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It might sound absurd, but the upper echelons of society kept a vigilant eye on the Gallery.

Gathering intelligence, identifying leaks, assessing continental geopolitics, monitoring the daily affairs of rival nations—the list went on. While the Gallery was undeniably overrun with garbage posts and senseless banter, those willing to sift through the sludge could unearth priceless gems of information. Above all, it offered rulers and ministers an unfiltered window into the single most critical concern of high office: public sentiment.

In an era where accurate gauging of the common mood was nearly impossible through conventional means, the Gallery served as the only direct channel available. Naturally, relying solely on it carried severe risks. There had been plenty of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠historical blunders where monarchs, placing absolute faith in forum trends, found themselves blindsided by full-scale riots and peasant rebellions. From then on, wise rulers learned to remain wary of the "vocal minority" and separate digital noise from genuine unrest.

Even so, the Gallery's cultural reach remained indisputable. It welcomed young and old, pauper and prince alike, completely blind to social caste. Rumors often circulated about haughty aristocrats who publicly condemned the forum by day, only to spend their nights glued to the screen as hopelessly addicted lurkers. High birth did nothing to extinguish base human nature. In fact, many blue bloods, suffocated by the perpetual strain of playing the refined, untouchable noble, secretly took refuge on the Gallery just to blow off steam.

Because of this, nobility went to extreme lengths to conceal their online footprints. Whenever the subject arose, almost all feigned innocence, claiming they only ever browsed without posting. While no one actually bought the excuse, etiquette demanded that personal privacy be respected. Thus, an unwritten rule quietly took root across high society: never speak of the Gallery in polite company. Even among the aristocracy, the topic was strictly reserved for the closest of confidants behind firmly shut doors.

"Your Highness. We cannot afford to sit idly by and ignore this matter."

"I am well aware. But that man's life hangs by a thread. Aren't you rushing things far too quickly?"

The speaker was a picture-perfect noble youth with shimmering blond hair, piercing azure eyes, and a broad, disciplined physique—a man lacking in neither grace nor authority. He voiced his reservations with measured calm, prompting an urgent reply from the graying nobleman opposite him.

"That is precisely why we must secure as many adult Mandrakes as possible before he perishes!"

"Count Gorgon. I took you for a far more prudent man."

"There are moments, Your Highness, when greatness demands swift resolve."

Faced with the passionate plea of his loyal retainer, the blond young prince fell into contemplation. He was Arnold Louis Messia, Crown Prince and heir apparent to the Messiah Empire. With the reigning emperor currently bedridden from chronic illness and accumulated exhaustion, Arnold ruled in his stead as Prince Regent.

"If we can establish trade with him, we can deal a crushing blow to the Magic Tower's influence," Count Gorgon pressed. "More importantly, it would give us immense diplomatic leverage over the Iris Kingdom."

"That is mere wishful thi—ahem, overly optimistic speculation. The elven borders have been restless as of late; we have no reason to needlessly provoke the Magic Tower on top of that."

"And yet, Your Highness—"

"Enough. I have no desire to waste imperial resources discussing a man who might be dead by sunrise."

"Would the situation not change entirely if we provided him with direct aid?" Count Gorgon refused to yield, bowing deeply in earnest appeal.

Though his persistence bordered on stubbornness, Arnold refrained from scolding him. Count Gorgon enjoyed a sterling reputation across the empire for his exceptional foresight and keen administrative instincts. That such a capable statesman was currently dancing to the tune of internet rumors struck Arnold as almost comical. Yet it spoke volumes about just how much power the Gallery wielded over the realm.

"Aid from our empire might indeed prolong his survival," Arnold remarked evenly. "So let me turn the question back to you: who among our court would manage this transaction?"

"I happen to know someone suitable."

"You mean yourself, don't you?"

"......"

The prince's sharp deduction struck Count Gorgon mute, his eyes widening in mild panic. Arnold stifled an amused smirk and waved his hand dismissively.

"You clearly thought you could hide behind the Gallery's anonymity, but you were far too hasty. You may take your leave."

"Your Highness..."

"If you are truly that desperate, act at your own discretion. Just bear in mind that the moment bulk quantities of adult Mandrakes enter our treasury, everyone will know precisely who conducted the trade."

"......"

"I trust you haven't been posting slander about me on the forum?"

"A-Absurd, Your Highness! Never!"

As if I'd believe that. Arnold scoffed inwardly. Human beings were creatures who badmouthed the gods themselves whenever no one was looking, let alone their earthly rulers. What more needed to be said about an anonymous digital space? Arnold had lost count of how many times his imperial policies had been torn to shreds and cursed out by anonymous forum users.

"Only three days have passed since this man Grylls fell into the Forest of the Four Seasons," Arnold noted calmly. "Maintain your composure."

"...Understood. It seems I allowed my zeal to get the better of me."

"Go on, then. I have a mountain of paperwork waiting."

Dismissed by the regent, Count Gorgon bowed respectfully and slipped quietly out of the study. Once left alone in the vast, quiet chamber, Arnold leaned back into the plush leather of his high-backed chair and stared up at the vaulted ceiling.

Not that I blame him for losing his head...

With a subtle mental command, Arnold brought the translucent interface of the Gallery into view.

The entire forum was currently in an absolute frenzy, fueled by sudden, explosive rumors. The spark had been lit by Passing Dwarf, who had boldly uploaded a crystal-clear verification photo of an adult Mandrake root. Although Grylls had reportedly gifted mature roots to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠several other prominent Fixed Nicks who assisted him, none of the others dared post photographic proof. Lacking any need to show off, they feared exposing their identities or drawing unnecessary scrutiny. Because of their silence, the general user base had remained skeptical—until Passing Dwarf's public flex shattered all doubt.

To make matters even wilder, Grylls had previously shared a snapshot of an entire untamed colony of mature Mandrakes flourishing in the wild. Anyone watching the board quickly arrived at the exact same conclusion: Lend Grylls a hand, and you might secure a legendary adult Mandrake for yourself.

All of this madness had erupted in the brief span of a few hours while Grylls lay fast asleep.

Reading the thread, Arnold chuckled faintly. The poster was exaggerating, but it wasn't entirely fabricated either. After all, Count Gorgon had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠just rushed into his office begging to do the exact same thing. And Gorgon was merely bold enough to say it to his face; across the capital, dozens of other aristocratic houses were undoubtedly scrambling to curry favor with Grylls by any means necessary.

They see the tree, but miss the forest, Arnold thought, shaking his head with a quiet sigh.

Securing a trade route with Grylls for adult Mandrakes would certainly be wonderful. But Grylls was an unpredictable, deeply unstable variable. Stranded in the lethal expanse of the Forest of the Four Seasons, the man could meet his end at any second.

And gold won't sway him, either.

What Grylls needed wasn't coin, but practical survival gear. Having already received an enormous sum of twenty thousand gold from that scholar Allfather, he was hardly hurting for cash. That meant any transaction would have to rely on direct bartering—an arrangement brimming with logistical hazards.

Better to wait and observe.

Hasty moves would only muddy the waters. Had there been even a shred of consistency or safety, Arnold might have considered it, but an enterprise steeped entirely in volatile risks held little appeal for an empire's regent.

...Still, acquiring just one root for personal use would be worth the effort.

While official imperial diplomacy was out of the question, a private purchase was an entirely different story. His imperial father's health had taken a sharp turn for the worse; coveting an adult Mandrake was only natural. Even for the imperial treasury, purchasing a top-tier Elixir from the Magic Tower took a painful bite out of the national budget. If an adult Mandrake could restore the Emperor to full vigor, Arnold's claim to the throne would become unshakeable.

Not that his siblings posed any real threat. Arnold had two younger brothers and two younger sisters. In most imperial dynasties, at least one sibling would be plotting a bloody coup, but Arnold's family was surprisingly free of cutthroat ambition.

I suppose I should count myself fortunate...

His second brother was obsessed with the arts and happily occupied the post of Minister of Culture. His third brother, deeply religious, had renounced his noble titles altogether to become an ascetic Holy Knight. With both younger sisters happily married off into powerful foreign lineages, all domestic rivalry had vanished on its own.

Even so, receiving the crown directly from Father's hands is far better than ascending after his death.

Unless the crown was passed down via a living monarch's decree, factional grumblers and reactionary nobles were guaranteed to raise complaints. To head off any potential succession disputes before they started, Arnold needed at least one adult Mandrake root.

"......"

And yet, Arnold hesitated. It wasn't the logistical difficulty of contacting Grylls that held him back. Letting out a long, defeated breath, Arnold checked his personal profile on the Gallery.

There sat the username he had impulsively created in his youth, driven by sheer, unfiltered teenage vanity.

AbsoluteSupremeArnoldRulez

"Haah..."

Just reading it made his ears burn with mortification. What in the world had possessed him back then? Why couldn't he have just stayed an anonymous Fluid Nick from the start? No matter how many times he looked back, he couldn't comprehend his younger self.

The sole saving grace was that nobody in the empire knew about it. Had this humiliating secret ever leaked, Arnold would have gladly abdicated his crown and fled the continent in shame.

Is there really no way to change a handle?

Advanced as the Gallery was, it was far from omnipotent. Despite receiving numerous interface updates and convenience features over the years, the system strictly forbade changing one's registered username. Returning to anonymous status? There was only one known method: expelling every last drop of mana from one's body and core, then replenishing it from scratch. It required an absolute biological and spiritual purge, a feat beyond even the grand rebirth of martial enlightenment. For all intents and purposes, a username was branded onto one's soul for life.

If I buy a Mandrake root and suddenly cure Father, everyone will connect the dots...

And when they did, they would inevitably uncover his handle. Arnold shuddered; the thought alone was nightmare fuel. Nor could he delay the matter, as preserving a harvested Mandrake root was an excruciatingly delicate task—the exact reason the Magic Tower had retained its monopoly for so long.

Fortunately, Arnold had deleted every single post he had ever written. Had the platform lacked a deletion feature, his digital shame would have remained immortalized forever.

Should I order my brother to do it instead...?

Arnold crossed his arms in deep contemplation. Calling his second brother the Minister of Culture was generous; the boy spent his entire life loafing around. Whenever he had free time, he vanished to watch soccer or baseball matches, living like a pampered vagabond. He often joked that he'd rather lounge about as a royal freeloader than burn himself out dealing with state affairs.

No, for now, I should just monitor the board. See who manages to get their hands on a root.

Caution remained the wisest course. Only three days had passed since Grylls's arrival; there was no need to cause an imperial scene so early. Stroking his chin as he scrolled through the threads, Arnold pondered another thought.

Still... it wouldn't hurt to get a better sense of how commoners communicate on here.

To do that, he would have to make a post. Mortifying username aside, a simple, polite question shouldn't cause any harm.

Arnold drafted and submitted a quick thread.

???

Arnold's eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock.

"Ngghhh..."

I stretched my arms wide, shaking off the morning stiffness. Thanks to the thick sleeping mat and pillow I had purchased from the auction house, not a single joint in my body ached. Had I known comfort was this easy to buy, I would ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠have splurged on bedding days ago. At least I had realized it early enough.

Now then, let's check the Gallery... Wait, what is all this? Why are there so many trade requests?

My eyes popped open. While I was out cold, an overwhelming flood of trade notifications had accumulated in my inbox. The Gallery completely muted all alerts once logged off, which had allowed me to sleep like a baby, but waking up to this tidal wave was utterly bewildering.

Most of these are from Fixed Nicks I've never even seen before. Did they all come begging for adult Mandrake roots?

That seemed the most likely explanation. The dwarf had posted his verification photo yesterday, after all. A fully matured Mandrake commanded an eye-watering fortune on the open market. If someone possessed items genuinely useful for my survival, I had zero objections to trading with them—strictly piece by piece, of course. I had my own neck on the line; what was this nonsense about maintaining a bulk supply? Throwing away my life to act as an herb wholesaler would defeat the entire purpose of surviving.

As I browsed the hot posts, one thread caught my eye: A typical Gallery acclimation arc [118].

"Huh?"

The post was sporting an enormous comment count and an absurd number of upvotes. What kind of drama had gone down while I was asleep? It really was an ironclad law of the universe that the funniest internet disasters always unfolded the moment you closed your eyes.