The Scammer (4)
The Gallery was accessible to anyone, regardless of age, gender, or social standing.
Coupled with absolute anonymity, this open access served as both its greatest strength and its most glaring flaw. In particular, scammers frequently exploited the platform to pull off all manner of fraud.
Saw what looked like top-grade wild ginseng on the auction house and bought it, but it was just cultivated garden ginseng. Fuck me.
While direct one-on-one trading was exclusive to verified fixed handles, the auction house was available to every single user across the realms. Consequently, criminals who felt zero shame in swindling others ran rampant. Whenever a transaction involved an exorbitant sum, people instinctively suspected fraud. Most swindlers were opportunists looking for a quick, massive score, making suspicion the only sensible reaction.
Fortunately, under the tenure of Don't Abandon the Hero, the iron hammer fell hard upon fraud. Petty cons received zero leniency, earning immediate, permanent bans to teach offenders a harsh lesson. Even so, bans were not dished out blindly. If the parties involved reached an amicable settlement, forgiveness remained an option. What mattered most was genuine remorse—a factor secondary only to uncovering the objective truth.
Thanks to this strict administration, fraudulent schemes had plummeted noticeably, yet the vice was never eradicated entirely.
[Attached: Photo of a grotesque, thorny plant with gaping jaws]
Planted this from a seed I won at auction for 1,000 gold. Thought it was some rare sacred flora, but it turned out to be this nightmare, fuck.
Those determined to swindle simply adapted, refining their scale and tactics into ever more insidious forms. The assumption that users with registered fixed handles would never pull a scam was pure nonsense; plenty of people were willing to establish an account solely to orchestrate a single massive heist.
Furthermore, funds from auction house sales were deposited instantly upon closing. Because this mechanism was hardwired into the Gallery's core system, even the Main Moderator possessed no power to reverse an auction transaction. Users were forced to exercise extreme caution whenever placing bids, largely sticking to small sums and shying away from high-stakes listings unless the seller was an exceptionally renowned fixed handle.
Title says it all.
Fraud remained an intractable pestilence that the Gallery could never truly eradicate. As a result, the community bristled with visceral disgust whenever the word was uttered. The moment a rumor surfaced accusing a fixed handle of deception, a torrential witch hunt erupted regardless of proof. Even when an accusation was rooted entirely in fabrications, mob justice ran its course. That was simply the nature of the Gallery.
"Heh heh. Idiots, the lot of them."
In a distant corner of the world, a middle-aged man sneered. He bore the distinct robes and grooming of the Central Plains, his upper lip accented by a thin, rat-like mustache. Narrow, slit eyes completed a visage steeped in petty cunning.
"So remarkably easy to manipulate."
Before his vision hovered the blue translucent interface of the Gallery. Thread after thread was drenched in venom directed at Grylls. A single, calculated spark cast by the merchant had ignited this raging inferno across the boards.
He won't be able to hold out for long without begging for a settlement.
The man was an ordinary merchant, one of the dime-a-dozen traders scattered across the towns of the Central Plains. Yet by placing the winning bid on Grylls's auction, he had stumbled into a life-altering windfall.
Skrrr—
Tearing his gaze away from the forum feed, the merchant slid open his wooden desk drawer. Nestled among ledgers and official documents lay a small velvet ring case. He thumbed the clasp, and a faint click broke the quiet room.
A delicate wisp of frigid mist spilled forth. Resting within the velvet groove was a lustrous, crimson sphere that pulsed with an enchanting inner radiance. It was the prize won from Grylls's auction listing: an authentic Neidan.
To think it was genuine spirit beast core...
He had discreetly submitted it to multiple appraisers to confirm its provenance. Though not the mythical essence of a thousand-year dragon, it was easily on par with an exceptional spiritual elixir. On the open market of Zhongyuan, martial artists and aristocratic houses would readily pay a thousand liang of silver or more for such a treasure.
Heh heh. As long as I keep my mouth shut, there is no way for that backwater survivor to ever know.
Greed gnawed at his heart, insatiable and unchecked. Selling the treasure was not enough; he wanted to force Grylls into returning every ounce of the gold spent on the auction as well. Even if the Heavenly Demon vouched for Grylls, she was widely regarded as an eccentric, roleplaying weirdo on the forum. Unless she proved her divine martial identity beyond all doubt, her words carried little weight against the collective hysteria.
Fabricating outrage takes seconds, but dispelling it takes an eternity.
The merchant understood the hypocritical psychology of the Gallery intimately. Rumors spread like wildfire, while tedious explanations rarely gained traction. Once a firestorm reached this magnitude, Grylls's attempts at self-defense would drown in mockery.
If the Main Moderator orders him to settle, he won't have any choice.
To Grylls, marooned in the lethal expanse of the Forest of the Four Seasons, access to the Gallery was a literal lifeline. Severing that connection meant certain death. Rather than risking a permanent ban over a botched dispute, Grylls would inevitably swallow the loss and offer a full refund to protect his account.
The merchant was toying with another man's very survival, yet not a shred of guilt stirred within his chest.
It's not like I even know what the bastard looks like.
Hidden behind the veil of digital anonymity, human ugliness thrived. In a cutthroat forum, basic decency was merely a vulnerability waiting to be exploited. Even if the tides turned and he ended up banned, it made little difference to him.
So what if I get banned? It's just a forum account.
A web community held no candle to real-world wealth. To a merchant, silver and gold were absolute. Losing access to casual interdimensional banter was a minor inconvenience easily compensated by the lavish worldly pleasures silver could buy.
Gleefully, he refreshed the front page, poised to dismantle whatever pitiful defense Grylls cobbled together.
Mr. Grylls discovered another Neidan and gifted it to me. This is definitely a genuine Neidan.
"Hmm?"
The merchant stopped scrolling, his eyes narrowing at the post. It was not penned by an anonymous fluid handle, but by Sword Master—one of the forum's most prominent, highly respected fixed handles. Unable to overlook it, the merchant clicked in immediately.
"What?" The merchant's jaw dropped. "There was a second one?"
This had completely blind-sided him. Panicking, his fingers flew across the keyboard to plant seeds of doubt.
The merchant grimaced. His frantic counter-attack had backfired, exposing his clumsy panic. Still, after drawing a deep, steadying breath, he regained his composure.
There's no need to rush. All I have to do is insist that my core is a fake.
Sword Master possessing a genuine Neidan proved nothing about the sphere sold to the merchant. As long as he stubbornly clung to his claims, the benefit of the doubt remained on his side. Unverifiable ambiguity was a weapon he intended to wield until the bitter end.
Just as public opinion fractured into two opposing camps, a new thread popped up at the top of the feed.
He finally posted.
Without wasting a second, the merchant opened it.
If it's an authentic Neidan, you're dead meat. If it's a fake, I'll refund every single coin of your gold. Why the hell is this little shit running an amateur smear campaign? A bottom-feeding maggot like you trying to pull a fast one on me? Fuck off.
Even Lord Sword Master vouched for the authenticity. If you're so damn confident, register a fixed handle first, you broke beggar.
It was not a dignified explanation. It was an unfiltered barrage of profanity and open hostility. In an ordinary, polite society, such an outburst would have provoked disgust, but this was the Gallery. Raw, venomous vulgarity was precisely the currency that inspired absolute trust and goodwill among these degenerates.
Wh-what is wrong with this lunatic?!
The merchant had been certain Grylls was a bewildered newcomer. Yet the cadence, syntax, and raw belligerence of his writing resembled a seasoned internet troll who had rotted on toxic message boards for a decade.
Swallowing hard, the merchant frantically hammered out a reply. Retreating now meant total defeat.
He had walked straight into a slaughterhouse. Trapped in a corner, out-argued and thoroughly out-memed, the merchant's eyes darted frantically around the screen. Shivering in humiliation, he backed out of the thread.
The main feed had inverted completely:
— Anonymous who received the Neidan needs to dox his address right now.
— We can just head over and verify it ourselves, right?
— Upvote if Grylls is an absolute chad lmao.
— Upvote if all scammers deserve to get hunted down and murdered.
Virtually every newly created post demanded that the anonymous buyer reveal his coordinates if he truly possessed nothing to hide.
Are they insane? Exposing my address is suicide!
He was not suicidal. The moment martial artists and cultivators discovered his real-world residence, his mortal life would end before nightfall. Pale and drenched in cold sweat, the merchant purged his original slanderous post and hastily logged off.
He needed to lie low until the digital storm dissipated.
Tsk. A shame. I could have pocketed so much more silver...
Though bitterly disappointed, pushing the narrative any further would only invite doom. Selling the Neidan quietly in the local black market was the wiser path forward.
Ten agonizing minutes crept by. Unable to resist the itch, the merchant timidly reopened the Gallery interface. Despite telling himself that the forum was irrelevant compared to reality, he was, at his core, an incurable addict. The Gallery was a drug impossible to abandon cold turkey.
Surely things have quieted down a little by now, right?
He loaded the front page with bated breath. What greeted him was a series of chilling headlines.
— Wait right where you are. You're in the next neighborhood over lol.
— Heading over right now to feast on some delicious Neidan!
— Damn, I'm so jealous of the folks living in Zhongyuan right now.
— Turns out this scammer punk is a merchant, huh?
An icy spike of dread pierced the merchant's spine. As a trader who had survived by sharp intuition, every survival instinct screamed that something had gone catastrophically wrong. Trembling, he clicked over to the Popular Posts tab.
Right at the very summit of the board pinned in vibrant orange was a thread authored by the Main Moderator herself.
It is located near the [xxx] district in Henan Province, Central Plains!
Mr. Grylls promised to refund the money if it is verified that the item is not an authentic Neidan, so I pray that both parties will reach a peaceful and amicable settlement!
"Uh..."
The merchant stared blankly at the screen. A single, apocalyptic thought flooded his paralyzed mind.
I'm dead.
I am completely, utterly dead.
Never in his wildest nightmares had he imagined that the Holy Sword–wielding administrator would dox his physical coordinates in the real world.
CRASH! BANG!
A thunderous tumult erupted outside his compound. The merchant's head snapped toward the corridor. A second later, his clerk kicked the study doors open, tumbling into the room in sheer terror.
"M-Master! What in the heavens is going on?!"
"Wh-what is that noise?!"
"I don't know! Armed warriors are tearing down the front courtyard gates! We have to flee—!"
Bellowing voices shook the roof tiles from the courtyard below.
"We hear there is an unrefined Neidan in this estate!"
"Do not panic! We only wish to verify its authenticity, then we'll gladly give it back!"
The heavy stomping of boots and clattering sabers drew closer with terrifying speed. The merchant's complexion turned ashen gray, drained of every drop of blood. The Gallery and its virtual drama ceased to matter in an instant.
You motherfuckers...!
From this moment on, surviving his physical life was the only thing that mattered.