Marketplace Gallery (2)

Whether a full day had passed or two, Judddak couldn't tell. The subterranean bunker offered no sunlight to mark the hours. The only certainty was that, even after being yanked across dimensions, he was diligently carrying on with his daily forum browsing.

"...Is this another side effect of Red Boom?"

While scrolling through threads discussing the energy drink's performance in combat, he had stumbled onto this post, and it radiated an unmistakable aura of madness.

"Well, at least the reception is explosive."

Contrary to his initial concern that Earth goods might flop in a fantasy realm, the demand was rabid.

He had easily sold an extra hundred cans already, but that was nowhere near enough to quench their thirst. Desperate begging threads flooded the board every minute.

Yet behind this commercial success lay one rather awkward problem.

"So what am I supposed to do with these?"

The revenue flowing back to him was practically useless. Had he been integrated into normal society, they would have served as precious currency, but locked away inside a bunker, having a pile of Mana Dumplings didn't do him any good. All he knew from lurking on the gallery was that survivors used them to buy and trade.

"...Well, I'm sure they'll be useful someday."

Since earning Moderator Points was easy enough on its own, it wasn't like he was operating at a loss. Shrugging off the mild annoyance, he refreshed the catalog, only to find a very peculiar topic taking over the front page.

At first, he brushed it off as garden-variety forum gossip. Wild rumors and unhinged conspiracy theories cropped up on imageboards all the time.

"What is this garbage now?"

This particular conspiracy was gaining alarming momentum. He clicked into the thread.

"What in the absolute hell is this logic...?"

Suddenly framed between the two extremes of a raving psycho and a delicate elf maiden, Judddak stared at the monitor in utter disbelief. Could anyone actually take this seriously?

Then again, this was an internet forum. A place where being sane made you the odd one out.

Judddak had his finger hovering directly over the 999-day ban button, but the little punk backed down with impressive speed.

Yet the delusions didn't stop there. Half the board was arguing whether he was an elf maiden or a centuries-old dragon polymorphed into a cute girl. Deciding to ignore the absurd fanfiction, he scrolled down in search of something that might actually replenish his dopamine reserves.

Then, a post with a far darker tone caught his eye.

Dwarves were the legendary blacksmiths of the continent. Nearly all arms carried by historical champions had been forged in their subterranean fires, and monumental architectural wonders across the land bore the undeniable touch of dwarven hands.

However, ever since the catastrophic rifts of the Great War opened, the dwarves had retreated into their deep mountain holds to weather the endless tides of demonic beasts. And now, that ironbound defense was reaching its absolute breaking point.

...Or so the lore posts on the gallery had claimed.

"...Seeing it like this really makes it hit home."

The picture captured pure, unfiltered despair.

Thousands of horrifying beasts, black and crimson chitin swarming over battlements as monumental as mountain cliffs. Beneath the suffocating sky, heavily armored dwarves were swinging colossal warhammers and thrusting jagged spears as thick as their own torsos, throwing their bodies against the horde. Yet, despite their valiance, the line was caving in inch by bloody inch.

"Is it really because they're starving?"

Looking closer, the warriors in the image were gaunt, their bearded cheeks sunken and eyes hollow with exhaustion. They looked nothing like the stout, barrel-chested dynamos of classic fantasy.

Faced with such harrowing reality, the gallery ignited with fury and sorrow. And for Judddak, this was the very first time he had ever witnessed an active Help Request thread.

"The category existed, but it was completely dead until now."

Word was that when the Great War raged at its peak, the forum had been drowned in desperate cries for aid. But as isolated settlements fell one by one and armies were annihilated, all that remained were scattered remnants clinging to life in remote fortresses. Nobody possessed the resources to offer assistance, and nobody expected rescue anymore, leaving the Help Request tab an abandoned relic.

Naturally, despite their shared heartbreak, no user on the board had the power to save them.

Every surviving race was already drowning in its own existential crisis. Watching their despair, a heavy sense of helplessness began to settle over Judddak's chest as well—until the glowing blue system interface flashed before his eyes, snapping him out of the daze.

"Wait... what am I moping about? I can actually do something."

The System Shop. The Marketplace. In the context of this post-apocalyptic realm, he wielded logistical power beyond mortal imagination.

"Thankfully, I'm practically swimming in points."

Locked away in an underground shelter with nothing to do but moderate and lurk, he had steadily stockpiled points from routine administrative duties. It wasn't the absurd windfall he received from issuing his very first permaban, but 525 points was more than enough to stage an intervention.

"Now, how the heck do I send it across the continent?"

"Oh, hell yes."

The system truly had thought of everything. Judddak eagerly browsed the food catalog.

"Should I just dump the rest into canned tuna too?"

He was about to smash the button, but hesitated. Recalling how constantly and passionately the dwarves mourned the loss of good alcohol on the forums, he backed out and clicked into the liquor directory instead.

"What is all this? Isn't beer just draught or stout?"

He was entirely out of his depth. The deeper he navigated into the sub-menus, the more intimidating the artisanal jargon became, until he was almost afraid to click another link. Amidst the dizzying lists of hops, gravities, and brewing years, one blessedly straightforward listing caught his eye:

"This is the one."

Without a second thought, Judddak ordered twenty-five frosty 500cc mugs of draught beer.

"So, no salvation comes after all."

High atop the icy ramparts, the dwarven warrior commander Thaldru let out a hollow sigh as he looked down at his gallery interface. More than half a day had crawled past, yet not a single soul had answered his desperate plea for aid.

In truth, he had known from the start. Transporting heavy food supplies secretly across these jagged, storm-lashed peaks was a logistical impossibility. Posting that plea had merely been the final, desperate flailing of a warrior standing on the brink of death.

"Foul vermin. Their wretched filth knows no end."

Demonic beasts continued to crawl over the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠treacherous, snow-choked cliffs. The front had entered a brief, uneasy lull, but the moment the horde surged once more, victory would be mathematically impossible. Even dwarven warriors capable of matching a hundred foes each could not wield their hammers without food in their bellies and rest for their limbs.

Thaldru tightened his blistered hands around the haft of his warhammer, preparing his mind for one last glorious, honorable stand. Right then—

"Hm? What is this?"

A triumphant brass fanfare resonated out of nowhere as shimmering text manifested in Thaldru's vision. Exhausted dwarven soldiers slumped against the stone turned their bloodshot eyes toward him in bewilderment.

THUD!

Accompanied by a cheerful automated chime, massive cardboard parcels materialized out of thin air, crashing onto the stone ramparts with a heavy thud.

"What is this?!"

"Where did these come from?!"

"Is that... paper? Who in the nine realms uses refined paper as bulk packing material?!"

Overwhelmed by sudden curiosity, the dwarves swarmed the delivery boxes like ants, ripping the tops open without a second thought. And in that very instant, something pristine and luminous struck their eyes.

"Wait... is this alcohol?!"

"What?!"

Glass. Not crude, bubbly slag, but flawlessly blown, crystal-clear glass mugs holding a rich, glowing golden-amber liquid capped with pure white foam.

At the warrior's thunderous bellow, dozens of dwarven heads along the entire battle line snapped upright in perfect unison, perking up like a pack of startled meerkats.

"Alcohol?!"

"Our sacred lifeline?!"

"The single greatest reason for living?!"

RUUUUUSH!

After three heartbeats of breathless, stunned silence, an avalanche of heavily armored dwarves roared in frenzy, charging toward Thaldru's position atop the fortress wall.