Handout: To All PCs
If possible, please enjoy this slowly, perhaps savoring a whisky or the like.
The delicate sound of clinking diamond glassware, though somewhat out of place in the adventurer’s tavern, sparkled fantastically under the reflected light of the lanterns, maintaining an impeccable clarity reserved for their most valued customers.
“Do you enjoy strong drinks?”
“Eh? Ah, I…”
“It seems as though they might leave you unsatisfied?”
The feather-light yet deeply seductive voice, youthful but rich with allure, trickled gracefully from pink lips as if riding a refined court language only accessible to the upper elite. Everything—the natural pronunciation, the dexterous movement of uncorking the amber-hued bottle and refilling the glass—contrasted sharply with her outward appearance and challenged any preconceived notions.
The rich, amber alcohol trembled invitingly in the glass, marked as a high-quality drink by its pristine label emphasizing its presentation. Upon closer inspection, there hung from its neck a seal engraved with the name “Erich,” marking its owner.
“It seems we’re treated to his generosity tonight.”
She smiled cunningly, re-corking the bottle while intensifying her grin. Taking the proffered glass without water, the sorcerer hesitated momentarily before bringing it close to his nose.
The aroma was both powerful and refined, carrying notes of caramelized wood and a honey-like sweetness that tantalized the senses. As the scent faded, a faint trail of fruity essence lingered as if begging for more.
This was fine liquor. Once again, the golden-haired one proved to have excellent taste.
Cautiously sipping, the sorcerer allowed a minuscule amount to rest upon his tongue, overwhelming his taste buds with the potent alcohol. Though the more intricate flavors escaped his palate, the rich bouquet was still enjoyable to inexperienced, young taste buds.
“A fine aroma, but perhaps a bit early for me?”
With that, the sorcerer turned his focus to the focusing lens and began crafting a sequence of runes. A clinking sound accompanied the birth of a single ice cube in the glass—a simple yet precious form of sorcery that few outside ice chambers could replicate.
“Ah, how dextrous of you. The connoisseurs of the world shall envy such a talent.”
“Well, you know, being a sorcerer does have its perks.”
Spinning the large ice cube within the glass cooled and softened the alcohol while subtly altering its properties with a trace of water, enhancing its aroma into something both vivid and transformed.
As the sorcerer contemplated this, an old memory surfaced. Not long after coming of age, his mentor had offered him a glass of fine amber liqueur during a celebratory occasion.
“You remind me of amber liqueur,” his mentor had said.
Distilled and aged for long periods in barrels, amber liqueur hailed from the far northern island regions of the central continent—a place somewhat closer to the empire than the sorcerer’s homeland in the polar regions, and ironically one of the frequent targets of their plundering expeditions.
Being likened to this renowned beverage, perhaps, was due to the way a simple change in condition could drastically alter its flavor—an analogy perhaps drawn from the sorcerer’s fluctuating sensitivities with each gender shift.
Whether this was a mockery of his inconsistent sensibilities or a compliment celebrating his multifaceted nature, remained ambiguous.
Still, there seemed to be a connection between this bottle of liquor and that distant recollection.
Approaching the chilled glass, now misty with condensed frost, he appreciated the nuanced transformations in aroma. The intensity of the alcohol softened, with subtle hints of fruit now detectable. Upon tasting, the once-overpowering alcohol now balanced with a tender fruity nuance, complemented by an almost caressing woodiness. A testament to how complex flavors mature with time—perhaps paralleling his own eventual growth into adulthood.
The bottle’s contents had barely diminished, leading the sorcerer to believe its owner likely shared the same sentiment, savoring it carefully in anticipation of a fully developed palate.
Sharing in this quiet contemplation seemed to bring an involuntary smile to the sorcerer’s face—a gentle return to a sliver of the three-year gap spent apart.
“It seems you’ve enjoyed it.”
“Yes, fine drink. I might want to taste it again after ten years?”
He prefaced this with an acknowledgment of drinking too much of a favorite being somewhat excessive, implicitly declining a refill. His wish to remain by the side of the one who had given it went unspoken.
It was best to limit oneself when it comes to good drink—lest one risk becoming like his mentor, lamenting to an empty bed while gaining some unexpected wisdom.
“Did you work in the imperial capital, sorcerer?”
“I studied there more than worked.”
“Ah, that’s impressive indeed. And the golden-haired one met there too?”
Acknowledging with another sip, the sorcerer watched the ice dilute the liquor, smoothing out its flavor further. Reflecting, the sorcerer’s mind traveled back to who they were when first meeting him.
“That’s right… He came to work as a helper and our meeting was entirely coincidental. Later, we’d work together, play around, he’d even assist with experiments from time to time… He’s certainly someone I’ve shared important life moments with.”
Closed lids were unnecessary to summon vivid memories of when the then younger, golden-haired boy had carried his sister on his back. Now the same sister was a guest auditor known for her distinctive magical sequences, her name starting to make its way around the lecture halls.
Working as passengers on a pair of black twin horses, they had frequented the forests just beyond the outskirts of the capital, completing various commissions from the bulletin boards. Skills for collecting alchemical ingredients, the proper methods of herbal extractions—these were lessons that still served him in the present as he collected catalysts to economize on expenditures.
And there was the unforgettable maze of magical swords where they had gripped each other’s fates tightly in their hands, facing dangers and trials that made it hard to label them as mere good memories, but which were undoubtedly irreplaceable experiences.
Thanks to that, the sorcerer had learned how to weave efficient sequences with lesser magical expenditure, and gained a tangible understanding of the “limits” essential to every mage. A journey unforgettable in countless ways.
Above all else, it was the catalyst that allowed them both to expose their full identities to one another.
At the tavern girl’s inquiry, the sorcerer gradually recounted their shared memories. Funny anecdotes from the city, moments when the golden-haired boy appeared especially cool, ensuring that no lines were crossed where retellings would provoke anger, allowing instead simple entertainment.
Laughing gaily, the girl’s positive reactions encouraged the sorcerer’s words to flow unimpeded, recounting shared experiences, locations, and conversations with effortless joy. It was rare, unfortunately, to find someone in the capital with whom one could reminisce so openly.
A fleeting thought entered the sorcerer’s mind—how was their younger sister faring, left behind in pursuit of self-cultivation? Similar in hair color to the boy’s elder sibling, she had surely grown robust enough to no longer cry in loneliness.
Or, perhaps, adhering strictly to his principles, she had taken refuge at her brother’s old rented room, wrapped in an old bed that had by now surely lost his scent, crying herself to sleep.
The sorcerer resolved to share with the golden-haired one the many letters entrusted to him, and amidst this newfound reunion, perhaps allowed himself the indulgence of rejoicing without concern for others—a sentiment he justified as one that even the gods would surely forgive.
The emptied glass was exchanged for a refill, this time a brand more approachable—the same one the golden-haired had indulged in earlier. Drawing near, the sorcerer noted its soft woody and herbaceous undertones, a subtle and unpretentious choice that indeed suited someone with a well-tuned ability to distinguish his limitations while appreciating them.
Still, venturing near the limits and triumphing just before impossibility was undeniably a noble trait.
As these thoughts played quietly in his mind, a faint smile crept up. It occurred to him that perhaps this smile—a thinly veiled armor of the nobility, ever present yet harder than mere indifference—had become just a shade too expressive. Opening her eyes with a mischievous smirk, the young girl leaned in, discerning emotions.
“So, sorcerer… fundamentally, who is this golden-haired one to you?”
Direct and straightforward, with no pretense of roundabout questioning.
The warmth from the liquor was instantly chilled, an impossible drop of difference, unmatched even by emerging from a steaming sauna into icy waters. Cold sweat beaded his hands as a creeping chill traveled up his back.
The only prideful restraint left was refraining from letting the sweat trickle down his brow, though his cheeks tightened in effort. Maintaining a natural smile while his mind raced to consider the meaning of this query, the sorcerer analyzed.
Who, to himself, was this golden one? No, Ehrich of Königsstuhl—what was the nature of their relationship?
Words could be easily adorned. But living with emotions that could not be so easily expressed with words…
Being accepted purely as “Mika,” not as a neutral listener in the Magic Academy or a peer of the same gender, was something only he, excluding his parents, had managed to offer.
A night where the world seemed to crumble, yet gratitude welled within its rebirth—undoubtedly, Mika had been saved. Embraced as friend by Ehrich, as solely Mika, he had been granted the first real awareness of existence.
Thus, to him, the golden-haired one was an entity transcending words—exalted, admired, and cherished. A sentiment so profound that even should the gods claim understanding, they would be proven naive in attempting it.
Thus, he declared—
“He is my friend.”
Condensing multiple feelings into one, forged with the intensity of emotions, his unwavering conviction remained—a determination to be, in essence, merely his friend.
Casual like family, distant like a partner, and incomparably more than a mere acquaintance—only as friends could they heal each other’s unique wounds, confide in ways exclusive to such a bond. And even if they overstepped boundaries together, receiving each other as friends held paramount importance.
Friendship—forged through mutual respect and affection; the physical form, merely an appendage, neither overlooked yet secondary to the fact that Mika deemed Ehrich a friend, just as Ehrich regarded Mika as his own.
“Fortunately, he treats me as an unrivaled confidante too.”
This was unwavering, unshakable—regardless of any gender shift, as they aged together.
No one would be allowed to deny it. If such an exception were to be made, it would likely be only upon Ehrich’s own request.
“Did that suffice?”
As the meat of his face worked silently to maintain his expression, the tavern girl closed her eyes, crossed her arms, and paused in reflection.
The sorcerer, reflecting momentarily, tilted his head in curiosity. Until now, he had assumed this girl, seated atop what must have been a stool, was able to easily reach the counter standing at an adult’s height.
However, her current posture—crossed arms, closed eyes, and slightly arched back—didn’t indicate the use of any such support. Truth be told, when she fetched bottles off the rear shelves earlier, she hadn’t shown any telltale adjustments suggesting a height disadvantage.
“Well… It’ll do, for a passing grade.”
With an air both imperious and oddly fitting, the girl sighed.
“Complicated it seems, yet far from trivial… Not someone drawn by mere fame or mere nostalgia.”
The sorcerer blinked in confusion. “That child…?”
With no mysterious phenomenon, the girl simply stepped down from the counter, vanishing from sight momentarily on the other side.
But if she were a human child of appropriate stature, her head should have remained visible. Even if the substantial counter were laden with food or drink, something was distinctly wrong.
“Ah, my apologies, I was assisting John for a bit.”
The concept of the “cocktail party effect” was something the sorcerer had come across. It was the phenomenon where, amid a bustling crowd where many conversations overlap, one’s own name or a topic about oneself can still penetrate the noise. An unconscious brain filter developed by the late Sunlit School magicians that sifted meaningful speech from the clamor.
Amidst the raucous, the golden-haired boy’s voice, and his responses, echoed distinctly through the tavern. When the sorcerer turned hurriedly, sure enough, she was there.
Her chestnut hair shimmering gold in certain angles, her amber eyes—sharp and alluring—revealed her unmistakable origin. Underneath the smooth, dark exoskeleton of her lower limbs lay the unmistakable mark of an arachnid subspecies. She was no human, but rather a Flytrap Spider—a race of spies, hunters, and assassins, revered yet feared in the Threefold Empire.
Finally, the sorcerer’s mind connected these dots—her appearance resolving into a singular truth.
The golden-haired one often spoke of his homeland with affection. Even his admiration for Mika’s joyful storytelling masked something deeper—a certain side of him radiated a particular glow when sharing tales from home.
One recurring character in these narratives emerged—sometimes in words, other times simply implied—Margit, his childhood companion, a hunter girl who swore to become an adventurer. She was the one to whom he presented the treasured earrings as tokens of friendship, objects sacred and untouchable by even his closest friends.
Why hadn’t he recognized her earlier? The beauty of her chestnut hair, the amber eyes likened to alcohol’s luster in his tales—these vivid descriptors should have been clues. Logically considering, it seemed impossible for a tavern owner to ever expose his precious daughter to the rowdy atmosphere of late-night revelries.
This should have been obvious from the start. No, rather, she had hidden herself from detection.
The cold sweat and instinctive alarms now made perfect sense. Despite her bare hands, she had effortlessly sized up the sorcerer—not as an adversary, but rather…
Whether it was appropriate to introduce her into a partnership that could prove valuable to her prized companion was a question she had silently considered throughout.
“Haha…”
A dry laugh escaped him. He marveled, almost begrudgingly at her subtlety—this wasn’t a lenient assessment given merely due to his male form.
She had, undoubtedly, known him, just as her knowledge extended to his past incarnations—each gendered form meticulously investigated and weighed.
The words and sighs exchanged were infused with emotions far greater than mere alcohol.
“No, no… Absolutely terrifying.”
The sorcerer ran a hand through his hair and retrieved a tobacco case from his pocket. A calming, specialized blend taught by his mentor was in need—its gentle smoke promising stability and focus.
Crafting a small magical fire, he lit the paper roll made from cut fragments of notes and manuscripts.
“My friend, come! Let me introduce you!”
As the sweet scent and herbal-infused magical essence filled his lungs and quickly circulated, the haze of the liquor dissipated, returning clarity of mind.
“Indeed, my friend, your presence is clear! Shall we introduce this most resplendent huntress?”
The night was still young….
【Tips】Amber liqueur is a beverage whose character changes greatly with various methods of enjoyment, also used metaphorically to describe women in the Threefold Empire.
This story works best with a late-night surprise update.
Do not retreat. Do not flatter. Do not falter. Before the emperor, all foes are chosen prey.
