Real-Life Meetup
After the head-on clash with the Imperial Linguistic Society, Soulnet's name spread farther and wider than ever before.
The bulk of its users still came from within the Valrod Empire, but the network was already spilling past imperial borders, seeping into neighboring kingdoms. That early explosive growth had cooled a little, yet the user count kept climbing—slow, steady, and relentless.
"The Black Magic Tower, is it? I'd like to place an advertisement."
"An advertiser, sir? Haha! Right this way! I am the Third Elder of the Black Magic Tower."
And on the strength of Flame Hammer's historic advertising success, the number of sponsors swelled even further. Merchant companies, guilds, magic towers—even adventuring parties and wealthy private citizens—began turning up at the Black Magic Tower, all eager to buy ads of their own.
"Elsi, look at this. Money! Actual money!"
The Magic Tower Lord's face never lost its grin. Soulnet had become one of the Black Magic Tower's core enterprises. What the next patch would bring, what new rules and systems would be rolled out—those questions had become the whole tower's favorite obsession.
And the next patch I added to Soulnet was this.
"Fixed nicknames?"
"Until now, everyone has been anonymous. We'll keep that system, of course—but some people will want a permanent handle. This is for them."
"Hmm… Do you really think it'll get that much of a reaction? It's just a nickname."
"It'll go over well. Just watch."
And so the system that let users claim fixed nicknames on Soulnet went live.
Some galleries greeted the change with a shrug. Those were the older users, or the quiet types who never cared much about handles and just liked browsing in peace.
But for the young, the hot-blooded, the ones who lived and breathed Soulnet and posted like their lives depended on it—it was a completely different story.
Nicknames minted celebrities inside each gallery, made it easier for people to tell one another apart, and—because of that—became the quiet engine that kept them posting longer. Thanks to the nickname system, Soulnet started running hotter than ever.
And once permanent handles replaced pure anonymity, one very natural desire began to bloom.
The hunger for offline meetups had begun.
Once I spotted that desire while roaming the galleries, I ran straight to the Magic Tower Lord.
"What if the Black Magic Tower hosted the offline meetups ourselves?"
"The Black Magic Tower?"
"There will be plenty of ordinary users, of course. But scholars, tower lords and high-ranking mages from other towers—even Archmages—plus nobles and master craftsmen will show up in force. If we take the lead on these gatherings, the publicity alone will be enormous."
"…Like a demonstration of intercontinental long-range teleportation circles?"
"We let them use Jump Points and long-range teleports for free. That way we showcase how safe the Black Magic Tower's spatial magic really is. And I guarantee you—after the meetup, those people will go home and post about it in the galleries."
"'The Black Magic Tower's teleportation magic is incredible. I was nervous, but once I tried it, it felt completely safe.' That sort of thing?"
"It's the kind of massive free advertising you couldn't buy even if you wanted to, Tower Lord!"
"Do it immediately. I authorize every Black Magic Tower branch across the entire dimension as a venue! The tower will cover every last cost of the travel magic!"
"I'll screen the galleries that want real-life meetups and pick the ones eligible for free magic-circle travel."
That same day, a global notice went up on Soulnet for every gallery to see.
The response was nothing short of explosive.
Before long, a handful of Soulnet's largest, most active, most influential galleries were chosen, and the real-life meetups were set in motion.
The Great Labyrinth.
Also known as the Abyss Dungeon—a hole torn into the fabric of the dimension, a land of ruin crawling with the most dangerous and lethal monsters in the Wirod Dimension. And yet, at the same time, a land of opportunity, where artifacts and relics from other dimensions lay jumbled together in chaotic abundance.
Exploring it was work reserved for the absolute peak of adventurers: those who had climbed past A-rank into S-rank and beyond. An A-rank party usually turned back before the thirtieth floor. Even S-rank adventurers typically finished their expeditions somewhere between the fortieth and fiftieth. The Abyss Dungeon was that merciless.
And here, on the eightieth floor, a woman was in the middle of slaughtering undead.
She wore nothing but a single loose scrap of cloth that barely covered her body and looked about as useful for defense as a handkerchief, strolling along as if she were out for a casual walk. In front of her, the undead that came screaming and clawing were swept away like autumn leaves in a gale.
The woman simply stood there. Her hair did the butchering for her.
Long navy locks falling nearly to her hips stretched and shrank as if they were living creatures, crushing and slicing every undead that lunged from the sides.
"Hey. Undead King Modrich, was it? Why don't you come out and fight me yourself? Your thralls are dying by the dozen. And if I kill you, even an undead doesn't get to come back. You know that, right?"
At her unhurried taunt, a roar tore out of the darkness. A moment later, a lich nearly three meters tall revealed itself.
I curse you, witch. I will make your soul mine and torment you for all eternity.
It was a howl that shook the soul itself—but the woman's expression stayed bored.
"Half a year, and I finally found you. Do you have any idea how many times I've climbed down this deep just for you? All right. Let's do this properly, you bag of bones."
I will kill you!
The colossal body, fused from hundreds of skeletons, began to shudder. Seventh- and eighth-level spells ignited all at once and poured toward the woman—yet not a single one struck home.
"Eighth-level magic, too? That'd kill me if it hit."
She giggled and broke into a run.
The problem was her speed: so fast the naked eye could barely track her. Pure physical force alone produced short-range, near-teleport bursts of velocity, and she used that overwhelming pace to race along ceilings and walls as if gravity were optional. Not one of Modrich's spells so much as grazed her; they smashed uselessly into floor and stone overhead.
Modrich scrambled to cast again, but the woman's body punched into the lich's frame first.
Gaaah!
The giant lich body lifted, flew backward, and crashed into the floor—overwhelming raw physical power. Before the lich could even begin another chant, the woman's hair drove into Modrich's body. In an instant the strands seized every inch of him, then found the Life Force Vessel buried deepest inside.
W-wait—!
"I'll grant you eternal rest, Undead King."
A clear, crisp crack, and the Life Force Vessel shattered. The three-meter frame convulsed once, then went limp. The hundreds of bones that had made up Modrich's body scattered across the floor.
The navy-haired woman watched for a long moment, then broke into a crooked grin.
She had killed the ruler of the Abyss Dungeon's eightieth floor. Perhaps the first person in the entire Wirod Dimension to do so. She wanted the world to know. She wanted to show off.
Exhibitionism. The craving for recognition. Thrill and joy—all of it tangled together behind that twisted smile as the woman with the navy hair—
—opened Soulnet and posted a thread flaunting her glory. Comments flooded in at once.
Shocked comments. Awestruck comments. The navy-haired woman giggled as she watched them all.
"Yes. This is it. This is what I wanted! Praise me more! Keep praising me!"
Alone among the skeletal heaps of the lifeless eightieth floor, she grinned ear to ear at the Soulnet window. Then, all at once—
Doubt started piling up. The navy-haired woman's face twisted hard.
The navy-haired woman—ninth among the dimension's 10 Heroes, the Thread of Calamity, Iomene—stared at the Soulnet screen, trembling with rage for a long while. Then she flashed a vicious grin.
Iomene slammed the Soulnet window shut. Still seething, she cast a return spell.
On the eightieth floor of the dungeon, among mountains of bones and nothing else, every last movement finally stopped.