"Destiny..."
Russell sat beside the Malt Wine, leaning to the left against the sofa armrest, murmuring softly, "What exactly is this 'destiny'?"
"—I think it might be a sort of calculation. Essentially, it's similar to the weather predictions made by annealing devices."
At this moment, Malt Wine, while speaking, handed Russell a cup filled with exceedingly frothy ice-cold beer.
It was emitting a rich malt aroma, with a thin layer of frost condensing on the outside of the glass.
... Are you offering me a drink?
Russell glanced sideways at the Malt Wine.
With her wine-red horse ears, Miss Malt Wine, unshaking and with a clever, charming smile, said, "Won't you have a glass, Mister Ultramarine? It's definitely untampered with.
"This is indeed... Malt Wine."
Russell tilted his head and reached out to take the glass of beer from Malt Wine's hand.
He did not drink it all in one go, nor did he merely sip it lightly. Instead, he drank a moderate mouthful.
