"This is really wine?!"
The merchants coughed violently after taking a gulp.
Inside the headquarters of the Knights Hospitaller, more than several dozen merchants made a great fuss as they sampled their cups.
"It feels like something just exploded in my stomach! What kind of sorcery is this?"
"We should serve this instead of wine at Mass from now on!"
They all spoke at once, excitement written plainly across their faces.
Understandable.
A new business opportunity had just rolled straight into their laps.
I looked at the men before me.
Venetians. Genoese. Pisans. Amalfitans.
Every one of them hailed from the great maritime republics.
Men who would leap into a lion's mouth if there was gold at the bottom of its throat.
Ah — Marco was there too.
Ever since I arrived in Jerusalem, he seemed to follow me everywhere.
Or perhaps that was just my imagination.
"Where in the world did you find such a drink, Your Highness? I've tasted nearly every wine worth drinking in my life, but nothing like this."
"How much can you produce? If immediate supply is possible—"
I smiled calmly at the barrage of questions.
"For now, there is only one thing I can tell you."
I let my gaze sweep across the room.
"In Jerusalem — no, in all the Levant — I alone can supply this drink."
After returning to Jerusalem, I had installed distillation apparatus within the Hospitaller headquarters.
Turning wine into brandy had not taken long.
After all, the Order already produced its own wine.
Only Gernal and a handful of monks knew the method.
And I had already secured their oaths of secrecy.
The Grand Master of the Hospitallers had readily agreed to share in the profits.
Unless someone planted a spy inside the Order itself, stealing the method would be nearly impossible.
And even if they did discover it…
Royal authority could crush the problem.
If marketed properly, this could be even more powerful.
"The Holy Order's own Jerusalem Elixir — the legendary tonic of the Sacred City."
What better slogan could there be?
Priests making sausages had once become a trend back home.
Why not this?
I brushed off my sleeves and spoke again.
"The reason I gathered you all today is to present the same proposal to each of you."
I paused slightly.
"More precisely… to select which trading house will be granted distribution rights."
"Your Highness!"
Marco nearly shouted as he stepped close and whispered urgently.
"Why invite the others? Why not grant it solely to us?"
Was that even a real question?
Competition drives up the price.
"I believe we showed considerable cooperation during the reconstruction of Eilat. Naturally, such an opportunity should be entrusted to our Venetian fondaco—"
That was because I needed Venetian military support at the time.
This was different.
Before I could answer, others interrupted.
"Marco! How dare you behave so discourteously before His Highness?!"
A Genoese merchant — lean, sharp-eyed, clearly seasoned.
"Your Highness, pay no mind to that rude Venetian. Genoa will offer the best terms."
"Do not trust them! If entrusted to Amalfi, we guarantee the highest profit!"
I raised a finger.
The room fell silent.
"First, let us clarify something. Production is extremely limited. A single cask must sell for no less than ten dinars."
One merchant protested immediately.
"At such a price it will never sell! No matter how fine the drink—"
"Commoners cannot afford it," I said with a smile. "But what of kings and nobles?"
Luxury goods generate fast capital.
I had played enough merchant campaigns in Last Crusaders to know that.
And besides — some of the supply I needed for myself.
"Let us proceed one by one," I said. "Private discussions."
I stretched lightly.
Time to make them dance.
"The rest of you may continue enjoying the drink while you wait."
I moved into an adjoining chamber.
Soon, merchants entered one after another.
Each wore a different expression.
Some calm and calculating. Others nearly breathless with excitement.
"We are prepared to offer twelve dinars per cask, Your Highness. Superior terms to the others."
"I do not know what the others proposed, but Amalfi is clearly the most suitable—"
I focused.
Negotiation is deception.
Those who reveal only sincerity are either fools or desperate.
Push and pull. Probe for weakness.
And what if I alone could read their true intent?
"The transport costs alone would make profit impossible…"
Marco spoke quickly.
A lie.
"In that case, I will assume Venice has no interest."
"N-No, that would be premature! We are willing to make further concessions…"
That one was genuine.
"If we are granted exclusive rights in Constantinople, we will match whatever terms you require."
It was not just Marco.
The others were the same.
"I assure you! We can offer better terms than the Venetians!"
"Please, continue."
Bluffing. Silence. Feigned loss of initiative.
All the elegant techniques of negotiation meant little before me.
[Inexplicable Sixth Sense]
With it, I could feel their sincerity.
How many men can outplay a living lie detector?
By the end, they were visibly exhausted.
Sweat beaded on their foreheads.
"This has been most enjoyable," I said pleasantly. "Submit your formal proposals by tomorrow. I will review them and decide."
"Yes, Your Highness."
They left the room snarling at one another.
I smiled.
Rather than exclusive rights, I would contract with both Venice and Genoa.
In exchange — enormous advance payments.
Or perhaps tomorrow, even better terms.
At this rate, I could grow rich on liquor alone.
A medieval spirits magnate.
That phrasing sounded oddly modern.
At that moment, church bells rang out across Jerusalem.
Clear, resonant chimes from countless churches.
"Already this late?"
It was time for training.
Thud—
The bolt struck the center of the target.
Applause broke out among the knights and squires nearby.
"Another direct hit. When you claimed confidence with a crossbow, I assumed it was boasting…"
Aig handed me the next loaded crossbow.
"It surprises me, Your Highness."
"Have a little faith, Aig. I did quite a bit of marksmanship training."
He tilted his head.
"I heard you were obsessed only with falconry. Did you practice crossbow as well?"
"Let's say falconry had… related benefits."
Fortunately, my weakness trait did not apply to crossbows.
[Congenital Frailty]
Severe debuff to stamina-related actions.
But no penalty to combat technique itself.
Shooting. Sword practice.
These could be improved through effort.
And crossbows required far less strength than bows.
Loading was the real challenge.
But that could be delegated.
Hugh approached, laughing behind his mask.
"You resemble a Genoese crossbowman."
"I did not expect such accuracy."
"Good to see you, Sir Hugh."
"You will see much more of me. I will oversee your training from today onward."
"Is something wrong with Sir Garnier?"
"He has felt unwell since arriving in Jerusalem. Nothing severe."
I should visit him later.
"Now, draw your sword," Hugh said provocatively. "Unless you fear this old cripple."
I accepted the longsword from Aig.
"Take your stance."
I slipped into defensive posture naturally.
After countless hours under Garnier and Hugh, the once-awkward motions felt familiar.
"Shift your weight slightly to the right leg. Relax the shoulders."
We locked eyes.
Hugh attacked first.
"Slowly at first. Focus on blocking."
Steel clashed.
"Clé! Now Rion! Again—Rion! Your transitions are still slow!"
His speed belied his illness.
I could barely keep up.
My arms trembled.
Then a thought struck me.
Could I use my sixth sense in combat?
If it could read emotions… perhaps it could predict intention.
I exhaled slowly and focused.
Hugh's gaze.
The direction of his shoulder.
The tension in his grip.
I let instinct guide me.
Redirect strong blows. Block weaker ones head-on.
After several exchanges, it began to click.
"Interesting. Your reactions have improved."
His assault intensified.
Steel rang sharply.
He was trying to exhaust me.
If this continued, I would fall first.
I lunged forward, half-instinctive.
Body check through the bind.
But as I closed distance, something pressed against me.
The blunt hilt of a dagger.
"Good attempt," Hugh laughed. "But I believe I win."
He stood and adjusted the dagger.
"If you had drawn yours just then, you would have defeated me."
"I forgot I had one."
I laughed breathlessly.
I drew the Damascus dagger given to me in Eilat.
"A warrior must think flexibly," Hugh said. "Use every weapon available."
He tapped beneath his own throat.
"When using a dagger, aim here. Even an armored opponent can be felled with one proper thrust."
He shrugged.
"Garnier did not teach you poorly. Enough for today — or this old man will collapse first."
"I already have," I replied, smiling.
Still—
I had learned something important.
The sixth sense could function in battle.
With more training, I could master it.
Hugh chuckled.
"And how fares your new liquor enterprise? I hear merchants are tearing at one another for rights."
"Smoothly, so far."
"The Order selling liquor is not itself a grave issue…"
He paused.
"I wonder whether Patriarch Heraclius will approve. If he objects…"
He glanced at me.
"The venture may be prohibited. Or most profits seized."
I smiled calmly.
"That will not be a problem."
Heraclius, Patriarch of Jerusalem.
There was no need to worry.
After all—
I knew his secret better than anyone.