The explorers of the Gandakia Dungeon, located at the center of the world of Do-Melta, were known as “Divers.” They investigated, gathered items, and hunted monsters in the dungeon as their main duties. Supposedly, the name stemmed from their resemblance to scuba divers delving deep into the ocean when they descend into holes deeper and deeper underground. Those holes had since been turned into staircases, so we no longer got a glimpse of the name’s origin these days. Yet, the name seemed to have stuck, and dungeon explorers were still called Divers to this day.
The people back then had had no idea construction would be done around the dungeon’s entrance or that a whole building for providing support to Divers would be built here one day. This place had once been a hellish void from which monsters had spewed out endlessly, but now, it was a place of respite for adventurers.
Before me stretched a row of reception windows where Divers reported the results of their dives, and over two hundred tables could be seen in the excessively spacious dining room where Divers, weary from their latest adventures, could get meals. There were even facilities for laundry and bathing beyond the walkway next to the entrance where Divers could wash their dirty clothes and bodies. The guild provided everything we needed here, though it obviously couldn’t compare to the conveniences of modern Japan.
I sat at a table and stared blankly at the Divers passing by, mindlessly shoveling the deep-fried potato chips I’d brought from Japan into my mouth. Suddenly, a friend I’d made in this world sat down next to me. He was a sociable guy with fluffy blond hair and charming droopy eyes. A boy of my age, he wore his main weapon, a sword, at his side, several knives at his waist, and a distinctive shoulder pad on his right side. He was Miguel Hyde Junkers, a Diver who operated from the Gandakia Dungeon as his base of operations.
“Sup, Kudo. How’s business? You raking it in?” he asked.
“I’m doing all right—ugh, you reek! You’ve been drinking already, Miguel? It’s the middle of the day!”
“Damn right, I am. Nothin’ like a little drinking to start the day off right, yeah?” said the young drunkard like he was celebrating the New Year as he chuckled. He was clearly tipsy already, and this was before his dive, no less. “You want a drink too?”
He offered me a drink despite us being minors. That said, a legal drinking age wasn’t defined in Do-Melta. Water was also comparatively more expensive here, so most people opted for alcohol instead. Though, it seemed he’d already decided I’d be joining him, and he placed a mug full of Freida’s trademark pale-colored beer on the table.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“Still not much of a drinker, huh? Well, I’ll take some of whatever you’re snacking on.”
“Sure, but it’s rock-hard, so don’t hurt yourself,” I warned.
“Hurt myself?”
“Yeah, just be careful.”
I warned Miguel as he took some of my crunchy, deep-fried salt potato chips. The extra crunchy texture was what made them such a joy to eat. They were considered one of Japan’s finest culinary weapons since they could cut up the inside of your mouth if you weren’t careful. Many people had fallen victim to the sharp pieces that sometimes stabbed you between your teeth and gums or directly into a cold sore.
“What am I being careful about?” asked Miguel.
“They can stab you if you’re not paying attention,” I explained.
“Huh...” he said as he cracked a chip between his teeth. He chewed a few more times, with a satisfying crunch accompanying each bite. “Oh, that’s good.”
“Right?”
“It’s nice and salty, and I love the texture. This goes so well with beer. It’s a shame you don’t drink.”
“You can have it if you like it so much,” I said.
“Seriously?! Thanks, man.”
Miguel was all smiles as he dug into the chips and drank more of his beer.
Crunch, crunch.
“It really does have just the right level of saltiness. You always have the best snacks. Are you sure I can have all of these?” asked Miguel.
Crunch, crunch.
“Yeah, I have more,” I said as I pulled out a fresh bag of crunchy, deep-fried black pepper potato chips from my safari bag. I ripped the bag open, then bit into a chip with a crunch.
“Let me try those too,” said Miguel.
Crunch, crunch.
“Here you go.”
Crunch, crunch.
“Hey, is this black pepper? They really used black pepper just to season this thing?”
Crunch, crunch.
“Yup,” I said. “They don’t really use black pepper like this here, huh?”
Crunch, crunch.
“Of course not. These are some seriously extravagant chips.”
Crunch, crunch.
The preservation and aging methods for food in Do-Melta were far inferior to that of modern Japan. Despite being available for the general public, salt and spices were mainly used to preserve food for contingency stockpiling and to deodorize; as such, it was quite rare to see them used on snacks. Even in Japan, potato chips hadn’t been common until around the ’70s, and black pepper flavor had come even later, so it wasn’t all too surprising. Do-Melta’s eating habits had to mature before its culinary preferences would develop, so potato chips may not be invented here for another few hundred years.
We were loudly crunching on some more of the chips, appreciating the snack makers like Calbee and KOIKE-YA, when Miguel suddenly said, “So, going back to what you said earlier: you said you’re doing all right, but does that mean you’ve still been farming nearby?”
By “nearby,” he must’ve meant the low-level floors.
“Pretty much, yeah,” I lied.
“Come on, man. Don’t you wanna make more money?”
“How many times do I need to tell you? I hate putting myself in danger. You can make pretty decent money just by weeding in the Great Forest Ruins near the entrance. I’m more than happy to just lay low and mind my own business,” I said.