NOVEL ONLINE FREE Chapter 15
In the secluded community known as Shou, news travels fast.
“To the great swordsman, cheers!!”
“Cheers!!”
And yet, having it circulate through the entire place within half an hour is quite the trial.
On the plaza dyed a gentle vermillion by the crimson twilight, the drunkards let out a toast with intoxicating breaths. Incidentally, the one riling them up again for who-knows-what time was none other than my own dimwit brother, who was supposedly one of the guests of honor just moments before. His wife standing nearby had a baffled expression that seemed to have gone unnoticed by his alcohol-soaked brain.
Amidst the drunkards, I calmly sipped the drinks offered to me. Being an adventurer means dealing with alcohol, so my tolerance is secured by thoroughly obtaining the [Immunity] trait, giving me peace of mind. Don’t want to get drunk and do something weird, pass out on the road, or unknowingly enter some strange contract.
As I gulped down the contents of the goblet handed to me, the strongly sweet yet harshly bitter taste of herbs hit the taste buds of a child’s tongue. Seriously, this is uncut mead, isn’t it? Are you trying to kill me?
I’d appreciate it if they could water it down with water or milk. This young tongue of mine just can’t find pleasure in the taste of alcohol yet. Back in my past life, I did develop a taste for spirits, but that wasn’t until I passed the middle of my twenties.
“Wow, being a great swordsman means also being a great drinker, huh?”
“Go on, keep going! Keep going!!”
And they’re fully aware, aren’t they… I resent you, Father.
Looking over to where my father was, cradling the sleeping Eliza at the outskirts of the revelry, he simply made an apologetic face and turned away. He doesn’t seem to have any intention of rescuing his poor son from this den of drunks.
After parting with the ogre sister — I mustn’t touch the subject of my real age — and realizing the substantial shopping and income I’d gained meant I couldn’t keep it from Father, I quietly reported back to everyone.
However, with alcohol loosening his tongue, Father started boasting loudly for some reason. Worse yet, he took the money I’d handed over to help with winter preparations, convinced Mother it was “fool’s gold,” and proudly proclaimed it a treat from his son to get the priest to fetch more drinks.
I’ve never been married nor had children, so I don’t know, but is this just the natural instinct of parents wanting to boast about their son’s achievements?
That said, with this much excitement, it seems there’s no worry of Eliza confiscating the pearls later, claiming they’re too extravagant for a child. While my parents aren’t the kind to embezzle children’s gifts, they do have the worrying habit of holding onto valuables for safekeeping, fearing they might be lost if carried around.
I understand the worry comes from love, but as a child, it’s difficult to see that. As an older brother, I’d rather not witness my cute sister pouting and fighting with our parents over such things.
Mixing my sigh with a faint sense of relief as my empty goblet was being refilled, I observed that this time it was diluted wine mixed with honey water. A drink enjoyable enough for a child’s palate, how considerate.
But… it’s almost getting dark, isn’t it? Shouldn’t we move on to the event where we send the newlyweds off to bed?
“Of course! Just as I suspected! From the martial training you left behind, I knew you’d accomplish great things someday!”
But there’s no sign of my drunken brother, who was supposed to carry the bride, getting up. Instead, he’s hugging my shoulder and babbling senseless words while holding his own goblet. Hopefully, he doesn’t end up vomiting instead of talking.
“Listen, Erich, practicing cutting stationary objects is good for building confidence, but real enemies move a lot, you see…”
Also, there’s the stern-faced Mr. Lambert, who’s dead drunk and trying to give me unsolicited advice. It’s a chaotic mess, and the drunker he gets, the more he keeps talking. It’s frustrating because he’s saying useful things, but these are things I don’t want to take seriously since he’s drunk.
If everyone collapses like this, it’d be quite a problem. If the newlyweds miss out on their consummation tonight, I’m sure I’ll be giving the village women something extra to glare at me for.
“Excuse me, Brother…”
“I know, I know! I’ll talk to Dad! Don’t worry, he’ll support you becoming a proper adventurer and hunting for fairy coins!”
The fairy coin thing already got old. If anything, its unavailability must still nag at you deep down. You’re old enough to move on, you know.
Damn, why do all men love swords so much? I love them too, don’t get me wrong, but there’s no need to go this wild and ruin such an important coming-of-age event, right?
After all, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime event, something significant, isn’t it?
I contemplated whether it’d be necessary to negotiate using a [Body] skill to bring everyone back to their senses…
“Hey, Heinz!!”
“What, Mina!? I’m… I’m here for the future of my son!”
“First, let’s talk about our future!!”
With a flushed face, the bride interrupted and shouted loudly enough to silence all the drunkards, sending the entire plaza into a sudden silence.
“Alright, let’s go! You guys too! Haven’t you forgotten what day it is!?”
The fragile-looking young lady unexpectedly seized the moment, snatching the goblet from my hand — the content was honey water only slightly diluted with milk — drained it in one go, and unceremoniously yanked on her husband’s ear. It wasn’t just pinching; it was a full-on ear-lift.
“Aiiiiigh?! Mina?! That hurts?! What… it hurts!!?”
The moment the marital hierarchy was undeniably established. Chances are my foolish brother will be endlessly teased by his wife about this day, exposed for being uncool in front of their kids, and forever kept in check.
Good for you, keep it up.
“Enough of your nonsense! Come on, you idiots! Get up and remember what day it is!!”
Spurred by the bride’s enraged outcry, everyone quickly scrambled to their feet, recalling the grand finale of the wedding. Despite being drunk, they desperately moved their bodies, carrying the three newlywed pairs in a procession around the village.
We’ll see how many of them will make it back alive.
I quietly slipped away from the crowd, grabbing a miraculously untouched water pitcher from the table…
“…Not the time to make a scene, is it?”
The icy water, blessed by the God of Fertility, was soothing on my throat, and I sipped it gently as it settled my alcohol-overloaded stomach. The slightly warm barley porridge tasted especially comforting…
With the tips of sunlight gleaming, I crawled out of bed, took a deep breath, and promptly spat…
It wasn’t from a hangover but from the strong, acidic smell wafting in through the open window.
Far from proceeding without incident, the three newlywed couples were sent off to bed, and the rest of the revelers, buoyed by temporary income, moved on to a third drinking session. Amid the lingering food, they ate, sang, danced, and even engaged in wrestling matches or tests of strength for hours into the night. This is speculative since I discreetly excused myself early, tired of dealing with drunkards and nearing my alcohol capacity despite my [Immunity] trait. I avoided vomiting from overconsumption at all costs.
Thus, after retiring to bed as usual, waking up feeling like this was somewhat painful.
The smell originated from a cluster of trees near the window. Judging by the slightly larger bedrooms for my older siblings, either my older or younger brother was undoubtedly responsible.
I impulsively wanted to douse them with well water, but I’m an adult, so I restrained myself. As revenge, I’ll suggest to Father that they abstain from alcohol for a while. That sounds about right.
Heading to the kitchen to wash my face, I found Mother already there — who I’m sure drank more than Father last night — stirring a pot as usual.
“Good morning, Erich.”
“Good morning, Mother.”
“Hohoho, it seems you were quite the star yesterday!”
I’d been sufficiently praised by Father and my older brother for my stationary cutting feats, but receiving praise from Mother was new and somewhat embarrassing.
“So, has the alcohol worn off?”
“Yes, Mother, I’m fine. After washing up, I’ll go feed Holter.”
“Ho ho, then I suppose this isn’t needed?”
Prompted by Mother’s smile, which seemed youthful despite my age, I peeked into the pot to see a familiar aroma.
“Ah, root celery…”
Root celery soup. A variety of celery with a prominent bulb-like root, when cooked it gains a comforting texture akin to a potato. One of my favorites when boiled into a creamy potage. Finely grated and simmered with consommé and cream, the soup has a mild sweetness that warms the body, great for combating colds or two-day hangovers after festivals. It’s a staple in our house post-celebrations.
“Even without a hangover, I’d love to have some.”
“Ho ho, forgive me. I couldn’t help but tease you a little.”
Mother giggled and prepared my serving.
“You’ve started calling me ‘Mother’ instead of ‘Mom,’ haven’t you? It made me a little lonely.”
“Then shall I call you ‘Mother’ or ‘Mom dear’?”
As I washed my face with water from the well bucket and dried off with a cloth, Mother laughed, “No no, that sounds too much like a countrywife.”
Here, I aimed for wit without overly pandering by not responding too countryfolk-like, “Very well, then Madam, might I request a bowl of soup? If there’s any room for mercy, a piece of bread would be delightful.”
“Accepted, my household swordsman. With complimentary cheese, of course.”
With ceremonious court language, we exchanged pleasantries. She served the warm soup, and I enjoyed a light breakfast of rye bread.
“Would you care for tea?”
The tea she offered was a concoction from black tea herbs, brewed from wild grass roots.
The imperial folk are fond of tea. Not those from the tea plant, like black or green tea, but herbal teas made from wild herbs. Familiar to some as a notorious “replacement coffee,” but brewed at home with care, it holds its own unique charm when not viewed as a coffee substitute. Traditionally, we enjoy it with cream rather than the neighbor’s milk.
The warm, comforting home flavor reminded me… how many more times will I get to enjoy this?
My older brother is married, no doubt slumbering now in the annex beside his wife, Miss Mina.
One day, my brother will have a child, and I will become an uncle.
At that time, to make room for the couple, I’ll need to leave home. Our home isn’t shabby, but it’s not expansive enough to call a mansion, so I cannot stay indefinitely. Eventually, my parents will move to the annex, and my brother will officially take over as the head of the household.
My two older brothers seem to have their own future plans despite their calm demeanor. There are widows seeking a new husband and families seeking a son-in-law. Yesterday’s revelry probably helped alleviate their anxieties about these matters.
In the end, the best filial act we, the farmer sons, can do is to leave promptly and cleanly.
The older brothers will likely depart soon, either seeking a new life or marriage elsewhere. Widow remarriages and daughter-in-law-seeking families aren’t uncommon. The heavy drinking and celebrations were likely an attempt to drown out these worries.
Ultimately, the best filial act for us farmer’s sons is to make a clean break and leave.
As Mother prepared soups to take to my father and two older brothers, who were probably groaning in bed at this hour, the aroma of black tea wafted through the air, and I felt an inexplicable melancholy.
Not because I want to stay here or say something childish like that…
I, too, have once left home to work. I understand the implications and necessity of that. But…
Still… it feels lonely…
From how things played out, Mother seems to have no intention of criticizing my choice to live by the sword. Whether I embark on a wandering martial pilgrimage, become a soldier far away, or exhaust myself as an adventurer or mercenary, I doubt she will say a word against it.
But, leaving home means it will be hard to come back freely…
Adventurers are like driftwood, moving wherever work calls. Without trains or airplanes, traveling for work to different territories means fewer opportunities to return. It takes three days riding with a caravan just to get to Innenschstadt. A six-day round trip is far too much time for a casual visit home.
This doesn’t change even if I work as a temporary laborer elsewhere. And foolish as it may sound, I’ve desired to become someone special since having this ability. Having longed to become the protagonist of beloved games, I’ve exercised my powers to chase after that dream.
Thus, I must resolve myself and declare…
“Mother…”
“What is it?”
That I’ve decided my own future…