Screw It, Let's Give It a Shot
Screw it, let's give it a try. I was worried about Luna anyway, and since it was time for breakfast, I headed to the street stalls.
On my way out, I slipped a Dungeon Ticket through the crack in the neighbor's door. It had become a daily routine now.
Fortunately, it seemed to be working—no more roars like before.
I wonder if they've figured out it's me who's leaving them?
Aisha and Dennis get back late because of work.
Which means jobless me, with no alibi, is the prime suspect.
Still, I wasn't too worried. Tickets were easy to get for anyone who was good at snagging them on the market anyway. They wouldn't connect the dots to me being the Dungeon Master.
Solving the noise issue between neighbors with minimal effort and no hard feelings. Perfect.
"Let's go, Kkomangi."
"Woof-"
I headed down the stairs.
A moment later,
The door to 201 creaked open, and a platinum blonde poked her head out.
"...Gone?"
*
I'd come back to the street stalls after a while.
It was about a 10-minute walk from my place toward the outer edge of the Shelter.
I wonder if Luna was worried about me.
She's such a good kid, I hated the thought of her fretting needlessly.
Nah... probably not. Might be overthinking it.
It had only been four days since my last visit. She'd probably just figured I was busy.
As the boss herself, Luna was more likely stressing over sales than me.
Lost in those thoughts, I arrived at Luna's stall.
It was completely empty.
"Huh? Closed today?"
Luna was incredibly diligent—she'd never closed once before.
Not just her, but the whole street stall area ran without a single day off.
In the modern world, maybe, but here?
You had to scrape together coins every day just to cover taxes. Days off were a luxury for the middle class and up.
No money? You got pushed further to the cheap outskirts of the Shelter.
I'd never been, but I'd heard it was like a slum. Where those closest to death gathered.
No spark of life left, just waiting for the end. Some couldn't even pay taxes and got booted outside, or starved in rare cases. But most enlisted out of hunger.
Even then, survival rates in the Surface Reclamation Army were abysmal. They fed you the bare minimum—knowing it might be your last meal.
Day one: straight into the meat grinder. Survive? Great. Die? One less mouth.
Most of those booted weren't even healthy to begin with. Over 90% died on day one.
If the goal was reducing mouths, just execute them. Cheaper that way.
But they bothered sending them outside first. Probably because it had advantages over straight-up executions.
...Less backlash from Shelter residents?
Execution was certain death. Exile to the army? A sliver of hope.
That tiny hope versus none made a world of difference.
But running the Reclamation Army takes massive resources, right? The Shelter's running dry on...
Ah, got it. Same logic.
The faint hope of reclaiming the surface someday, returning home. That kept the Shelter going.
Everyone knew it was a pipe dream, but they kept the army funded. No one complained about the resource drain.
No matter how hopeless or wasteful, surface reclamation was the drive that made people think, I'll survive tomorrow.
"..."
Harsh reminder: this world was truly fucked.
I grabbed some packaged slime noodles from a nearby stall and headed home.
"Wait, our place is kinda central, but there's a stall street right nearby...?"
Stalls sold bottom-rung food for the lowest class—survival grub, not flavor.
Even in this middle-class zone, they lined the streets with decent demand.
"...They're cutting food budgets early."
Stockpiling for future taxes now.
From what I knew, taxes crept up every year.
That first gallery post said they needed to cut 90% of the population to sustain the Shelter. Not all at once, but they planned to shed at least 80%...
"Wouldn't shipping everyone out just end it all...?"
No manpower left to reclaim the surface?
Everyone probably knew. No choice.
Deep in thought, I got home, washed up, scarfed my food, then flopped into bed with Kkomangi on my belly, kneading him with both hands as I pondered.
The world was definitely crumbling.
But I wasn't sweating it.
That was all before I got isekai'd here.
I'd arrived with the power to generate resources in a resource-starved world.
Felt like fate.
"Transmigrator abilities, huh..."
Last time at Luna's with Dennis, he'd said the community creator's power was on the level of a divine authority.
I'd poked around the gallery after that.
Research mostly meant shitposting, but I'd dug into the early days.
Why was it called the Isekai Survival Gallery?
I figured it was just "let's survive this apocalypse" vibes.
Nope.
Hundreds of years ago, before monsters, it was already named that.
Turns out, it started as an invite-only community for transmigrators.
Sharing survival tips, mutual aid.
"Today's transmigrator rights are thanks to them, I bet."
Anyway, that power grew into what it was now.
Definitely beyond normal. What powered the community window? Unlimited teleports?
My dungeon power?
Dungeons pulled from ley lines to spawn monsters and herbs, I'd heard.
But
"Mine... has nothing to do with ley lines."
Gallery rumors said the Magic Tower Master had meaningful research on transmigrator powers.
But not public. Hmm...
"Maybe ask Dennis-hyung?"
Needed to meet for that potion ingredient book anyway.
Whatever. Transmigrator info could wait.
But...
"If my dungeon power keeps growing, could it hit divine authority level?"
I was creating whole worlds as dungeons. Wasn't that already there? What came next?
Just more variety, bigger scale? No sense of a fundamental leap.
Transmigrator powers varied wildly, with different ceilings.
"...Maybe this is my peak."
Still OP enough. Already nudging the Shelter's future.
Normalizing it for a better world—and comfier NEET life.
New dungeons.
Keep making new ones.
That was my move.
"Screw it, let's give it a shot."
As I steeled myself,
A message has arrived.
A chill ran down my spine.
"No way."
I'd been dodging one person lately.
The tentacle fanatic StickyThingLover...
That day T-1019 socially executed me.
Back home, I'd begged her for more time—still had stuff to do.
She'd waited over 10 years; a bit more was nothing, she said cheerfully.
But... since then, daily check-ins. I'd ghosted, pretending to be busy.
Today's here too, huh...
I opened the chat to peek.
After three days scouting restaurants for new ingredients, everywhere the food was bland. Obviously—seasonings like salt were pricey. Most salt came from dungeon rock salt, but supply couldn't keep up.
If I could mass-produce salt, it might revolutionize diets here.
Bonus: non-combatants get dungeon jobs.
"Gaaahhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
I missed my chance to see Joodak-hyung's face.