Chapter 113

Vrrrrrroooom! Clunk. Thud.

It’s a painfully obvious fact, but my Porter isn’t built for off-roading. This is a problem, because our settlement has what I (by my standards) would consider ‘no roads to speak of.’ It goes without saying what the lands outside the settlement are like. Swamps, fields, hills, forests, swamps, fields, hills, forests…

Screeeeech!

“That’s enough for today.”

Even if the destination is only ten or twenty kilometers away, the reality of driving here means weaving around swamps and endless obstacles. My speed is incomparably slower than on a paved road. This is especially true when wandering the frontier, as I am today, and the total distance I can cover shrinks even more.

I’m not finishing this today. I clicked my tongue and tapped the map with my finger.

“O Nameless One, will you be staying the night here?”

“No, I cannot impose on you. I am perfectly fine sleeping in my car.”

With that, I parked the Porter a short distance from the stronghold. I scouted the perimeter, and once I was sure I had privacy, I unfolded the awning.

Tick. Tick. Fwhoosh!

I lit the fire.

Clatter. Clank.

Out came the various cooking utensils.

In just a few more years, I’ll have been here for twenty years. The phase where I’d go insane with longing for a bowl of white rice with soy-marinated crab and fermented squid is long past. My palate and lifestyle have already adapted to the local diet.

I skillfully pulled out eggs, checked their freshness, lightly oiled a frying pan, and cracked them.

Tsssss!

With a long pair of wooden chopsticks, I scrambled them, adding diced onions, carrots, and cheese until a perfect vegetable cheese omelet was complete. In another pan, I melted butter and placed slices of white bread—a true delicacy here—on top to toast. The beef stew in the pot came to a rolling boil, and I ladled it into a bowl. Just like that, tonight’s dinner was ready.

…Buttered white toast, a cheese omelet, and beef stew.

Glug-glug-glug.

And to top it all off, a glass of Chesapeake fortified wine.

I stared at my folding table for a moment, overcome with emotion. ‘It’s getting closer and closer to a 21st-century meal.’

Of course, I can’t even dream of a proper Korean meal, and I still can’t get a simple bowl of white rice. But, as the Commonwealth grows, my standard of living is steadily rising! I may not be able to eat the 21st-century Korean food I crave, but I can at least make a decent imitation of Western food!

Deeply moved by this revelation, I took a bite of the beef stew. Ah, that’s good. It’s probably miles worse than 21st-century beef, but my memory of that taste is so faint now that it doesn’t even matter.

I wolfed down the stew, the omelet, and the white toast slathered in Shine Muscat jam. I was feeling pretty good.

I sat there in my expensive Helli-nox camping chair, just staring blankly into the fire for a long time as the sun set and the stars began to appear.

Pop.

Time for dessert. I uncorked the Chesapeake wine, and as the sweet-yet-bitter taste spread through my mouth, the fatigue of the day just melted away. To fall asleep now, in this cozy, drowsy state, while stargazing through the camper’s sunroof?

This… this is the ideal car camping experience.

And since it’s winter and I was worried about the cold, I even pre-laid the electric blanket on the bed. Heh, heh.

This is the reward I’ve earned after going through hell for the last ten-plus years. It’s dizzying just to think about how my last camper got blown away. Right before the hurricane hit, the truck flipped over, it was chaos. This small luxury, I’d say, is a minor compensation for a man who has been stabbed, survived a hurricane, and endured every hardship imaginable.

I sipped my wine, and just as I was about to doze off, I drank some coffee to wake myself back up. I haven’t had free time like this in ages; I can’t just let it end here. My body can handle mixing alcohol and caffeine anyway, so I might as well abuse the privilege.

As I sat by the fire, wine glass in hand, dozing off, a thought suddenly struck me.

‘Don’t I have anything stronger?’

I’ve been drinking the same wine for so long, I’m starting to get tired of it. I rolled up the blanket, left it on the chair, and staggered over to the camper.

Screeeak!

I pulled out a box, opened it, and examined the contents.

“…”

What do I have here? A small oak cask. I shook it. Slosh, slosh.

‘Should I open it?’ No. It’s only been a year. My wines haven’t even aged ten years yet. If I crack this open now, I’ll regret it later. At least three years. I should wait three more years before trying it.

“…”

Click.

Well, it’s not like wine, where you can’t go back once you’ve opened the bottle.

I poured the light brown liquid from the cask into a cup and brought it to my lips. 

Gulp. 

…Ugh, just the reek of alcohol. Yep, it’s still bad. Back it goes.

I closed the cask, sealed it tightly back in its box, and lay down on the bed. The high-proof alcohol was already making me sleepy. The identity of the drink I had just opened, was whiskey.

***

It was three years ago now, around the time Elizabeth gifted the co-monarchy to James of Scotland. That’s when the Scots began arriving in Virginia in earnest.

—“You’re an angel descended to Earth? That’s nonsen… how many acres did you say you’re giving away?”

They were people tempted by the promise of fertile, wide-open lands, a far cry from their own rugged, hilly homeland. As such, they threw themselves into clearing land and farming the moment they arrived. Where hundreds of Scots passed, vast fields of barley soon followed.

When their natural industriousness was combined with Virginia’s advanced farming methods, we were soon overflowing with surplus wheat and barley. While most of the surplus wheat was exported to England, the barley was consumed here, and a massive amount began to pile up.

So, the Scots did what Scots have always done with surplus barley: they made alcohol. They malted it, fermented it into a beer, and then distilled that beer. The resulting spirit… was the famous drink, whiskey.

Click. Gulp.

In Korea, thanks to import costs plus a 20% tariff, a 72% liquor tax, a 30% education tax, and a 10% VAT… whiskey was an expensive drink. But here in Virginia, I can drink all I want! Ah, in that one respect, this is definitely better than 21st-century Korea.

Of course, the Scots are still adapting to the different climate and environment of North America, so they haven’t quite gotten the hang of distilling yet. And since they only just arrived, none of the whiskey has aged for even three years. But I was perfectly satisfied, because of one simple fact:

‘I have time.’

In 10 years, 30 at the absolute most, something decent should come out of it. Plus, how great is it that we have a local, direct supply of casks that were previously used for fortified wine, shipped straight from Chesapeake? (Hello, Sherry cask finishing!) There are no taxes on distilling here, either. (Ah, right, we don’t have taxes on anything.) So the Scots don’t have to secretly moonlight to avoid the taxman.

Naturally, they don’t have proper distilling techniques, and they don’t yet know the magic that happens when whiskey is aged for several years in a cask. But isn’t that what my ‘future knowledge’ cheat is for? I’ve already commanded the Scots that all whiskey must be aged in a cask for at least three years. They’ll probably follow the order. Khaa… Thanks to me, the world’s drinking culture takes another giant leap forward.

****

“Why in the world did ‘He’ command us to age the whiskey for so long?”

“Because the ‘Angel’s Share’ wasn’t enough?”

Angel’s Share.

A metaphorical term for the portion of whiskey that evaporates from the oak cask during maturation.

“…”

“…” 

‘Wait… the Angel… literally takes his share?’

And so, a new legend began to spread among the Scots of Virginia.

***

Anyway.

Despite having mixed whiskey and wine last night, I woke up feeling completely refreshed. It’s been over a decade since I’ve felt a hangover. I checked the clock. Still had plenty of time.

‘Well then, shall we get going?’

I started the Porter’s engine, and a flock of dozens of birds resting on a nearby pond took to the air at once. Watching the magnificent sight, I opened the catalog. The ‘Immortal Order’ series is, at its core, an open-world action-adventure RPG. And, like most games in this genre, one of its main features is sightseeing. Hwangsooksoft’s open-world games are particularly famous for their map design, which naturally encourages sightseeing by having you climb a nearby high point to “reveal the map.”

‘So, that means… there’s this.’ Fwip-fwip-fwip.

 —’Beautiful Natural Vistas in Virginia and throughout North America.’ There it is.

It’s a catalog I’ve read so many times I have it memorized, but I’ve almost never had a reason to look at this particular section. Why? …Why do you think? When have I ever had time to wander around scenic spots and play tourist like some idle immortal? Until now, I’ve been farming, handling administrative work, stopping natives from fighting each other, stopping Christians from starting holy wars, surviving being nearly burned at the stake, preparing for plagues in London… Anyway, I’ve been insanely busy.

But not anymore. I don’t know what the future holds, but for right now, everything is stable. Minor conflicts are resolved by the Council; smaller issues are handled by each community. The Apostles and I split the administrative duties, and they each have dozens of assistants now. Even the farming… I don’t have to be the only one struggling to drive a tractor anymore. We have over twenty tractors now, so me taking one off the line won’t cause a critical failure.

That’s right. As the Commonwealth grows, my free time increases. As the Commonwealth grows, the only work left for me is making the occasional critical decision. It’s like how a village mayor, running around putting out fires, might be busier than the President of South Korea, even though the country is hundreds of thousands of times larger. My workload will probably continue to decrease. That is the correct and proper direction.

No matter how much I insist my will is not God’s will, I still possess a religious authority that ordinary humans can’t compare to. But in the end, I’m not a god or an angel. I’m just a human who… happens to live a long time, has infinite resources, precognition, and a universal translator. …Of course, summarizing it like that does make me sound a lot like an angel. But I’m not omniscient or omnipotent, am I? Minimizing my direct involvement from here on out is the right thing to do. For everyone’s sake.

“…”

It is absolutely not because I want a break. It is not because I’ve been running myself ragged for ten years and no longer want anything to do with power or responsibility. It is not because I’ve been stabbed and suffered various other traumas and now wish to minimize my time on the front lines.

Vroooom! 

Look! Am I not, even today, tirelessly driving around and inspecting the Commonwealth’s territory for the good of the people? And all without a single attendant or servant. I mean, just look at how diligently I’m working.

“Oh, there’s a migratory bird sanctuary nearby. I should stop by.” 

Vroooom! 

…This is all part of an optimized route. It is absolutely not tourism.

“Ooh… In the game’s original story, this is where the final battle between the secret societies takes place?”

It’s just a small detour. If I don’t take these little breaks to recharge my batteries, my overall work efficiency will drop…

Anyway.

“My current position is, right about here.” Scratch. Scratch. The courses of rivers and the locations of other land features change all the time. I drove along the river, correcting the errors in my map, and… 

Screeech. 

I found it.

“That spot. Nothing is growing there.”

An undeveloped phosphate rock mine.

My primary purpose for coming to this area was to confirm this location. I compared the catalog’s map, my 21st-century map, and my current location to gauge their relative accuracy. A stream flowed right next to it, and the phosphate compounds had leached into the soil, leaving the riverbanks completely bare. It was a case of over-fertilization; there were too many nutrients, and nothing could grow.

Isn’t this just ridiculous?

It’s a ‘mine.’

In Hanja, the word is written with the character for ‘ore’ (鑛) and ‘mountain’ (山). But, it’s not a mountain? The phosphate rock is just, scattered on the open ground? You just have to brush a little dirt off to get to it?

Yep.

North America is just a blessed land, designed by God to become a superpower. Dammit, why is the world so unfair? Some people are born in a country where 70% of the land is mountains and can’t even imagine finding a forest or a mine on flat land. And here, mines are just scattered all over the plains. And phosphate rock, at that.

Feeling a slight sense of psychological deprivation (?), I sighed and drove down along the stream. If I follow this, there should be,

“There! It’s ‘that cart’!”

There it is.

I heard the buzzing of a crowd, and soon people were flocking toward me. I quickly turned off the engine, got out of the truck, and took in the scene.

This was a new village, recently established near Pamlico Sound. It was populated by the Scots who had arrived after the Queen’s flight, and by the Spaniards who had surrendered in the last battle. Red-hued cabins, built decently from wood and brick, were scattered near the valley. In the center, a building with a tall chimney was spewing smoke.

That’s not a church.

It’s a whiskey distillery. These people built the distillery before the church. 

‘This is what happens when I don’t charge taxes… They’ve really gone all out.’ 

Of course, I did give them a little nudge, but this scale is impressive. The constant smoke suggests it’s in continuous operation. The village has only been here for a year or two, and they’ve already built that.

The villagers soon surrounded me, leading me into the town. I smiled and returned their greetings one by one, already exhausted. Half-pushed along by the cheering, laughing crowd, I reached the edge of the village and saw a large warehouse. As its doors swung open, I could see them: dozens and dozens of oak casks, stacked high inside.