Looks Like I Became the Temporary Gallery Master

A few days later, at the Nebula Guild.

The door to Guild Master Yoo Se-ah's office burst open.

"Se-ah! I mean—Guild Master! Did you see this?"

A frame so massive it filled the entire doorway. A bear of a man came striding in.

Shin Eun-woo — Vice Guild Leader of the Nebula Guild, frontline tank of the main party, and Yoo Se-ah's childhood friend since they were small.

"What's got you so worked up?"

Yoo Se-ah didn't even glance up from her paperwork, her voice thoroughly unimpressed.

Shin Eun-woo crossed the room in a buzz of excitement and shoved a tablet onto her desk. On the screen, a streamer was enthusiastically explaining something.

"You know that first-floor NPC the guild members wouldn't shut up about? This is a video of someone who got a gift from her."

The streamer was showing off a small object that looked like a traditional herbal pill, turning it this way and that for the camera.

Yoo Se-ah's eyes went wide. She set the papers in her hand down on the desk, slowly.

The Vice Guild Leader took that as agreement and pressed on.

"Food's the biggest headache we've got right now, yeah?"

He wasn't wrong. The floor the Nebula Guild's main party was currently raiding was the 50th Floor — wyvern country.

Wyverns that roamed the sky without a border in sight. Getting dive-bombed from above was a nuisance, but not something they couldn't handle. The real problem was the Curse of Famine.

The instant you set foot on that floor, hunger slammed into you like a physical blow. One hour at the minimum. Hold out as long as you liked — if you didn't eat within two hours, you collapsed as if you'd been starving for weeks. And the catch was brutal: there was only so much weight a person could carry. They'd managed to get their hands on a single spatial expansion bag, and even that wasn't enough. Trying to buy more was a dead end. The price was ruinous, and there was nothing on the market anyway. Every bag that surfaced got snatched up the moment it appeared.

Even a guild at the top of Korea's food chain couldn't outspend Middle Eastern oil money, or the sheer fiscal insanity of countries that printed the world's reserve currency. Korean hunters were force-marching on glucose candy and sticks of butter.

It wasn't as if they hadn't tried other methods. Some hunters could put out more raw strength than any ordinary human. They'd loaded those people up like pack mules and hauled in as much as they could carry — and every time, they became the wyverns' favorite target. The beasts seemed to know a weak point when they saw one. They went after anyone lugging a huge load with single-minded, vicious focus.

In the end, Korea's assault on the floor hadn't even opened an entry route, let alone reached the boss room.

A handful of other countries had cleared the 50th Floor, of course — though you could argue they'd had a head start on know-how. The United States had issued hunters an ultra-compact combat ration developed by NASA, something about slashing the volume and jacking up the calories. Every hunter on the raid had stuffed a spatial expansion bag full of the stuff and punched through. The problem was that those rations had been classified as a strategic asset, and exporting them was strictly forbidden. The Korean government had been trying to negotiate, but the American side wanted far too much in return, and the talks had gone nowhere.

China, for its part, had failed to copy the formula properly. Their hunters had been wiped out by wyverns while they were busy dying of diarrhea. Very on-brand, they'd then simply thrown bodies at the problem, force-feeding people glucose candy and butter until something gave. Afterward the Chinese government announced that there had been no fatalities and threw itself a party for clearing the 50th Floor. Online, of course, the rumor was that dozens of hunters had died.

In any case, Korean guilds had no real answer, and the raid had stalled. That was the situation now.

And into that mess — an item that could replace food? In the hands of some low-level hunter?

"With that, we wouldn't have to waste time taking a dump."

"…"

Yoo Se-ah's brow furrowed hard.

"If you're going to be Vice Guild Leader, try having some dignity."

"Ah, come on. It's just us."

Shin Eun-woo scratched the back of his head, looking faintly sheepish. Yoo Se-ah's gaze drifted back to the tablet.

"We buy that item before another guild or some corporation gets wind of it."

"Think money'll be enough?"

"Offer whatever we can spare. If it comes down to it, even a guild invitation."

"We only take people who've cleared the 40th."

"Then we start a low-level party while we're at it."

"Got it. I'll go talk to the streamer first."

A few days later, on the Hunter Gallery.

A notice went up.

Posts were already regenerating at speed in the Interim GalMaster Tips category.

Meanwhile, a fresh piece of bait was rolling around the Hunter Gallery.

Another post.

At that same hour, in New York, at the headquarters of a vast multinational: Apex Food.

The company held seventy percent of the global market for hunter-exclusive combat rations. On top of that, it monopolized a range of hunter-grade functional foods and potion bases, raking in astronomical sums.

A man stepped into the office of Richard, Apex Food's Asia Regional Director. He was the Korea desk officer, and the look on his face said something had gone badly wrong.

"Director. A new item has appeared in Korea."

"An item? Fresh drops from the Tower are hardly a novel occurrence."

Richard didn't look up from his papers, his tone thoroughly bored. Byproducts poured out of Towers all over the world, every single day. Is he green enough to barge in like this? I'll remember that at the next performance review…

"It's… a food item, sir."

Richard's hand stilled.

"I beg your pardon? Food. From the Tower."

"Yes. A pill, to be precise. A single dose is said to maintain satiety for an entire day."

"…"

"We've also confirmed a rapid boost to stamina and energy. Low-level hunters can obtain it, so accessibility is high as well."

Richard's brow drew together.

"You're not referring to the new combat ration NASA developed, I trust. If product has been leaking out the back—"

"No, sir. An entirely different item. Superior performance, too. And so far, no side effects have been observed."

Richard said nothing. He tapped the desk with one finger.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

In the silent office, the only sound was the click of nail on wood.

Apex Food held a near-monopoly on the hunter combat-ration market. From the company's point of view, the appearance of an item that could replace its own products was anything but welcome. The volume trickling out was still negligible — rumor, more than anything — but the effect was the problem. If it turned out to be a strict upgrade over the company line, their position became extremely awkward. It could do real damage to the image of a corporation currently selling its wares at a premium.

"What is the global distribution on this item?"

"It's only dropping in Korea so far."

"Only Korea."

Richard finished thinking and drew a smartphone from his jacket, jotting something down. On the back of the phone was a logo: TC.

The employee reporting to him frowned, puzzled.

"TC? I've never seen that brand. A new model?"

Richard ran a thumb over the phone and gave a short, dry laugh.

"This? A gift. I do some sponsoring. The Trust & Connection Foundation — a charity."

"Ah. That's impressive, sir. Philanthropy on top of everything else."

"Haha. Image management, more than anything. Anyway. That's not the point."

Richard's voice hardened as he issued the order.

"Acquire that item. By any means necessary. And keep the supply coming ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so the research team can analyze it completely."

"Understood. I'll open the budget as wide as it goes."

"Good. That will ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be all."

The subordinate stepped out, and the warmth drained from Richard's face. He rose slowly and checked the office. A perfect sealed room. No one watching.

Only then did he pick up the smartphone he had left on the desk. He woke the screen, launched an app, and glanced around once more. The icon bore the same letters stamped on the back of the phone: TC — Trust & Connection.

The app opened onto a large line of text in the center of the screen.

A thoroughly ordinary app, built on a thoroughly ordinary layout. He tapped an empty stretch of the screen.

Beep.

Dee-beep.

Fingerprint and iris recognition finished, and the home screen appeared. Richard tapped a blank corner — a spot with no menu at all — in a peculiar rhythm.

Tap. Ta-tap. Tap. Tap.

This time the camera woke and confirmed his face. Authentication complete, the display shifted to a page that was nothing like the one before. Dry. Bare. Businesslike.

He began drafting a report at speed.

He hit send and closed the app. Then, as if nothing at all had happened, he put on a calm face and went back to reviewing his papers.