A Warrior Race (4)

The aftermath of the arena lingered for an astonishingly long time.

For a solid ten hours after the final match concluded, an unspoken rule practically took hold across the board: Any mention of topics other than the arena is strictly forbidden.

Things had gotten so absurd that someone even pinned a thread like this.

The meme train chugged past verse two, rolled straight through verse three, and derailed spectacularly into pure brainrot territory, yet the fire showed no sign of dying down. Honestly, I didn't mind the endless arena shitposting all that much. Compared to people throwing death threats around and picking pointless fights, watching ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠them geek out over sword fights was infinitely more pleasant.

One glance at the front page proved how hilariously unhinged everyone was.

The Concept Post section was an even bigger spectacle. It wasn't just rehashing the fights; it was packed to the brim with user accidents, catastrophic financial ruin, and escalating petty feuds.

Most of the popular threads revolved around the Hero Spy—Equilibrium—and his astonishing victory. I hadn't realized it while watching the stream, but an immense amount of illicit gambling had been tethered to the tournament. Beyond the standard gallery points, plenty of users had placed private, high-stakes wagers and lost ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠their entire fortunes. Several threads practically reeked of unadulterated madness.

Because Equilibrium had triumphed against all odds, every single instance of his past trolling and espionage had been granted an unofficial pardon. Naturally, he was running wild across the boards, celebrating like an untouchable monarch. The rabid, toxic ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fan club that had formed during the stream only poured fuel on the fire.

Cheering for the Hero Spy and TenCommandments was relatively tame. I had watched their match myself, and I could reasonably say I'd become something of a fan. The real problem lay with the instigators—the ones deliberately manufacturing tribal warfare out of thin air.

They operated exactly like this:

Seizing on the fact that the two greatest standouts in the tournament were swordsmen, bad-faith actors stitched together cherry-picked clips and launched a massive narrative: The Magic Uselessness Theory.

They tied it into the recent Hero Gallery offensive, cross-referenced posts from certain prominent users, and brewed up a colossal controversy. Once the snowball started rolling, several demon lords shoved it straight down the mountain.

The primary victim of this crossfire was none other than the author of my personal gallery must-read, Murim Survival Log—the registered user SurvivalDayN.

Even with my current bias leaning heavily toward martial prowess, I could clearly feel the raw injustice dripping from his words. The rest of the gallery, however, seemed to have no such sympathy. What I assumed would blow over in an hour or two raged uninterrupted for well over a day.

"...They're still fighting?"

I had finished sweeping the Gates, cleared debris from fallen skyscrapers, performed life-signature scans, and stockpiled preserved rations. Yet when I returned and opened the interface, the board was still ablaze. It was so chaotic I had to wonder how they possessed the stamina to keep it up. I knew demon lords belonged to a warrior race, but this was beyond ridiculous.

It had long devolved past heated debate into outright slur-slinging.

'Upvote if you're sick of the mageroaches overwhelming everything with pure numbers.'

'Are gorillas actually capable of rational thought or is their brain capacity a myth?'

Even the key figures of the arena, Equilibrium and TenCommandments, had tried posting to weigh in, only for their threads to be instantly swept away in the torrential current of shitposts. Strangely enough, the three deputy managers had offered zero response, zero moderation, and zero punishments for hours. They hadn't even dropped a casual comment.

Watching the moderators vanish into thin air, several regulars began visibly losing their sanity.

The first post was standard criticism.

The second post escalated to personal attacks.

The third post showed madness and surrender.

The fourth post was pure, agonizing regret.

"What an absolute dumpster fire."

I honestly doubted that even if all three assistant managers returned this very second, they could salvage a board that had burned past ash and turned into blackened charcoal. Just as I sighed and refreshed the page, something unprecedented occurred.

A new thread bearing a [Must-Read] tag—a category I had never seen before—popped up at the very top of the forum, and the moment it did, the page forced itself open. It operated like some mandatory administrative override. Once the window expanded, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen. I couldn't shift my focus, look sideways, or close the interface. Left with no other choice, I read the text.

It was a post from the Head Manager—the elusive orange-pin administrator—whom I had never seen write a single word until now. The promise of gallery normalization was overwhelmingly welcome news. The only issue was the cryptic clause sandwiched in the middle.

"The regular Pandemonium Meeting?"

What kind of gathering was that supposed to be?