Light, Salt, and the Head Moderator

A chilling urban legend had been circulating through the online community.

It whispered of a persistent registered account — a Gonik — that drifted from board to board across cyberspace without leaving so much as a single hour unoccupied. At times, the user had left replies across three entirely separate galleries within the exact same minute. It was the kind of unnatural persistence that inevitably sent shivers down ordinary netizens' spines.

Though rumors abounded claiming multiple people manned the profile in relays, the truth was far simpler. There was only one person behind the handle.

Because that notorious SecretOfTheHumanitiesGhost was none other than me.

"It simply means the gentleman possesses an exceptionally broad range of intellectual curiosities," I muttered to myself with a self-deprecating grin.

I was hardly in denial. I knew perfectly well that I suffered from a terminal, pathological addiction to forum browsing. One glance at my dual monitors — each cramming three or four browser windows tiled side by side across various community boards — made that diagnosis undeniably clear.

Just how long had I been submerged in the infinite scroll? A pale sliver of dawn sunlight crept through the crack in my blackout curtains, warm against the corner of my eye.

"Ah. Just about time for bed."

The digital clock read 5:50 AM. Official bedtime. Not that going to bed meant pausing my forum duties, of course. My daily regimen consisted of five carefully measured fifty-minute power naps spread throughout the morning, waking up between each interval to refresh my feeds and ensure no high-yield front-page shitposts slipped past unread.

Deep down, I knew my lifestyle was profoundly broken, but...

"Honestly, this kind of life isn't half bad."

I had a decent cushion of money saved up. It wasn't enough to coast into retirement without lifting a finger forever, but I had zero willpower to step out into the sunlight and engage in job hunting. Nor did I harbor any deep psychological trauma that kept me indoors. It was merely that the primitive, mammalian pleasure center of my brain had evolved far too aggressively at the expense of sensible adulthood.

"Dopamine! Rapid-fire instant gratification! The infinite board feed!"

Yet even this endless feast of trivia was beginning to lose its flavor. My tentacles reached farther into niche sub-boards than an octopus on amphetamines, but an idle ambition had recently begun to sprout in my chest. I wanted to become a Head Moderator — an orange-tagged Judddak presiding over an entire gallery.

There was no grand philosophy behind the urge; it was pure, unadulterated whim. Without such frivolous impulses, why on earth would anyone covet the unpaid labor of a Head Mod, scrubbing away eye-rotting shock images and degenerate Tactical Nukes for zero compensation?

"Man... I really want to run a board."

I didn't care what the topic was. Anything would do. It was precisely at that moment, when the hunger for administrative authority gripped my mind with peculiar intensity, that an unfamiliar prompt flickered across the center of my browser.

"...Otherworld Destruction Gallery? What kind of fringe meme board is that supposed to be?"

I blinked in surprise, but the hesitation passed in a heartbeat. It was bound to be an empty, dead gallery with zero traffic anyway. It would be a harmless little sandbox where I could flash a fancy orange Head Mod badge for kicks.

Without a second thought, I clicked the confirmation button, completely oblivious to the catastrophic snowball I had just set rolling down the mountain.

"Transfer? Did April Fools come early this year or wha—urk?!"

The scoff caught in my throat as a blinding, skull-shattering migraine struck my temples like a sledgehammer.

"Argh!"

My vision went white, and I collapsed sideways onto the floor, clutching my head. Thankfully, the agony subsided almost as abruptly as it had descended. Panting and trembling, I pushed myself up from the ground — only to freeze at the landscape before my eyes.

Rough cobblestone beneath my palms. Two-story timber-framed buildings that looked plucked straight out of a medieval European travel brochure lining both sides of an empty road. It was like standing in the heart of an ancient citadel's market district.

"Hold on... No way. Seriously?"

The phrase from the prompt flashed through my dazed mind: Initiating dimensional transfer. Did I actually just get isekai'd?

Yet this realm was a ghost town. There wasn't a single soul in sight — only the rotting husks ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of weather-beaten timber and the dusty detritus of total desolation. As I sat slumped on the stones outside a derelict storefront, my eyes drifted toward an alleyway, locking onto a shape shuffling out of the shadows.

"A person? Wait... That's not human."

It had two arms, two legs, and a head perched on its shoulders. From a distance, it resembled a person, but up close, every instinct in my body screamed in protest.

"Grrr... Aaarrgh..."

Ordinary people didn't leak guttural, wet death rattles from their throats.

"Wait a damn minute... Mr. Zombie?!"

Decaying skin, milky sunken eyes, slack jaw — there was no mistaking it. It was a textbook zombie.

SLAM! BANG! CRAAASH!

"GRAAAAH!"

The moment that rotting monstrosity lunged forward with psychotic fury, all rational thought evaporated. I scrambled on all fours like a startled beast, bolting blindly into the cellar entrance of an adjacent ruined inn. Slamming the thick oak door behind me was the luckiest reflex of my entire life.

"GRRRRR!"

THUD! THUD!

The creature threw its weight against the wood, clawing and pounding like a maniac. Fortunately, whatever it had been in life, it still possessed human-tier physical limitations. The heavy timber of the cellar doors held fast under the barrage.

"What in the holy hell is happening to me?!"

I shoved an abandoned wooden shelving unit against the doors as a makeshift barricade, then retreated into the deepest, darkest corner of the cellar, curling my knees to my chest. The sudden avalanche of madness had completely shattered my composure. Keeping my sanity glued together took everything I had; my breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, my head spun with vertigo, and an acute claustrophobic panic shook my limbs like dry leaves.

Then, right in front of my trembling eyes, a translucent blue pane hovered into existence.

"Huh?"

Humans truly are creatures of habit. Surrounded by an utterly alien nightmare, the sheer sight of a single familiar interface allowed a wave of calm to wash over me, restoring my fractured composure. And above all, the title plastered across the status window was something I recognized all too well.

"A gallery..."

To think my final act before getting torn apart by zombies would be serving as a community Head Mod. Wasn't this practically a stroke of divine luck for an unrepentant board addict?

Yet as the interface shifted, I realized this transfer had not been arranged to feed me to the undead. If anything, it felt remarkably like salvation.

"Hoh?"

It functioned exactly like an idle progression RPG. Mesmerized, I reached out and tapped the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Open Gallery prompt.

The live feed was in a state of absolute, unhinged pandemonium.

"Whoa... What's with this refresh rate? It's moving at lightspeed!"

The first thing that stunned me was the sheer user volume. It wasn't hundreds or thousands; it looked like the active population of an entire continent had converged on a single message board. Amidst the torrential cascade of new threads, classic internet bait posts were already blooming in abundance.

"Oho?"

Enticed by the sweet, innocent-sounding title, my finger acted on instinct and clicked the link.

What popped onto my screen was not the ethereal portrait of a slender elven maiden. Instead, it was an eyeful of an aggressively bare, muscle-bound female dwarf striking an erotic pinup pose.

"...Ah."

So this was an otherworld Tactical Nuke?

Traumatized by the visual assault, my finger drifted toward the administrative ban button without a second's hesitation.

As the points registered, a curious thought struck me.

"Wait... Are humans not the only ones using this board?"

The header at the top of the page plainly declared it the Otherworld Destruction Gallery. Skimming through the highest-rated posts confirmed my suspicion: elves, dwarves, beastfolk, and even sentient demon beasts like goblins and wyverns were posting here. Naturally, the lion's share of the front page was dominated by vain elven maidens uploading suggestive selfies for clout.

"Farming upvotes with thirst traps ruins feed diversity, you shameless long-ears. Tsk, tsk."

Muttering righteous grievances, I faithfully saved every single image to my offline cache.

Immediately afterward, another prompt alerted me to the fruits of purging that shock-posting troll.

"Oh?"

Two features unlocked right out of the gate. Drawn by sheer curiosity, I entered the system shop. What greeted me was an interface eerily reminiscent of an Earth e-commerce website, neatly categorized by product types.

Testing the waters, I decided to purchase ten bottles of water.

THUD!

With a dull thump, a pristine cardboard case containing ten plastic water bottles materialized in the damp corner of the cellar.

"Legendary."

I tore open the packaging, cracked the cap off one bottle, and chugged. It was clean, crisp, and bone-chillingly cold. As the refreshing water rushed down my parched throat, the gears in my frozen mind finally clicked back into gear.

What if I list these bottles on that marketplace?

"I'll keep two bottles in reserve for myself and sell the remaining eight."

Spending ten points felt a little wasteful, but considering I had netted thirty points just for nuking one shitpost, the profit margin was absurdly favorable.

Besides, skimming through recent threads revealed an alarming pattern.

The vast majority of the survivors posting on the gallery were facing a desperate, life-threatening drinking water crisis.

"Surely it'll take a few hours to find buyers, right?"

Feeling cautiously optimistic, I listed all eight bottles of mineral water at the baseline price of one Mana Dumpling each.

The instant the listing went live, every single bottle vanished.

On an ordinary, bleak day in the post-apocalyptic ruin of the Otherworld Destruction Gallery, an unfamiliar tab quietly manifested at the top of the interface.

Naturally, the eye-catching tab drew the gaze of desperate survivors. When a handful of skeptics clicked the link, they found real water waiting for them.

Crystal-clear, pristine spring water.

It wasn't muddy sludge skimmed from drainage ditches, nor was it poisoned runoff festering with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠biological corruption. Though the bizarre, transparent, featherlight container was unlike anything they had ever laid eyes on, those teetering on the edge of fatal dehydration bought it without hesitation.

In the blink of an eye, a simple batch of plastic water bottles ignited an earth-shattering sensation across a dying continent.