I Regressed and Became Too Good at Brewing - Chapter 66

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Episode 66. For Growth (2)
Even before Han Gyeong-su spoke, I’d sensed it dimly.
That Songhada would collapse under the weight of this surging demand.
There were minor differences in aging periods depending on the type of liquor, but currently Songhada could produce roughly ten thousand bottles annually.
Which meant, being generous, about four hundred bottles a day.
Even that was only possible because Hyo-gi accelerated fermentation and Mok-tong shortened the aging time.
“Excluding myself, the five employees working with me—including you—we wash the rice, prepare the steamed grain, manage the fermentation tanks, bottle and label everything. The production ceiling is crystal clear.”
“Right. Which is why administrative operations have completely ground to a halt.”
In my past life, I’d never experienced success, so I hadn’t anticipated this kind of problem.
But production wasn’t the only issue.
The traditional Korean alcohol that Songhada featured was the type permitting online sales.
Because of that, packaging was absolutely critical.
And here another problem had surfaced.
“When everyone pitches in to verify shipments, it takes an enormous amount of time.”
“If you factor in monthly order backlogs and incoming demand, things get even more dire.”
Han Gyeong-su pushed his glasses up with a smooth motion and continued.
Songhada was effectively at saturation.
“The evidence is the open run phenomenon happening on Songhada’s homepage—our direct sales site.”
Currently, the site released a week’s worth of inventory every Friday at two in the afternoon.
The problem was that simultaneous traffic would spike and the stock would be completely depleted.
Naturally, customer service complaints from those unable to purchase piled up.
“Orders from JuJu Daily and external platforms are reaching levels we can’t ignore either.”
“We’re doing our best, but…”
“Even so, won’t having constant out-of-stock status actually hurt us?”
Every word rang true.
On top of that, wholesale and restaurant inquiries represented demand we couldn’t dismiss.
Emails and calls kept coming from trendy traditional liquor bars and Korean fine dining establishments across the country—even from bottle shops wanting to stock us.
“Between all of us, six people cannot realistically manage selling four varieties. You know that as well as I do.”
“I knew it.”
How could I not have known?
Cracks had already begun to show quietly on the inside—the warning signs were beginning to appear.
“That’s precisely why I wanted to bring you in immediately.”
Until now, Songhada had no employee dedicated solely to administrative work.
There’d been so much to do that we worked by checking each other’s tasks and deploying our labor where most needed.
It was fortunate we had capable people, but honestly, it bordered on seat-of-the-pants management.
“As a result, the administrative side completely fell apart.”
“That won’t be a problem now that I’m here. But there’s more you should be concerned about than just that.”
“The quality of the liquor, you mean?”
At those words, Han Gyeong-su’s eyes widened—the look of someone wondering if I’d already grasped it.
Actually, liquor quality wasn’t a worry.
The spirits watched with blazing eyes.
Even if heavier workloads piled on, there was no way the alcohol’s quality would suffer.
But…
“I’m not planning to stop here.”
If we’re talking strictly about liquor, everyone at Songhada wants to brew every traditional spirit across the country.
And beyond that, to honor my promise with the Goblin King, I’ll need to visit distilleries in all eight provinces of the nation.
Given that, our current approach is the height of inefficiency.
“Late nights and weekend shifts have become routine. That’s not a healthy situation. It’s grateful that everyone throws themselves into work for Songhada, but from a business perspective, it’s unsustainable.”
This too was something I’d been worrying about.
I’d actually told everyone, “Please, just rest a little,” but their answers came back like this:
“Yeon-woo, you can’t handle all that alone, right?”
“I want to work hard!”
“I can’t just sit out while everyone else is working!”
“Fighting…”
We’d maintained things this far thanks to everyone’s voluntary dedication, but this definitely fell into the category of abnormal.
People have limits to what they can endure.
Cross that threshold, and the temptation of compromise creeps in—”Surely this much is acceptable?”
That was something a distillery absolutely had to avoid.
“If we push further, we’ll run into serious problems with order management. Shipping delays and wrong shipments will spike inevitably.”
“Then our Songhada brand image would take a serious blow.”
“That’s exactly right. You can’t keep trying to muscle through things just because you think it’s time to seize the opportunity. We need to stop that approach now.”
Han Gyeong-su drew a firm line.
Songhada had problems in its current state.
So what was to be done?
The answer was actually already predetermined.
“The current system suits Songhada when it’s still minor. Now that it’s grown, we need to restructure things to match that scale.”
“Should we expand our facilities?”
“That’s necessary too, but first we need to put our systems in order. Hiring more people goes without saying.”
If we tried to solve the immediate crisis by simply thinking “hire more staff and expand the factory,” we’d fail at every turn.
It would take at least six months just to place equipment orders and expand the building.
Problems would arise before we could even complete that.
“So efficiency improvements and temporary staffing are the priority, then.”
Han Gyeong-su adjusted his glasses and spoke.
“We’ll implement a Weekly Supply Quota System first. Setting a cap will reduce clerical work. We’ll outsource simple repetitive tasks.”
“I understand.”
“Packaging and customer service should be outsourced. Automating the packaging process would be ideal too.”
This was the moment the real business discussion began.
Which meant money was about to come and go.
Part of me didn’t want to worry about it.
What I wanted was to brew delicious alcohol, not to make enormous sums and live ostentatiously.
But didn’t my past life’s experience teach me otherwise?
That for me to achieve my dream, Songhada had to be solid, and for Songhada to be solid, it needed money.
“With staffing and equipment both in mind, funding’s going to be tight.”
“That’s not where it ends, though?”
“Of course not. We need to think about scaling up too.”
To increase production, we’d need to install large-scale fermentation tanks and an integrated automated line.
Ordinarily, breweries outsourced the fermentation process entirely, but in our case it was practically impossible.
We couldn’t outsource the brewing process if we wanted to use the Goblin’s abilities.
So we’d have to enlarge the equipment first, then automate at least the packaging line, if not the brewing process itself.
“But the cost involved is quite substantial.”
“How substantial?”
“Even if we go with secondhand budget models and keep it tight, you’re looking at least 100 million won.”
It wasn’t a small sum.
Han Gyeong-su’s hesitation had been warranted.
While we were making good profits now, no one knew how long this popularity would last, and an expenditure like this could be a painful blow in such uncertain circumstances.
But…
“We have to.”
“You’re going forward with it?”
“Yes. There are several things I’ve been looking into.”
I’d been mulling it over and researching, sensing that equipment expansion would soon become necessary anyway.
“There’s the Traditional Alcohol Support Project.”
In particular, a support program for improving facilities and strengthening competitiveness at regional distilleries was conducted every year.
We hadn’t used it until now, but with such a program, there was definitely potential.
“We can probably secure about 50% of the funds we need right now.”
“Is there any guarantee we’ll be selected?”
“Our distillery has solid fundamentals.”
It wasn’t mere talk.
What regional brewery could sweep the whole sake category at the Korean Traditional Liquor Tasting Evaluation?
And even win the grand prize at that.
“Our evaluation scores will more than satisfy their criteria, so don’t worry. The official announcement should come out before long.”
“That’s fortunate then, but where do you plan to raise the remaining funds?”
“We’ll have to spend our own money.”
When it’s time to spend, you spend.
Trying to save money out of stinginess could backfire and ruin something big.
“Let’s build on everything we’ve discussed and move forward with it.”
“The conversation’s moving quickly—I like that. Good. Let’s get started right away.”
Neither Han Gyeong-su nor I knew at that moment.
Where the seeds Songhada had sown were sprouting and how.
And what fortune awaited us from those unknown seedlings growing somewhere in the distance.
* * *
“Hmm…….”
After the heavy silence that had settled over the room, what emerged was a sigh.
On the table lay a single bound screenplay printout, its cover stamped with a title and the director’s name in three characters.
“Sigh…….”
The man who had just finished reading the entire scenario exhaled deeply once more.
“How long has it been? Since I last saw your writing.”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“A full five years. Five years. I genuinely thought I’d forgotten you existed. Park Wan-gu. Where the hell have you been? What have you been doing?”
His friend’s words carried a hint of resentment tinged with concern, but Wan-gu merely smiled faintly without answering.
Their relationship had always been this way.
They understood each other’s worlds better than anyone, yet their professions kept them worlds apart.
“Why’d you bring this? Asking me to make it?”
“I brought it because I’m going to make it.”
“You’re the director—does that mean it gets made? We’re the production company. We have to green-light it.”
“Are you the only production company in the world, Sang-hwan?”
“Good grief. You’re truly stubborn.”
Sang-hwan, the representative of A-dot Films, rubbed his forehead and heaved yet another sigh—who knew how many he’d expelled by now.
“The script is excellent. Still the same. That distinctive quality you have—the way you make people’s hearts ache. I’ll admit it: your pen hasn’t lost its touch, even after all these years of doing ten-million-viewer films.”
“Then we should make it.”
“But!”
At Wan-gu’s matter-of-fact reply, Sang-hwan half-rose from his seat and turned toward him.
Because what he was about to say was the real conversation.
“Honestly, I don’t have the confidence to pull in investment for this. You don’t know the market’s changed?”
“What’s changed about the market?”
“Were you living in a cave eating garlic and mugwort while writing? You don’t know about Defenders? The web-slinging superhero? You’re saying you don’t know about things like that?”
“I mostly just lived on cup noodles at home.”
“Good Lord. I’m losing my mind.”
The screenplay Wan-gu had presented possessed remarkably high quality.
The character arcs flowed as if painted before the eyes.
No—they were rendered with perfect clarity.
And precisely because of that, the temptation only grew stronger.
Yet for that very same reason, this work was the kind that shouldn’t be made right now.
“When everything coming out now is blockbusters destroying left and right, you’re aiming for a niche market with a film like this? Sensibility-driven cinema? You know how risky that is, don’t you?”
“If you’ve got no vision, don’t bother. I’ll spend my own money. We don’t need a commercial cinema scale—use rookie actors, slash the budget down. It’s the kind of script where that still works anyway.”
“It’s not about money! Today’s audiences don’t come to theaters for narratives like this. Two hours of serious philosophical examination of human nature? Investors fall asleep during the pitch. No, scratch that—before they even yawn, they’ll shoot it down with ‘It doesn’t fit the short-form generation,’ kid.”
“I’m making this either way.”
There was no hesitation or fear in Wan-gu’s expression as he said this.
Only a fierce, unwavering will to do what he’d decided to do.
“Like I said before—if there’s no investor, I’ll invest myself. What does money matter to a single guy who lives on triangle kimbap and cup noodles anyway? I can handle pre-production myself, pounding the pavement. You just have to focus on making the film.”
“Good grief. Seriously!”
Confronted with Wan-gu’s impenetrable stubbornness, Sang-hwan found himself yearning for the cigarettes he’d quit long ago.
And at the same time, he felt a creeping curiosity.
Because he knew the box office scores of every film this infuriating friend had made whenever he’d dug in his heels like this.
‘All three of those films hit ten million viewers……but this one, no matter how I look at it…….’
It made no sense whatsoever.
A working title: Autumn’s Memory.
Only two characters driving the narrative.
A single bar table as the setting.
No matter how he thought about it, it was a combination that had no earthly chance of success.
‘And what is this? He insists this alcohol absolutely has to be in it?’
‘Must use Meari: Autumn without exception.’
That was what was written on the first page of the screenplay.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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