Vol 2 Chapter 5 – Boyhood – Early Autumn, at Twelve • Part 5

Rumors spread quickly in a closed society like the manor.

“To the great swordsman!!”

“Cheers!!”

But I hope it doesn’t all run out in just half an hour.

In the square—tinted in a gentle vermilion by the red evening sunlight—the drunks roared their toasts, exhaling heavy, alcohol-scented breaths.

Incidentally, the one leading the drinking song for who knows how many times was none other than my foolish older brother, who until a moment ago was one of the guests of honor. His wife’s exasperated expression off to the side had apparently become invisible to his alcohol-soaked brain.

Amidst these drunks, I calmly down the cups handed to me. Since adventurers practically go hand in hand with alcohol, I secured my tolerance by properly acquiring the 《Uwabama Heavy Drinker》 trait. That way, I avoid doing something foolish when drunk—like passing out on the street or accidentally entering into bizarre contracts.

When I downed the contents of the goblet handed to me, a potent sweetness mixed with a biting herbal bitterness—an alcohol taste too harsh for a child’s palate—hit me. Wait… isn’t this undiluted honey wine mead? Are they trying to kill me?

I’d rather have it diluted with water or mixed with milk. My young palate just can’t yet appreciate the taste of alcohol. In my previous life, I enjoyed Western liquors quite a bit—but I didn’t learn to appreciate their flavor until I was well into my twenties.

“Oh! So being a strong swordsman means you’re also a strong drinker!”

“Alright, go all out! Go all out!!”

And as if he really understood… I’ll hold it against you, Father.

Glancing out beyond the enclosure, I saw Father cradling a dozing Eliza. He wore an apologetic expression before turning away—clearly having no intention of rescuing his pitiful son from this den of drunks.

After that, I bid farewell to the giant demon’s onee-chan—mind you, I must not reveal my actual age—and, now that I’d made a rather huge purchase and earned a good income, I couldn’t keep it from Father. So I quietly returned to the group to report the news.

However, with a few drinks in him and feeling all high and mighty, Father began boasting grandly. Moreover, he convinced Mother that all the money I’d handed over for winter preparations was “hard-earned cash” and declared it “a treat from your son!” before passing it off to the priest to secure an extra round of drinks.

I haven’t experienced marriage or parenthood, so I don’t really know—but is it normal for a parent to boast when their son does something?

That being said, things are really heating up. It seems there won’t be any worry later about Eliza having her pearls confiscated on the grounds that they’re too precious for a child. Our parents might not be as petty as those who pinch their kids’ New Year’s money, but they are cautious enough to hold onto treasures, fearing they might be lost if carried around.

I understand that such caution comes from caring about children, but it’s hard to appreciate when you’re one yourself. As an older brother, I really don’t want to see my dear little sister get into a fight with our parents.

I sighed, a mix of resignation and faint relief, as my empty cup was refilled.

This time, it was grape wine diluted with honey water. I’m grateful that even a young palate can enjoy it.

However… the day is gradually drawing to a close. Shouldn’t we soon shift to the event of shoving the newlyweds into bed?

“I always knew it! I always thought that, since you were the one left from that training, you’d eventually do something big with your sword!”

Yet my completely smashed older brother showed no sign of going to lift the bride. Instead, he clung to my shoulder, cup in hand, spouting inarticulate words. I just hope he doesn’t end up vomiting something else soon.

“Listen, Erich, it’s fine to build your confidence by slicing through statues, but real enemies do move a lot, you know…”

Moreover, having to endure Mr. Lambert’s equally disheveled, menacing appearance only makes matters worse. When someone’s drunk, it’s best if they spout off some nonsense I can easily ignore—but if they start talking about something that actually seems useful, you can’t just brush off a drunkard.

If everyone ends up this wasted, wouldn’t that be terribly awkward? If the wedding night turns into a disaster, I’ll surely be glared at by the manor’s ladies for the rest of my life.

“Um, Brother…”

“I got it, I got it! I’ll tell Father off! You’re gonna become a proper adventurer—off to search for that fairy coin!”

Forget the fairy coin already. It was maddening that, in the end, it wasn’t found. You’re old enough now, you know.

Damn it—why does every guy love swords so much? I mean, I do too. But still, there’s no need to get so carried away that you jeopardize the all-important loss-of-virginity event, right?

It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, you know? A moment for the rest of your life!

I was thinking it might be time to really settle a 《Physical》 check with my fist to bring him back to his senses, but…

“Hey, Heinz!!”

“What the—, Mina! I’m… about your old man’s future…”

“First of all, it’s our future, you know!!”

With her face flushed bright red, my wife charged in and bellowed at the top of her lungs. It was so loud that even the drunks fell silent, and the entire square was enveloped in quiet.

“Come on, let’s go! You all, too! You haven’t forgotten what day it is today, have you!?”

The delicate maiden, as if suddenly aware, snatched the goblet from my hand—the contents being honey wine, rather half-heartedly diluted with milk—and downed it in one gulp before boldly grabbing her husband’s ear. Not merely pinching, but yanking it up.

“Ah, ah, ah—Mina!? It hurts!? Hey, it hurts, I said!?”

That was the moment when the hierarchy between husband and wife was clearly established. My foolish older brother will probably be teased by his wife for the rest of his life, and his children will forever be reminded of his unseemly behavior.

Good—keep it up.

“Shut up! Come on! Stand up, you idiots!! Remember what day it is today!!”

The drunks, infuriated by the bride’s furious shout for being left out, hastily stood up—as if suddenly recalling the finale of the wedding ceremony. With alcohol-clouded heads and unsteady bodies, they desperately hoisted three sets of newlyweds and paraded them through the village.

Now, I wonder how many of them will make it home alive.

I quietly slipped away from the crowd and, miraculously, picked up a water pitcher left behind on a table.

“…You really shouldn’t stand out too much.”

Thanks to the blessing of the God of Abundance, the water—drawn as if fresh from a well—was cool and soothing on my throat, easing my alcohol-soaked stomach with each sip. And the steaming hot barley porridge tasted gentler than anything else in the world…

【Tips】 Mainly, the manor’s alcoholic beverages are managed by the chapel that houses its own brewery; they’re regulated and traded as needed. Additionally, national policies set fixed prices for alcohol—so in years of abundant harvest, prices drop accordingly, ensuring it remains generally accessible.

Bathed in the glimmer of the morning sun, I crawled out of bed, took a deep breath, and spat.

It wasn’t that I was suffering from a hangover; rather, a strong, sour stench wafted in from the open window.

After a rather chaotic turn of events, three sets of newlywed couples were shoved into their beds while the others, clutching booze acquired from an unexpected windfall, charged into a third party. The wild revelry—devouring still-warm food, singing, dancing, and, if the mood struck, even grappling or testing their strength—continued until midnight.

I suspect it’s because I slipped away without a trace. I was tired of being hassled by drunks, and even with my 《Uwabama》, my stomach had its limits. I absolutely wanted to avoid performing any pump tricks—triggered not by drunkenness but by sheer overload.

So, I slept as usual, though waking up like this is pretty rough.

The stench drifted from the grove near the window. Looking back, with my second brother and third brother occupying the slightly enlarged siblings’ room, it was obvious one of them was the culprit.

I felt an impulsive urge to douse them with well water, but I’m an adult—I had to hold back. Instead, as payback, I decided I’d advise Father to enforce a spell of abstinence. That should do it.

When I headed to the kitchen to wash my face, I found Mother already up—she seemed to have a stronger appetite for alcohol than Father—and was stirring a pot as usual.

“Oh, good morning, Erich.”

“Good morning, Mother.”

“Hehe, you were quite impressive yesterday, weren’t you?”

Though Father and my older brother had heaped endless praise on me for the statue-slicing incident, this was the first time Mother had complimented me—and I felt rather embarrassed.

“So, have you sobered up?”

“Ah, yes—I’m fine. Once I wash my face, I’ll go feed Holter.”

“Then I suppose you won’t need this.”

Peeking into the pot—prompted by Mother’s schoolgirl smile despite her age—I saw a soup with a sweet aroma simmering away.

“Ah, root celery…”

It’s root celery soup. This variety of celery, which grows a larger root, is a common vegetable that, when baked or boiled, offers a starchy, hearty texture; but I favor having it made as a potage. Grated finely and simmered in a consommé enriched with fresh cream, it transforms into a gently sweet soup. It warms the body, helps fend off colds, and is just right for a hangover morning when solid food is hard to eat—a signature dish in our home after a festival.

“Even if I’m not suffering from a hangover, I’ll gladly have some.”

“Hehe, sorry about that—I just can’t help being a little mischievous.”

Mother chuckled softly as she prepared a plate.

“Ever since you started calling me ‘Mother’ instead of ‘Kakasama,’ I’ve felt a bit lonely.”

“Then, shall I call you ‘ofukuro’^[1]“Ofukuro” (おふくろ) is a Japanese word that means “mother”. It is sometimes written as “o-fukuro”. ?”

Scooping water from a jar filled with stored well water and washing my face with a damp cloth, Mother laughed, “No way—I don’t want that; it sounds too much like a country wife.” I considered myself witty enough not to retort, “But you are a country wife!”

“Then, Lady, may I have a bowl of soup? And if you’d be so merciful, a slice of bread as well would be appreciated.”

“Understood, our household’s swordsman. I shall also serve you some cheese.”

Using refined, courtly language in my request, Mother replied in equally polite feminine court speech. And so, I enjoyed a light breakfast of warm soup and rye bread.

“How about some tea?”

Mother then offered me a tea brewed from the roots of wild herbs, known as black tea. The citizens of the Empire are fond of tea—not the kind from tea plants like black or green tea, but rather the kind made by steeping herbs and wild plants. This one is brewed from chicory roots; those familiar with the infamous “substitute coffee” will understand. However, this is carefully prepared at home, and if you think of it not as coffee but as its own kind of drink, it has a rather pleasant taste. At home, instead of milk exchanged with the neighbor, it’s customarily mixed with cream.

That gentle, delicious taste of home… I wonder how many more times I’ll be able to savor it.

My older brother is married now and is likely sleeping soundly in the annex with his wife, Mina. And someday, when he has children, I will become an uncle. When that happens, I’ll have to leave to make room for my brother’s family. Our home isn’t shabby, but it isn’t grand enough to be called a mansion; I can’t remain here forever. Eventually, even our parents will move into the current annex, and the headship of our family will be passed entirely to my brother.

Even the two older brothers are carefree enough to have already contemplated their own futures. There are widows seeking husbands and families with daughters longing for a son-in-law—perhaps yesterday’s heavy drinking and wild revelry helped ease those worries.

In the end, the best filial duty a son of a farming family can perform is to leave promptly, without any lingering attachments.

While savoring the fragrant black tea, I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sadness as I watched Mother’s back—she was busy preparing the soup to be taken to Father and my two older brothers, who were probably still groaning in their beds.

It’s not that I want to stay here or anything self-indulgent like that. I, too, am a man who once left home to work; I understand both its meaning and necessity. But still… I feel a little lonely.

Perhaps, judging by the fact that Mother didn’t dampen Father’s exuberance, she doesn’t oppose me living by the sword. Whether I set out on a warrior’s pilgrimage, travel far to enlist as a soldier, or even hand myself over to become an adventurer or mercenary, she won’t say a word against it. However, once I leave, returning won’t be easy.

Adventurers are like tumbleweeds. When work calls, we drift off in all directions. With no trains or airplanes, once you start working in another fief, the chance to return is slim. Just hitching a ride on a caravan from here to Innennstadt takes three days one way—six days round trip—which is far too long to pop in during a holiday.

It’s no different from becoming a temporary worker. And though it might sound foolish, I do have the power to become whatever I wish—and I once exercised that power in hopes of becoming the protagonist of a game I loved.

Then, I must resolutely speak my mind.

“Mother.”

“Oh? What is it?”

That I have decided my own future…