Chapter 86

I think so.

A hobby that wouldn’t end his priesthood but would damage his image matched Kraft’s expectations—the kind of person who didn’t care much about monastic rules.

Notably, the Church did not explicitly forbid alcohol; drinking was widespread among clergy, lay members, and believers alike, and wine was often more than mere recreation.

It also possessed nutritional, health-enhancing, and even medicinal properties; monasteries brewed their own beer and permitted controlled consumption. In countless folk remedies, wine held a significant role—as a solvent or component of prescriptions, used alongside herbs.

Locals also had the habit of steeping all manner of substances in wine, and often the resulting brew spoiled due to insufficient alcohol content, giving rise to a universal belief—that the stronger the wine, the better.

Of course, drinking and drunkenness were two different matters and had to be treated separately. The Church classified loss of self-control and public intoxication as “immoral,” a category with no objective standard, left entirely to subjective judgment—whether a man passed out in a tavern counted varied by whim.

The man known as the “Drunken Priest” clearly wasn’t someone who sipped quietly alone—he had reached the point where others questioned his spiritual devotion based on private conduct.

“Where did you hear about him?” William wiped his lips hidden beneath his beard, instinctively swallowing. “If you’re planning to confess to him, I’d advise you to pick someone else.”

“Why?”

“Adrian was banned from the confessional last year.” His facial muscles twisted, as if trying to smile but holding back—he likely felt it was immoral to mock an acquaintance behind his back, and he softened slightly.

After a few seconds, William burst out laughing. “Because multiple people reported smelling wine in the confessional.”

“At first, everyone assumed it was drunken sailors mistaking their own stench for some odd odor in the room, and strict orders were issued to bar anyone reeking of wine from entering the hall.”

“But reports kept increasing, and some even hinted after donating whether they could meet the priest ‘who had made great advances in brewing.’ That’s when the bishop realized something was terribly wrong.” William couldn’t help laughing again, recalling the bishop’s horrified expression.

“They ordered a full inspection of the confessional, sending men disguised as sailors to confess—and found Adrian passed out inside. If not for that, no one would’ve known he was secretly drinking there.”

This “glorious deed” spread rapidly through the entire cathedral and half the harbor district. On a grand scale, it was a desecration of the one sacred sanctuary in the hearts of countless penitents, dragging the Church’s image down to the harbor’s vulgar tone. The scandal was so shocking the bishop personally ordered Adrian barred from hearing confessions.

Kraft couldn’t understand it, but he was deeply shaken. “Is it really that serious? Just couldn’t hold out for a moment?”

Even more shocking was that, according to William, this scandal hadn’t expelled him from the cathedral—his punishment was merely “banned from hearing confessions.”

Would the bishop’s own illegitimate son receive such treatment? The answer was no.

“Tsk tsk tsk, of course it is,” William clicked his tongue, the sound of saliva pooling. “Think about it—could ordinary wine be so potent it still reeked half a room away? Strong enough that even a drunk could tell it wasn’t his own smell.”

“Strong wine?”

“No—once you’ve tasted it, you’ll know nothing else deserves the name ‘strong wine.’ It’s beyond description.” William spared no praise for the priest’s brew. “It’s like swallowing a mouthful of fire that slides down your throat into your belly—this one sip equals half a barrel of the watery swill they serve in taverns.”

“You know, it’s liquid carbon fire—pure as ice, yet doesn’t burn your tongue. Only honored guests get to taste it.” He used every fiery image he could conjure to describe it, and saw Kraft’s expression grow dreamy—more absorbed than when hearing tales of the ice plains.

“Good thing—you two are lucky tonight. Adrian’s surely awake. I’m going to beg him for a few cups. After this, you’ll realize those fruity drinks are worthless.”

The speech had stirred William’s own craving—he led Kraft and Kup past the ground-floor hall, slipped out a side door behind the cathedral, and darted into the cluster of annex buildings.

The attending monk didn’t stop them; instead, he greeted William. Seeing Kraft’s confusion, William pointed his thumb at himself. “VIP.”

Then he pointed to a modest-sized building among the annexes. “I donated it.”

Understood. This cathedral, primarily serving sailors, had wealthy ship captains like William who were obsessed with wine. Even if Adrian drank beside a saint’s statue, the bishop would think twice.

Comfort Harbor wasn’t a vital trade route, didn’t control key passages, and the Church’s influence didn’t reach the level of Dunling. A slight dent to dignity was minor; losing ship captains was major. All these bizarre events stemmed from the cathedral’s economic foundation.

So much so that there was no attempt to hide it—Kraft smelled wine in the night wind, even as they walked beneath the cathedral’s glow, as if standing at the entrance to a wine cellar, the alcohol’s signature scent rivaling that of the harbor itself.

Their pace unconsciously quickened. William moved with wind beneath his feet, his wide trousers swaying. Without a lantern, he headed straight toward the strongest scent.

The sense of approaching a wine cellar grew stronger—the pure, unadulterated aroma of wine poured from a brightly lit room upstairs. Lights blazed late at night, as if a small banquet were underway inside.

William gave two light knocks, then pushed the door open and shouted to the broad, plump figure slumped in a recliner, wearing a white robe: “Adrian! Wake up! Have another drink!”

“Mmm?” The double-winged circle emblem on the robe rippled as a plump hand slapped it, producing a drumlike “thump,” the holy symbol trembling with humorous vibration.

A round, bald head rose from behind the protruding belly, two slits of eyes opening. After a moment of silhouetted scrutiny, he finally recognized William through the beard.

“William?! Oh my, how long has it been? When was the last time you brought me a story?”

“Ha! Three months and five days, plus half a night spent in confession—I’ve missed you terribly.” William stepped forward, grasped Adrian’s round, large hand, and helped him rise with a firm pull, giving him a half-hug that couldn’t fully encircle his back.

“You’re here for my wine, aren’t you? Try this—I got it just right this time.” The priest waddled upstairs, his belly straining the white robe, opened a closed door, and instantly a richer scent of wine flooded out.

The smell was like a barrel overturned—this small second-floor room held the concentrated essence of an entire wine cellar.

Adrian carried out a small bottle, placed several glasses on the table, and said, “You two over there—don’t stand. Come taste the finest, strongest wine in Comfort Harbor, indeed in all of Nos—God’s gift.”

The colorless liquor swirled in a crystal-clear, slender-necked bottle as transparent as the glass wings, its cling to the glass clearly visible. The rumor that Adrian was close to that master glassmaker must be true.

But Kraft’s attention was already fixed on the liquor—his sudden curiosity seemed to be leading him toward another unexpected delight.

He took the half-sip glass, held it beneath his nose, and the escaping scent made his nose twitch. Kup also received a glass, and, inexperienced as he was, swallowed it like beer. Adrian and the priest raised their own glasses, smiling as they watched the newcomer’s reaction.

Seeing Kup clutch his mouth, face flushed, Adrian laughed until his eyes couldn’t open—pleased with his creation. He poured him another full glass. “Sip slowly. This is my masterpiece—the spirit of wine—nothing like the water they serve in taverns.”

Kraft dipped a finger into the liquor, touched it to his tongue—the searing heat of a hot teacup rim flared across his taste buds. His otherworldly soul broke into a genuine smile.

“I knew you’d love it!” William sipped his wine. Recommending something and having it appreciated was always one of life’s joys.

The priest happily swallowed his drink. This batch was especially harsh—even years of drinking hadn’t dulled the sting. His fat face flushed red, and he coughed lightly.

Amid the thick scent of wine, only Kraft refrained from further tasting. He raised his glass, admiring the luminous surface. “A masterpiece…”

【I’m starting to like this scent.】

Kraft smeared a few drops on his forearm. Contrary to the heat and spice of ingestion, the skin where applied felt cool and soothing.

The liquid evaporated rapidly, drawing heat from his skin. No fruity sweetness of fruit wine, no toasted grain aroma of grain liquor—pure wine, so simple it made him reflect on life’s impermanence.

The vast amount of aroma filling the air couldn’t come from so little wine—the priest was heating the liquor upstairs.

【Distilled liquor】

Approaching, perhaps even reaching, medical-grade purified alcohol.

“You are truly a genius. Future generations will read your name in the annals of the kingdom’s history.”

“Nonsense. A priest who brews wine—the bishop hasn’t expelled me only because my old friends help me stay here.” Adrian stood to refill William’s glass, intending to pour for the young man who praised him like a saint—but noticed his cup held only a thin layer.

He sat back down, still leaning slightly forward from the pouring motion. Only then did Kraft realize that since standing, Adrian had maintained this posture—a difficult stance for a fat man.

Recalling the pouring motion, the priest used his right hand whenever precise movement was needed. But now, seated, he abandoned his dominant hand and held the glass with his left.

Looking down, his right hand rested lightly just above and to the side of his protruding beer belly, never leaving that spot unless absolutely necessary.

The swollen belly. A long history of excessive drinking.

“Do you often feel pain in the upper right abdomen, near the chest?” Kraft asked, gesturing to the area below his own right ribs. “And do you have poor appetite and yellowing skin?”