The Great Wine Workshop

In reality, the entire "Johannes" domain is cradled by mountains to the north and south, right at the entrance of the "Black Pearl Valley." In such a setting, the wind that sweeps between the pine trees isn't exactly a gentle breeze. Yet this great mill—more accurately, a huge winery designed for fermenting wine—has no windmills installed.

Apart from this great mill, there are several small mills scattered among the mountain farms. None of these have windmills or watermills; instead, the little plots that the locals tend are ground by the muscle of animals or by sheer human effort. Inside the great mill, the focus is on winemaking, while in the adjoining sheds you can find milling equipment for grinding grain, along with a hodgepodge of farming tools and assorted junk.

Seeing all those grinding tools stirred a spark of hope in Veyl. Logically, amid such a disaster, the winery should have long ago been repurposed—a place to store grain instead of fermenting wine. It should have been converted into a granary ages ago.

Just then, several arrows suddenly whistled through the air toward a group of zombies—but not a single one hit its mark. Veyl turned to see Alexander drawing his bow at the other end. Realizing his arrow had missed, the big guy, looking a bit pissed off, picked up some spare fletching; however, under their boss's cold, unwavering gaze, he scratched his head and eventually ceased wasting arrows. After all, with the day already shrouded in fog and the zombies barely discernible at fifty or sixty paces away—it was hard to tell if they weren't just scarecrows in the fields—any extra arrow was a luxury he couldn't afford.

"Actually, my specialty is throwing weapons, my lord. Hehehe," Alexander said in his trademark, goofy manner—baring his teeth and flashing a wide, silly grin.

Veyl rolled his eyes. Based on the level of archery skill the guy showed, he couldn't have high hopes for his so-called "throwing" ability, even though it was slightly better than what Veyl himself managed.

"Let's move into the mill," Veyl said, glancing toward the building.

The big guy grunted an "Oh" without much thought. He pushed on the door and discovered it was locked from the inside. With one swift kick, however, the door flew open.

Inside the dark, gloomy mill, two figures suddenly lunged out from behind the door. Alexander was momentarily taken aback. In a flash, he raised his sword and, with a clean swing, split one zombie in two—as if cleaving a corn stalk in half! The other zombie didn't fare much better; Alexander casually smashed its head with his shield and then kicked its limp body against the wall. The whole scene looked as if they were bullying a couple of little kids.

"Turns out there are 'people' in here," Alexander remarked in his simple, dumbfounded tone as he glanced around and strolled further in—almost as if he had merely swatted away a couple of flies.

Alexander's nonchalant attitude surprised Veyl a bit. Unlike Veyl—who had already seen on his scroll that there were two zombies lurking inside—Alexander seemed completely oblivious to any danger.

"Those two unlucky bastards probably locked themselves in here, thinking they could hang on a bit longer. One of them must have been scratched or bitten but, clinging to some foolish hope and not warning his partner, they both ended up dying in this dump," Veyl mused silently as he surveyed the interior.

The mill was cavernous. Beyond the many abandoned wine vats, piles of miscellaneous items and bundles of dry hay were strewn about. At the back, the space opened up into a large wine cellar.

"It looks like my guess was right," Veyl observed. "This winery has essentially been completely abandoned—so much so that even the milling tools have been moved inside. The storage room inside must have been fully converted into a granary by now." He nodded thoughtfully, a flicker of hope lighting within him, and then he and Alexander headed toward the back warehouse of the mill.

The scene along the way was chaotic. The wine vats exuded a foul, rotten stench that made Veyl's stomach churn. When he rounded a corridor and opened the battered door of the warehouse, he saw a sagging, water-dripping shed roof. His face fell as he took in the sight. As he'd suspected, there was indeed a vast amount of stored grain inside—enough to feed a small domain—but it was all spoiled. Although the granary didn't leak like the tavern did, it was obvious that no one had maintained it for quite some time. There was no sign of proper drying; under the relentless autumn rain, everything inside had become damp and rotten.

"This can't be right—the castle's collapse happened so recently, but this warehouse looks like it hasn't been looked after for more than just a few months!" Veyl muttered, clenching his hair in disbelief as he struggled to accept the ruin before him.

Then, a "whoosh" sounded from behind. Veyl turned and saw that the big moron was off in the corner, using his bow to shoot at a giant rat. Veyl glared at him, effectively putting an end to his idiotic antics. Amid the embarrassed, nervous "hehehe" chuckles from his lackey, Veyl strode over to a corner of the warehouse—he wasn't ready to give up just yet. He remembered that in that spot there was a trapdoor leading down into the wine cellar. That wine cellar was, in fact, the largest storage area in the entire domain. Like the castle and the tavern's underground storerooms, it was originally meant for storing wine…

Kicking aside a tangle of weeds, Veyl pried up a thick, heavy wooden board from the floor. Then he swung his spiked hammer and pounded at the rusted lock, struggling to pry the board open. A shower of dust rained down on his head, and a stone staircase emerged into view. In the darkness below, he could faintly hear something shuffling around.

"Gave me a good scare there—I've read the scroll, I know there are no monsters down here, so that noise is probably just a giant rat," he muttered, patting his jittery heart. Veyl tore a corner off his cloak and slowly wrapped it around his spiked hammer. Then, he rummaged through his belt bag and pulled out some grease he'd collected in the blacksmith's shop—a mixture of pine resin and kerosene. Using it, he transformed his spiked hammer into a makeshift torch and lit it up.

The wine cellar was enormous—the combined space of several rooms was no smaller than the space above. And the conditions here were far better; not only did the cellar not leak, but the floor was strewn with dry hay and sprinkled with lime, keeping the environment surprisingly arid. Designed for storing red wine, the cellar maintained the perfect temperature and humidity throughout the year, regardless of the season.

Everywhere he looked, the cellar was packed with neatly arranged oak barrels—thousands of them. The origin, the grain pattern, the air-drying, and even the toasting of these barrels were all executed with meticulous care. Moreover, after being cast, each barrel was allowed to dry naturally for over three years before it was put into use. This lengthy process allowed the red wine to mature gradually over the years, deepening its flavor and quality until it became a true vintage.

In this era, such a storage method was undeniably advanced. In many other regions across the continent, wineries couldn't keep their wine for more than a few years. Only the most professional wineries would invest the time, money, and technology to preserve their wine in this manner. For the majority of wineries, the few hundred—or even tens—of acres of vineyards they owned weren't worth the effort. Freshly produced wine was usually enough to meet local demand, and very little ever made it to export.

The wineries in Black Pearl Valley were undoubtedly the most professional, enjoying international acclaim. But here, in Johannes' wine cellar, many of the oak barrels were already empty. Some had even rotted away entirely, becoming nothing more than rat nests. Only a small number of barrels still containing wine were set aside in the very best spots—roughly a hundred or so in total. Although these barrels bore marks from being nibbled on by rats, they remained intact.

—Yet apart from these wine barrels, not a single scrap of grain could be found.

"Dad… are you seriously that greedy? At a time like this, you're still hoarding wine in the best spot?! And you can't even be bothered to toss out the empty barrels? Why not clear them out to make room for grain storage?" Veyl thought bitterly, closing his eyes as if on the verge of tears.

But it wasn't entirely surprising. Although those oak barrels weren't particularly valuable by themselves, in the eyes of a great winery lord, they were cherished masterpieces—meticulously crafted treasures. No wonder the old baron couldn't bring himself to clear everything out.

Of course, if the granary upstairs were in good condition, the stored grain would indeed be enough to feed this small domain for a year or two—not to mention the granary in the castle itself.

Who could have foreseen such an extreme situation?

Yet when things reach their worst, it all becomes pretty damn pointless.

Wiping away the moisture from the corner of his eyes, Veyl dejectedly left the wine cellar. He called over Alexander—the one who had been busy chasing a giant rat—and the two set off toward the mill.

Veyl's heart burned with fury over the situation. It was clear that there had once been subjects in this domain, but everything he saw indicated that these people had never lifted a finger to work.

"Why hasn't anyone fixed up the granary? Just because there's fog and monsters? Are these idiots so scared to leave their houses that they'd rather starve?" he fumed, slamming his hand down on one of the stone millstones inside the mill. Unable to hold back, Veyl raised his head and roared, "You damn, stupid peasants! My grain—damn it!!"

One of the "subjects" answered him—a shabby, disheveled fellow who awkwardly pushed open the door and stumbled inside. Veyl frowned as he looked at the bald, rotten man and muttered, "Sight, hearing, smell… What the hell do these people use to track their prey?" He recalled that when they had entered the mill, the nearest zombie had been about fifty or sixty paces away. Had it not been for the scent of prey, it wouldn't have been such a coincidence that one of them should wander in here.

Perhaps it was because the zombie had heard his voice, or maybe its sense of smell had sharpened, but after coming in, it no longer moved sluggishly—instead, it charged straight at him.

At that very moment, a sharp arrow shot into its body with a powerful impact that knocked the zombie off balance. The creature's body tilted and toppled clumsily, as if it had just dropped a turd, crashing to the ground. The arrow shaft was even broken by the force of the impact. Yet the zombie's body wavered and began to try to stand up again.

"Stop wasting arrows—I've told you three damn times already!" Veyl hissed through gritted teeth as he glared at the broken arrow embedded in the zombie, his face turning a shade of blue. Earlier, Alexander had told him that besides being hopeless at blacksmithing, he was also terrible at trimming arrow shafts.

"Hehehe…" Veyl muttered, massaging the throbbing veins on his forehead.

The zombie, having managed to rise once more, charged at Veyl, the mighty lord, with ferocious determination. In a burst of anger, Veyl swung his spiked hammer and smashed the creature's head to smithereens. He exhaled a long, relieved breath, feeling the heavy depression in his chest lift a little with that blow.

Suddenly, like a tiny green firefly, a speck of green starlight drifted from the zombie's body and floated onto Veyl's sacred tome at his waist. Veyl blinked, convinced he wasn't imagining things, but he didn't have the heart to check the scroll now. For he saw that several more zombies were coming in through the door.

"Not just a few—there must be over a dozen… no, it's a full-on horde!!"