25.
“That’s ridiculous. These beans are the finest from the Southern Continent!”
Kyle shouted, looking utterly bewildered.
“How is that ridiculous? If the beans hadn’t gone bad, there’s no way they would taste like this.”
I insisted, my tone firm and cold.
*Even if I’m not a connoisseur, I’m someone who lived in South Korea, where there’s a café on every corner. That’s why.*
In an ambiguous situation, the person with the loudest voice wins.
*And right now, my voice is louder.*
“Coffee is just grinding good beans and pouring water over them, but this tastes like poison!”
*In reality, there might be a more delicate process, but having watched my friend—a home-café hobbyist—from the sidelines, I knew that making a drinkable cup of coffee, taste aside, wasn’t exactly rocket science.*
I shouted, pouring in as much resentment as a single cup—and a single sip—could hold. Eventually, a glimmer of doubt flickered across Kyle’s face.
Empowered, I made a bold request.
“Show me the beans. Then we’ll know if they’re spoiled or not.”
Looking conflicted and flustered, Kyle eventually brought over the sack.
Maintaining a grave expression, I opened the mouth of the sack and inspected the contents. Even to an amateur like me, the state of them was a disaster.
*They look nothing like the beans I see in coffee advertisements!*
“See? They’re spoiled!” I exclaimed triumphantly. “Green beans aren’t supposed to spoil that easily, so what on earth did you do to them?”
I dusted off my hands, glaring at Kyle.
“That’s impossible. A merchant who immigrated from the south specifically told me these were precious beans, favored even by their royals.”
However, because I was so convinced, Kyle’s voice grew smaller toward the end, his confidence clearly waning.
“He told me that roasting skill is what determines the taste, and even put me in touch with a famous barista. These are the finest beans, roasted by a master sought after by the royal family.”
Kyle added in a mournful, damp voice. But it didn’t work on me at all.
“Go and bring that famous barista here.”
When I demanded a confrontation, Kyle’s face grew even more sullen.
“It takes a year and a half to reach the Empire from the Southern Continent. And that’s one way.”
“Why is the barista in the Southern Continent? Did they go recently?”
“Because that is his home.”
“Why?”
“Pardon?”
The more we talked, the more confused it became. It was a complete breakdown of communication. I started explaining, step by step.
“You said that famous barista does the roasting.”
“Yes.”
“If that barista is in the Southern Continent, then who roasted these beans?”
“The barista did.”
It was a circular conversation. I changed my tactics.
“So, how does that barista in the Southern Continent supply roasted beans to a café in the Empire?”
Kyle finally seemed to catch on. “He ships the roasted beans by boat. Periodically.”
I was aghast. “So, these are beans that were roasted at least a year and a half ago?”
*Ugh.*
“Right?”
Kyle didn’t seem to have the slightest clue why I was so disgusted.
“They crossed a hot, humid ocean on a ship that probably wasn’t sanitary. The sealing is poor, and above all, why are you brewing coffee with beans that were roasted nearly two years ago?”
*If this were South Korea, Kailus, you’d be in handcuffs for violating the Food Sanitation Act.*
I wanted to spit out the coffee I had already swallowed. *My stomach is already starting to hurt.*
Only then did Kyle realize something was terribly wrong. I pushed down my frustration and spoke.
“The merchant who immigrated from the Southern Continent—he’s still in the capital, right?”
“Yes.”
“That man is a con artist. Roasted beans spoil; they should be imported as green beans.”
Kyle’s expression turned menacing.
“I didn’t know that. I paid five times the price of regular green beans… Ha!”
He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. A moment later, he returned to his usual smile, but the temperature had plummeted from spring to winter. He looked like an assassin who had been swindled out of his entire fortune—he looked ready to dispose of someone in a fit of rage.
I stepped back slightly. “There are other cafés in the capital. Why don’t you get beans from there and try brewing again?”
It was a suggestion, given that he couldn’t keep serving swill, even if the shop was just a front for his side business.
“Thank you for the advice, Miss Diaz.” Kyle bowed.
“It was nothing, really.”
Seeing Kyle return to his cold, calculating demeanor—likely plotting his revenge—I dragged Everett out of the café.
Everett, who had been watching the entire exchange, asked as if it had only just occurred to him.
“Miss Diaz, you’re quite well-versed in coffee.”
Surprisingly, knowing that beans could spoil was considered profound knowledge around here.
*Since coffee only started being imported about ten years ago.*
“Coffee came to the area around the Academy faster than the capital,” I lied, offering a plausible excuse.
Whether the coffee talk was just a way to break the ice, Everett soon moved on to a different topic. The conversation flowed smoothly while we ate. It was a decent meal, and the knife worked well enough.
However, I still didn’t return the handkerchief. I used the excuse that I had left it at home.
***
Edwin, who had dropped off Ri-Na, returned to the café. Kyle, who had since changed his clothes—what on earth had he been doing?—welcomed him with a bright face.
“You’ve come at just the right time.”
His attitude was a 180-degree turn from the earlier frustration. Kyle approached him, holding a freshly brewed cup.
“Try this. I used beans from the oldest café in the capital and had the owner verify them. My coffee is no longer slop. Please.”
He looked desperate enough to drop to his knees if Edwin refused. Edwin gave his old friend a twisted smile and took the cup.
“I don’t know who the Emperor is here.”
Just as Kyle promised, it didn’t smell like sludge. Edwin frowned slightly and took a sip. It was sour and burnt, not to his personal preference, but it was at least drinkable. When he handed back the empty cup, Kyle’s face brightened with unprecedented joy.
Edwin, annoyed by the display, quipped, “It’s a good thing I’ve been vehemently refusing your coffee. If I had drunk that spoiled brew and gotten sick, you’d be guilty of regicide.”
Kyle just brushed it off with a smile. Since the Emperor was the one who drank the most of his coffee, he felt a twinge of guilt. He tried to shift the focus.
“That’s why I taught that swindler a lesson.”
When Edwin showed a flicker of interest, Kyle whispered as if boasting of a heroic tale.
“I handed him over to the Security Force.”
“Is that it?”
Kyle was not a pushover. As Edwin prompted him, Kyle added with a wicked glint in his eye, “Only after I made him brew coffee with the beans he sold me and drink it all.”
The tone suggested he hadn’t exactly poured it into a porcelain cup with care. Finding his revenge satisfied, Kyle looked truly relieved.
“It’s all thanks to Miss Diaz.” Kyle’s eyes sparkled. “I thought she was a good person from the moment I first saw her. Her tastes are refined, and her knowledge is deep.”
At the endless stream of praise, Edwin felt a strange, lingering irritation. Before he could vent it, Kyle preempted him.
“You’re going to meet Miss Diaz again, aren’t you?”
“Probably. She said she left my handkerchief behind.”
Watching Edwin’s expression soften, Kyle produced an invitation.
“What is this?” Edwin asked, taking it.
“An invitation to the Ancient Artifact Exhibition. How long do you intend to use the handkerchief as an excuse?”
Kyle had remembered from his old files that Ri-Na had taken archaeology classes at the Academy, even though it wasn’t her major. Edwin, who had been worrying about how to initiate the next meeting, tucked the invitation away carefully.
“That exhibition changes themes every week. It’s a four-part series.”
Kyle smiled with satisfaction. Thinking about it, Carolina Diaz didn’t seem like a bad candidate for Empress. After all, her tastes were refined and her knowledge was deep.