Chapter 53: Better Can Also Mean Deadly

With everyone ready, the test began. The four men stayed inside the factory, watching the process unfold across all the stills. The air was thick with heat, and the sharp scent of fermenting cane. The process was going to be long, so Francisco asked his servants to bring him some books to pass the time.

Six hours later, the stills hissed to a stop. The room reeked of rum and burning copper. Ogundele—who loved drink more than the others—rubbed his hands together and grinned.

“Boy, let me taste it. If this works, we might have the strongest liquor in the world.”

Francisco nodded cautiously. Ogundele dipped a cup, lifted it to his lips, and took a sip.

The moment the liquor touched his throat, he coughed violently. “Ahh—this thing burns!” he gasped, clutching his chest as his breathing turned ragged.

Francisco froze. The servants stared in horror.

“Call Grandma María—now!” he shouted. “Tell her to treat Ogundele immediately!”

The servants sprinted toward the estate and returned minutes later with the old healer. Grandma María entered pale and trembling, her hands already reaching for Ogundele, who was retching and shaking on the floor. She forced water and bitter leaves down his throat until he finally vomited, collapsing in exhaustion.

“Take him to my room,” she ordered two servants. Once Ogundele was carried out, she turned on Francisco, fury burning in her eyes.

“This is the third time I’ve had to heal someone because of you, young master,” she snapped. “If it were ordinary sickness, I’d say nothing. But first you fell into a deathlike sleep, then you brought me a man run through with a sword, and now someone nearly dies from poison! You know how hard it is to treat people with nothing but Pijao medicine?”

Her words hung in the air like a slap. She left with the servants, muttering under her breath.

Kokou and Makala stood speechless. Francisco turned to them. “Do either of you know what happened? Some part of the process that could’ve absorbed venom or something?”

Both shook their heads.

Francisco frowned. “This was supposed to be purer alcohol…” He leaned close to the liquid and sniffed. “It smells strong—but why did it nearly kill him?”

He asked for a torch. When he held the flame over the new liquor, the fire burned clean and blue, evaporating quickly. “It’s clearly purer. That means the still worked—it’s not the equipment’s fault.”

He ordered the servants to bring regular aguardiente for comparison. After testing both, he noted the difference: the new spirit felt cold at first, then burned too hot to touch.

“This must be it,” Francisco murmured. “The purer the spirit, the more it devours the human body. It’s dangerous to drink.”

For the first time, Francisco understood that better could also mean deadly. He called for paper and ink, writing down his discovery in careful notes.

“I need to find the limit of purity—the highest level that won’t harm people,” he muttered. “Otherwise this industry will only end in death.”

He was deep in thought when Carlos arrived, face tight with anger.

“Can you explain why Grandma María is furious?” Carlos demanded. “I heard you made poison.” His gaze flicked to the stills and the clear liquid in the glass. “You’re not planning to test it yourself, are you?”

Francisco looked up, tired but defiant. “Of course not. I’m not a fool—and it’s not exactly poison.”

Carlos frowned. “What do you mean not exactly

?”

Francisco thought for a moment. “This liquid is a purer form of spirit—far stronger than normal alcohol. But in this concentration, it can kill. It burns the inside of the body.” He demonstrated with the experiments he had done earlier. “Ogundele only took a sip and almost died.”

Carlos sighed. “So you’ll stop producing it? Go back to the old way?”

“Not yet,” Francisco said. “I want to find a way to make it safe—to create a strong liquor that isn’t toxic.”

Carlos crossed his arms. “What do you need? You know we owe your grandfather for the business. Don’t make him regret his support.”

“Some rabbits and chickens,” Francisco said. “I’ll test the limits of purity first, then try to mix it with other ingredients—something that keeps its strength but softens its burn. Maybe even adds flavor.”

Carlos hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. I’ll send servants to hunt rabbits. There are chickens in the coop. But where will you do these experiments?”

“Here,” Francisco said. “It’s better this way. The factory gives me easy access to alcohol. Keep the other stills running without the tower—we’ll send that to Grandfather as usual while I test this one.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “Do you think you’ll finish in time? Remember, we’re leaving for Cartagena on the first of January. You have about three months.”

Francisco met his eyes. “I’ll try. I’ve worked too hard to let this go to waste. I just need water, lemon juice, maybe other ingredients—to find something that makes pure alcohol safe to drink.”

Carlos sighed. “Fine. But if you can’t do it, we’ll stick to regular aguardiente. Understood?”

Francisco nodded and set to work. The next days passed in a blur of motion. He tested water, juices, even milk, but none balanced the burning spirit. The scent of alcohol hung in the air, sharp enough to sting the nose, while his hands grew raw from constant mixing.

Meanwhile, far across the ocean, Francisco’s grandfather Johann Friederich rode toward the Marmorpalais—the residence of the current King of Prussia, Frederick William II.

“Sir, are you truly going to speak with His Majesty about your grandson?” asked his attendant anxiously. “You know this king isn’t like Frederick the Great. He supports the Junkers.”

“I know,” Johann said calmly. “That’s why I’m going to give him what he’s always wanted—but could never take. I’ll resign my post and surrender the military authority Frederick II granted me.”

The attendant gaped. “Sir, are you certain? Once you give up that power, there’s no reclaiming it.”

Johann smiled faintly. “After Frederick’s death, I stayed only out of duty. The new king’s alliance with the Junkers has left me with no purpose. But now, knowing I have a grandson and granddaughter, I have a reason to live again. I’ll go to the New World—and be buried beside my wife.”

The attendant fell silent. He had seen how much the old man had endured since the Great King’s passing—six long years of political pressure and loneliness. Perhaps family was the only thing that could still move him.

“What awaits Prussia now?” the attendant murmured, almost to himself. Then he followed Johann toward the palace gates, where the cold Prussian wind whispered like a prophecy.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep