessarily have to be exactly the same as the "original."
As long as you got something approximating the correct answer through trial and error, that was fine.
But cola was different.
The slightest variation in taste and aroma created a world of difference.
Even though he'd calculated the approximate mixing ratio, there was no progress whatsoever.
The most fatal issue was...
"I can't remember the taste anymore..."
His tongue and memory were growing dull from all the trial and error.
After drinking so many strange colas, he couldn't recall the taste of the "original."
The more he repeated the trials, the fainter his reference point became, so to speak.
"This is troublesome."
At this rate, he'd have to "Create" another original to compare, but...
Making six bottles of cola would consume an astronomical amount of "Dice," the manufacturing cost.
For reference, Jurgen had zero Dice left.
"What should I do about this...?"
Was the bar set too high from the start with cola?
Should he have changed direction?
—Ding-dong
The doorbell rang from downstairs.
He had a good idea who it was.
It was a painful truth, but the only person who visited Jurgen's General Store was Penelope.
"Miss Penelope?"
"Don't come down. I'm coming up anyway."
Penelope, dressed in her usual extravagant attire, carefully ascended the narrow staircase.
"Honestly, after all that trouble yesterday, I didn't expect you to come help."
"I came precisely because of all that trouble."
And now he had some unfortunate news to deliver to her.
Just as he was about to tell her that cola production would take much longer than expected—
—Thud
Penelope pulled out a thick bundle of white documents from her handbag and piled them onto the table.
"What's all this you've brought?"
"Can't you tell? Evaluations of the cola samples I drank yesterday, along with scores for their similarity."
"Hmm, let me see."
"You can read?"
"Of course."
"Impressive."
He was already indebted to her for helping gather ingredients.
She'd even gifted him sugar.
After all this, he couldn't bring himself to say he was giving up, if only out of guilt...
"...?"
Jurgen's eyes narrowed as he skimmed through the documents formally.
This was...
"Miss Penelope, I hope you don't mind me asking... Do you happen to remember the taste of cola?"
"Are you mocking me?"
"You said you gave scores to each sample... They're remarkably detailed."
Her standards were consistent, as if she'd been alternating sips with the "original cola" by her side.
Moreover, she'd noted the differences between samples and even suggested specific adjustments to bring them closer to the original.
The proposed mixing ratios written in the documents looked extremely reasonable even to Jurgen.
This was worth testing.
"Wait a moment."
Jurgen poured cola into two glasses.
Samples 27 and 28, made this morning.
"Can you taste these and tell me the difference?"
"How dare you test me?"
"One must assess ability before requesting assistance."
"...Let me have it."
As Penelope took a sip of the sample, her brow furrowed unmistakably.
To be fair, even that one tasted rather questionable.
"Sample 27 has a bit more cinnamon, and 28 has a touch more phosphoric acid, right?"
"Why do you think so? The difference is barely noticeable, isn't it?"
Penelope gave Jurgen a look as if she found his question even more incomprehensible.
"Because it's obviously different? Though both are equally tasteless."
In truth, the difference between 27 and 28 was nearly imperceptible.
Had Jurgen conducted a blind test, even he wouldn't have been able to tell them apart.
Yet Penelope pinpointed the distinction with startling clarity.
Not only that—she even identified which ingredient had been adjusted and how.
It was proof that, based on just a dozen tastings the day before, she had already mapped out a rough blueprint of the flavor profile.
"Oh-ho..."
Jurgen recognized the talent Penelope possessed.
A divine palate.
A talent too precious for Britannia to contain.
Just as Jurgen was about to applaud and praise her—
"Here."
Penelope pushed samples 27 and 28 toward him.
"Why are you giving these to me?"
"You drink them too."
"Surely you don't mean to say that since you had to suffer through this, I should as well?"
"Exactly."
"...That's a revenge devoid of any grand meaning..."
"Revenge? It's the bare minimum responsibility you ought to bear."
As he endured the horrendous taste, Jurgen thought to himself:
Penelope was a talent worth recruiting.
At the very least, he needed her help in perfecting this cola recipe.
'The problem is...'
The assistance she had provided already far outweighed the "free cola" exchange.
Would a noblewoman like Penelope, clearly of high birth, willingly cooperate with such trivial work?
In Britannia, a meritocratic nation, noble daughters weren't the type to idly sip tea.
They were cheetahs, running fiercer than anyone to avoid falling behind.
But that worry soon proved unnecessary.
"I can help."
"Truly?"
"Didn't I just say so? I'm busy, so I can't spare much time, but..."
"Even sparing a little would be greatly appreciated."
Her agreement came surprisingly easily.
"Then I'll be counting on you from now on. Partner."
For reasons he couldn't quite grasp, he extended his hand with a smile.
Penelope stared blankly at Jurgen's hand for a moment before finally laughing.
"Partner? That's too ambitious. Let's settle for 'mentor.'"
Though her laughter was rather prickly.
From that day onward, Penelope stubbornly continued to assist in the cola-making process.
"Ugh...! I told you to reduce the phosphoric acid! It's too sharp!"
"Your cloak reeks of that nauseating smell. Did you use too much vanilla?"
"The cinnamon is overpowering. The cola you gave me before was mellower."
"Ugh... my stomach's churning."
And she didn't just complain—she provided detailed feedback each time.
Though she grimaced with every sip of the awful cola, she assisted more diligently than Jurgen could have imagined.
There was one thing, however, that Jurgen hadn't anticipated at all...
"You came again today?"
"The cola isn't finished yet."
"You're quite diligent, Miss Penelope."
"Shut up. If it doesn't taste better than yesterday, you'll regret it."
The fact that she returned—
Day after day, without fail.
Visiting the shop daily to help refine the cola recipe.
Yet, despite Penelope's aid, the path to the true cola remained arduous.
Even if they matched 90% of the flavor, progress beyond that felt impossible.
Five days passed. Then six.
"The carbonation feels unbalanced. It's too aggressive, don't you think?"
"I agree. I'll have to adjust the soda fountain."
"What if we change the mixing process? Combine the sugar, caffeine, phosphoric acid, and caramel color all at once."
"That does sound like a good idea."
A week passed. Then two.
"I'm too full to eat dinner..."
"The stomach has separate compartments for meals. Here, your favorite—potato pancakes."
"P-potato pancakes?"
"Take your time."
Penelope still came to the shop, still aided Jurgen.
And so, a month passed.
A time of endurance and relentless effort.
Countless failed cola batches sacrificed as offerings—until finally.
"We did it! This is it! This is the taste!"
"You've worked hard, Miss Penelope! Truly, you've worked so hard!"
Jurgen's signature cola, matching the modern version by 99.9%, had descended upon Britannia.
It was a miracle born from the efforts of two experimenters.