At my bold reply, Count Gross roared with laughter and popped open the stopper of a large leather pouch.
“Hahahaha! Good, good! I like it very much. A man ought to have that much guts. But Prince Ian, this is no gentle drink like sweet champagne or wine.”
Count Gross brought the pouch to his lips, gulped down a hearty swig, and wiped his mouth with a satisfied grunt.
“I enjoy the finest wines from across the Empire, whiskey brimming with the fragrance of wood and fruit, and even the rum those coastal pirates drink… but there is no liquor I love more than the Empire’s traditional spirit.”
“A traditional spirit… Judging by the leather pouch, it must be a drink from long before the Empire was founded. A liquor of the nomadic peoples?”
“Indeed. Let me tell you a tale from long ago, from when the great Emperor Uzarath was neither emperor nor king—when he was merely the chieftain of a small tribe.”
My curiosity was thoroughly piqued by the historical anecdote Count Gross was spinning.
From the perspective of a liberal arts student, nothing was more entertaining than a history tale told over drinks.
“One day, while waging war against a neighboring tribe, Emperor Uzarath was struck in the side by a poisoned arrow and hovered between life and death. It was a lethal toxin that would have killed an ordinary man the moment it struck, but the indomitable Emperor Uzarath endured through superhuman will. Yet having been afflicted by such poison, his body was far from well, and the ailing Emperor, burning with fever, muttered in his sleep that he wished to drink this liquor. But how difficult must it have been to find spirits on a desperate battlefield?”
“And then what happened?”
“One loyal warrior who followed him risked his life to sneak into an enemy tent and steal this liquor. Lamenting to the warrior who presented it that he had nearly lost his life over a mere sleep-talked wish, the Emperor drank it down in one gulp and recovered miraculously, as if it were a lie.”
Count Gross caressed the leather pouch fondly.
“This liquor is the root of the Empire, its very pride.”
“…Remarkable.”
“I am a man who has lived his whole life breathing alongside horses. This is the finest mare’s milk wine, brewed from the milk of mares raised on the best grass in the Imperial pastures. If you know how precious and costly horses are in the Empire, you can guess how much care and effort goes into obtaining even a single sip of this drink.”
The Count continued with a smile full of pride.
“However, for foreigners who are not of the Empire, its unique aroma and taste may be rather burdensome. Now, would you care to try some?”
He poured the cloudy, ivory-colored liquid into an empty glass beside him and handed it to me.
I took the glass and gave it a slight sniff.
A peculiar sourness pricked my nose, along with the fishy yet pungent scent unique to animal milk.
I raised the glass boldly and tossed back a mouthful in one go.
‘…Huh?’
The heavy texture sliding down my throat, and the sour yet sweetly cloying taste lingering in my mouth.
Though it was made from animal milk, what first came to mind was the taste of well-fermented makgeolli.
‘It’s milk-flavored makgeolli…?’
Of course, in my previous life, I hadn’t been particularly fond of makgeolli.
It was a drink with a terrible hangover, and more than anything, I had a bit of trauma associated with it.
‘Why did those Anam-dong bastards love makgeolli so much?’
I recalled my past life, drinking with friends who attended university there.
Those crazy bastards had poured makgeolli into a dented aluminum washbasin, mixed in all sorts of things like soju and honey, and ladled it up with plastic bowls.
Ever since witnessing the sight of them offering the bowl they had just been drinking from to students from my university who watched in horror, telling them to try some, I’d felt strange whenever makgeolli appeared at a drinking table.
‘Still, it’s drinkable, though?’
The digression had gone on a bit long, but it was by no means an undrinkable poison.
“Oh, it’s surprisingly alright. It does smell of animal milk, but it goes down smoothly, and the sour taste is quite appetizing.”
As I emptied the glass and offered my calm assessment, Count Gross’s eyebrows twitched.
“Oho? You mean to say you endured this pungent odor in one go? You are more capable than you look. But what about this!”
This time, he took out a small, stiff leather pouch of a slightly different shape that the attendant had brought after him, and poured some into a new glass.
Unlike before, it wasn’t cloudy but much clearer—yet strangely viscous, a transparent liquid.
“Try this now. It is the soul of the nomadic peoples, distilled four times over in the traditional way from that very mare’s milk wine.”
Unsuspecting, I took the glass and tossed it back in one gulp.
“Kek…! Kuk, kuh…!!”
For a moment, I thought fire was spewing from my throat.
An intense, sour milk smell that stabbed the nose surged up, incomparable to before, and the alcohol content—likely around 40 percent—ruthlessly scraped down my throat.
Not to mention the strangely greasy and fishy aftertaste lingering in my mouth after swallowing.
“Kwahaha! How is it! The true taste of Arhi—a distilled mare’s milk liquor filtered four times, approaching 40 percent alcohol!”
Count Gross clutched his belly and laughed heartily, watching me with tears welling in my eyes.
“Will you still continue the drinking contest? Admitting defeat is also a manly choice.”
It was probably said out of consideration, but instead, a strange fighting spirit boiled up within me.
You want me to tuck my tail between my legs over this stinking distilled liquor?
I wiped away the tears gathering at the corners of my eyes with my sleeve and smiled.
“Of course I can drink it. But Count, since men are wagering their guts in a bet… isn’t drinking one glass at a time like this too dull?”
“You call this dull?”
“Yes. If we’re going to do this, I’d like to propose a fiery method used when true drinkers settle a match. It is the method used in my homeland to determine the greatest drinker. It’s called a drinking duel—have you heard of it?”
At my audacious proposal, Count Gross stroked his beard, seeming intrigued.
“Hoo, a drinking duel. How is it done?”
“It’s simple. Here, twenty glasses and liquor, please.”
I cleared the table and lined up twenty empty glasses in two rows.
“Now you and I will sit facing each other on opposite sides of this table. And we fill these glasses to the brim with that strong distilled liquor.”
I continued speaking and signaled the attendant to fill each glass with the strong liquor.
“No water, no side dishes. Only drinking.”
“…”
“The method is simple. We toast each other and simultaneously drain a glass in one shot. After waiting just long enough to catch our breath, we immediately toast again and empty another. Continuing without rest until… whoever vomits first, passes out and collapses, concedes defeat—or well, I’ve never actually seen it, but—whoever dies, loses.”
At my explanation, even Count Gross, who had weathered countless trials, showed a flicker of alarm.
Because pounding down spirits of nearly 40 percent alcohol one after another without a single side dish was nothing short of madness, no matter how one looked at it.
“…No, no matter how you look at it, downing nothing but strong spirits without side dishes is dangerous….”
The moment he hesitated and tried to back out, I uttered the magic words that worked on all men in the world.
“What’s wrong, Count? Could it be… are you scared?”
“…What did you say?”
“I said, are you scared? I believed you claimed to be the Empire’s greatest drinker—I trust you aren’t turning tail now that a real duel is before you.”
“Y-you… Hahahaha!! Very well, I accept the duel!”
Count Gross’s face, properly riled by my provocation, flushed red as a tomato.
Whether due to the pride of an Imperial noble or the reckless pride unique to a drinker, he immediately moved to the other side, dragged his chair over with a thud, and plopped down in the seat across from me.
“Very well! If you truly wish to see hell, I shall grant that wish myself! To your glass, Prince Sterling!”
“It is a duel, Count Gross. We fight one on one, and the loser drinks until he becomes a dog.”
“H-hahahaha! Good, good! It’s been a while since I met a man among men!”
I grinned and raised the glass filled with spirits high.
‘Liver, hold on for me!’