The first sip of mead was an unexpected delight. Sweeter and lighter than beer, it coated Jack’s tongue with a gentle sweetness. Beneath the honeyed notes was a subtle tang, bright and zesty, reminiscent of lemon peel. As he swallowed, a comforting warmth spread through his chest, leaving behind an earthy, spiced aftertaste.

  “So. How would you describe it?” Gretchen asked.

  “It’s really good,” Jack said, lowering the cup with a satisfied nod.

  Gretchen frowned, her brow knitting with displeasure. “Try it again,” she said, her tone almost scolding.

  What did I say wrong?

  Jack blinked but obeyed. Just as he tipped the cup to his lips again, she added, “Don’t just drink it. Taste it. Focus. What’s happening in your mouth?”

  He paused, letting the liquid linger on his tongue this time. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the flavors unfurling across his palate.

  “I think I can taste that citrusy note again—the one from the pines,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Good! Exactly!” Gretchen said, her face lighting up. “You’ve caught the essence of the honey I used for this batch.”

  With practiced ease, she reached for another barrel and poured a fresh glass. The liquid shimmered as it caught the light, a shade darker than the first. “Now, try this one. Tell me what you taste.”

  Jack hesitated, noting the way her gaze sharpened as if daring him to trigger a trap she prepared for him. He sipped cautiously, letting the new mead rest on his tongue. The citrus and resinous pine notes were still there, but something had shifted as though the mead had lost some weight.

  “It feels… lighter,” he said after a moment.

  “Exactly,” Gretchen said, nodding with approval. “Now, why do you think that is?”

  Jack scratched his chin, brow furrowing in thought. “I’m not sure. Did you use a different honey?”

  “Same honey,” she replied, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Didn’t you notice? The pine and resin flavors are still there.”

  “Right.” He shook his head, perplexed. “Then I don’t know. It just feels lighter.”

  Gretchen chuckled. “That’s because I changed something else entirely. And it’s not your fault you didn’t catch it—this one’s tricky.”

  “So, what’s the difference?” Jack asked.

  “The secret,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “is in the water.”

  “Water?” he echoed, genuinely surprised.

  She nodded. “Water is just as critical as honey when it comes to brewing. Spring water, for instance, carries minerals that add subtle richness. Distilled water is pure, giving the brew a clean, crisp finish. And rainwater? It’s fresh and lively, brightening the flavors. The first mead you tasted was made with spring water. The second one was made with distilled water.”

  Jack stared down at the golden liquid in his cup, his thoughts racing. “I didn’t think water could change mead so much.”

  “Everything matters in brewing,” Gretchen said, her voice firm. “The honey, the water, the temperature… even the air in the room while you’re mixing. Every choice influences the final product.”

  Jack exhaled slowly, leaning against the work table as he absorbed her words. “It’s simple… but complicated,” he said.

  Gretchen nodded with approval, her enthusiasm infectious. “We’ve barely scratched the surface. Aging—that’s where the real magic happens,” she said, her eyes alight with excitement. “Letting the mead rest gives the flavors time to mellow and blend. Give it a little time, and you’ll have something drinkable. But give it a good, long time on the shelf? That’s when it transforms into something extraordinary. The longer it ages, the more complex it becomes—assuming you’ve done everything correctly.”

  She strode to the far corner of the shed, where a weathered barrel sat on a sturdy wooden stand. It was made of dark wood worn smooth, with rusted metal hoops, and faint etchings of flowers barely visible beneath the patina of age.

  “Here,” she said, gesturing dramatically at the barrel. Opening the tap, she let a thick, golden liquid flow into a cup. This batch was darker than the others, its amber hue deep and inviting. She handed it to Jack with a knowing smile.

  He took a cautious sip, and his eyes widened in astonishment. The honey’s sweetness had deepened, taking on a caramelized richness akin to burnt sugar. The sharp citrus and pine notes had softened into a perfectly balanced harmony, and subtler flavors emerged—a delicate hint of vanilla and spice. It was smoother than anything Jack had tasted. The finish lingered like the comforting glow of embers, refusing to fade.

  You’ve received [Pine Mead VIII Buff].

  +20% Attack for 30 minutes.

  You cannot consume more brewed beverages for the next 12 hours.

  Jack stared at the notification, slack-jawed. That’s… a strong buff! The boost outperformed anything he’d seen recently, short of the junior bugkeeper set’s permanent bonuses. While the set still won because it lasted for as long as someone wore the set, this mead’s raw power made it a serious contender.

  And here is the limitation that the system warned me about, Jack reasoned as he saw that he couldn’t drink any more alcohol for the next 12 hours.

  The role of the brewing profession was starting to form a picture in his mind. He could now understand why that brewer he’d met at Ariadne’s camping site had wanted to take barrels of mead on his hunt. Whenever a party was about to deal with a demanding boss, they could all have a drink together and increase their chances of success.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  What does the VIII after the item mean? Does it have to do with how long it aged?

  “How long did this mead age?” Jack asked.

  “Ooof. A long time!” Gretchen said with an exaggerated sigh.

  His stomach dropped. It couldn’t take years, could it?

  “Three days,” she added, shaking her head as if lamenting the wait.

  Relief washed over Jack, and he exhaled audibly. He’d heard stories of fine wines and liquors aging for decades. Thankfully, the game’s logic took some creative liberties with reality. Even so, crafting something that required three in-game days was no small feat.

  “Can I leave it aging for less time?”

  “Oh yes, but the longer you wait, the better the flavor!” Gretchen warned.

  “So, what’s next?” Jack asked, his anticipation growing.

  “Now, it’s your turn, my friend,” Gretchen said with a sly grin. She gestured toward the table, where tools and ingredients were neatly arranged. “Time for you to mix your first batch!”

  You’ve temporarily learned: [Brew].

  Brew (Common)

  After adventuring through the wild, vestiges of yeast remain on your hands. When you mix drinks, you transfer these yeast traces, which ferment sugars into alcohol, enhancing the flavor.

  Skill level: 1

  Skill effects: Passive. You can brew drinks with a 50% fermentation failure rate. The failure rate decreases with higher intellect.

  Jack’s eyes widened at the details. Fifty percent failure rate? That was absurd! Half his batches would be ruined. He couldn’t help but think of Felix from the Pottery Association. Hadn’t he said that half of the porcelain statuettes he made cracked in the oven? But that was the most advanced thing that could be done in pottery. This was the very first skill!

  He shook off his doubts and focused on the task at hand. “So, how do we start?”

  “First, gather some honey and water,” Gretchen said. “Once you’re ready, come back, and we’ll get to work.”

  Jack grinned, already one step ahead. He pulled a pot of honey and several water vials from his inventory and set them on the table.

  “Oh! Look at you, all prepared,” Gretchen said, raising an eyebrow.

  Jack shrugged modestly. Carrying water was second nature; it was essential for his survival stews and pottery crafting. As for honey, his industrious bees ensured he always had plenty to spare.

  Gretchen’s grin brimmed with encouragement. "Alright, let's get started," she said, tying her apron snugly. She moved to the workbench, gathering a few tools: a wooden spoon, a funnel, and a large, weathered glass jug.

  Jack placed his pot of honey and vials of water on the table. “So, what’s first?” he asked.

  “First, we measure,” Gretchen said, dipping a ladle into the honey. “Three parts water to one part honey is a good starting point.”

  “Is that a hard rule?” Jack asked, tilting his head. He didn’t recall the recipe specifying exact ratios.

  “Not really,” she replied. “It depends on what you’re going for. Some people like it sweeter, others lighter. Experimenting will help you find what works for you. Just remember—too much honey and the yeast struggles; too little, and the mead ends up thin and watery.”

  Swell. Yet another thing that influences flavor. The water and honey ratio.

  Jack poured the honey into the glass jug. The golden liquid slid down the sides in slow, thick streams, pooling at the bottom like molten sunlight.

  “Does it have to be glass?” he asked, eyeing the wide-mouthed jug.

  “Not at all,” Gretchen said with a shrug. “But glass lets you see what’s happening, which can be useful.” She nodded toward his vials. “Now, pour the water in. Slowly. Take your time.”

  Jack unscrewed the caps and carefully poured the water into the jug. The water mingled with the honey, swirling together but resisting at first. Gretchen handed him a wooden spoon.

  “Stir,” she instructed. “Gently, but make sure it’s mixed well. You want the honey to dissolve completely.”

  Jack took the spoon and began stirring, his movements tentative. The honey clung stubbornly to the spoon and the bottom of the jug.

  “Good. Keep at it,” Gretchen encouraged.

  Gradually, the mixture transformed into a golden, slightly cloudy liquid. Gretchen leaned in to inspect, then gave an approving nod. “Not bad for your first try.”

  She reached for a small jar filled with dark powder and scooped a spoonful into the jug.

  “What’s that?” Jack asked, curiosity piqued. The recipe hadn’t mentioned this step.

  “Extra yeast,” she explained. “It helps ensure the fermentation goes smoothly.”

  “Where can I get some of that?” Jack asked.

  Gretchen laughed, a rich, warm sound. “Oh, this is from my personal stash. You’ll earn your own in time.”

  Jack grinned at the thought. An item that improved brewing success? He had to get some of that.

  “Now for the fun part,” Gretchen said, picking up a square of clean cloth and a length of twine from the workbench. She smoothed the cloth over the jug’s opening, tying it snugly with practiced hands.

  “This,” she said, stepping back with a satisfied nod, “will let the gases escape while keeping out bugs, dust, or anything else that doesn’t belong. Mead likes to breathe.”

  Jack tilted his head, intrigued. “Why not just use a cork?”

  Gretchen froze mid-motion, turning to look at him with wide eyes. “A cork?” she asked, her voice dropping to a grave tone. “Not during fermentation. The yeast produces gas as it works, and if you seal it with a cork, the pressure has nowhere to go. Best case, the cork pops out on its own and makes a mess. Worst case?” She made a dramatic exploding motion with her hands. “Your jug shatters. Mead everywhere.”

  Jack winced at the image. “That sounds… messy. And dangerous.”

  Gretchen leaned in, lowering her voice as if she were about to reveal a dark secret. “I had a neighbor once. Lovely guy. Name was Errol. He decided to seal his fermenting mead with a cork because, and I quote, ‘it looked classier.’” She paused for dramatic effect, her gaze steady on Jack’s.

  Jack furrowed his brow. “And?”

  “And,” Gretchen continued, her voice rising, “three days later, I found Errol’s house in shambles. The roof—gone. Windows—blown out. His corpse was covered in honey and shards of glass.” She shook her head solemnly. “He didn’t even see it coming.”

  Jack snorted, struggling to keep a straight face. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Gretchen leaned back and crossed her arms. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  Jack gulped. “Noted. Cloth and twine it is.”

  “Smart choice,” Gretchen said. “It’s not as fancy, but trust me—it’s far less dangerous.”

  “And now we wait?” Jack said, trying to steer the conversation away from Erol’s cautionary tale.

  “Exactly,” she said with a nod. “This beginner batch only needs about an hour to ferment before it’s ready to taste.”

  She carried the jug to a wooden shelf, where several other jugs and barrels rested. “Make sure it stays somewhere cool and dark. Too much heat and the yeast will throw a tantrum.”

  Jack wiped his hands on a cloth, admiring their work. “That’s it?”

  “For now,” Gretchen said with a wink. “We’ll check if it’s ready to bottle in an hour. Let the yeast work its magic in the meantime.”

  You’ve successfully crafted your first batch of mead!

  [Mead] is fermenting.

  Time remaining: 1 hour.

  Jack leaned against the workbench, his thoughts spinning. While crafting the mead itself hadn’t been complicated, it demanded careful planning and, as the guide had promised, a fair amount of patience.

  He glanced at Gretchen. Although he was satisfied with the process so far, questions still lingered. Could he control the buffs his drinks provided? If flavor depended on the honey, water, and ratios, did that also affect the bonuses it granted? Could he make mead give attack speed or defense rather than attack, for example? Or could he only control if the buff was stronger and shorter or weaker but longer?

  He resisted the urge to ask. NPCs rarely gave direct answers about game mechanics. They’d speak vaguely about strength or stamina but not outright acknowledge attributes or stats.

  Gretchen broke his train of thought. “Shall we meet back here in an hour? I must check if Uncle Billy hasn’t drained all of my barrels.”

  Jack chuckled. “Can I wait here?”

  “Sure. I’ll see you soon.”

  Gretchen left the shed with a wave, leaving Jack alone with his thoughts. Waiting for an hour suited him fine. It was time to wake up in the real world and have some breakfast.

  He gave one last look at his first batch of mead. Bubbles were starting to form in the bottle, a sign of the fermentation. He logged out of the game, a satisfied smile on his face.