Assistant Moderator (Forced) Recruitment (1)

The entire Gallery had turned into a festival. Every time I brought something from the other side, expectations soared through the roof, and this time was no different.

A staggering batch of a thousand cans was cleaned out in literal seconds, as if by magic. Yet despite the rabid sellout, not a single review regarding the taste popped up on the boards.

The culprit, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠naturally, was the fear of the unknown. The ominous, unnatural appearance of cola played a massive part in that hesitation.

"It tastes amazing, though."

To someone like me who had long since pledged allegiance to the sacred dark nectar, it looked utterly mouthwatering. But to complete beginners, it was a daunting beverage. An unsettling effervescence paired with water that wasn't merely dark, but pitch-black.

For several minutes, a cautious, hesitant silence hung over the Gallery. But that standoff didn't last long.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Figures they'd be scared at first."

In the modern world it was second nature, but to medieval people who had never experienced carbonation, cola must have seemed downright eldritch. At this rate, gathering early reactions would take far too long. Luckily, there was a ridiculously simple trick to convince people frozen in doubt.

Fortunately, the reverse psychology worked like a charm. One by one, people cracked their cans open. And the symptoms flared up almost immediately.

Of course, not every post was glowing praise. In an unenlightened world where faith served as ultimate authority and the very foundation of existence, black, boiling water was the quintessential harbinger of doom.

And right on cue, a religious dispute—something that had remained subdued throughout the Gallery's run—ignited in an attempt to ban cola. It wasn't just a single post, either. A swarm of zealots began flooding the boards, attempting to manipulate public opinion and muddy the waters.

"No real need for me to step in, though."

This was indeed a medieval setting. But it was a post-apocalyptic medieval setting.

"Damn, you guys are brutal."

As far as I knew, the vast majority of the community had lost families, friends, and kin to the cataclysm. Trying to impose religious dogma in a ruined world like this was bound to spark a violent backlash. Watching the feed shift from typical forum banter to raw, genuine malice, I figured it was time to put my actual plan into motion.

"All right, looks like everyone's hooked."

The reason I had unloaded a thousand cans right out of the gate was simple: to get as many people addicted as possible.

"Time to move on to step two."

Grinning, I dropped the next batch into the shop.

I had sneakily trimmed the quantity by two hundred. Browsing the board afterward, a few users pointed it out, but there wasn't any major pushback. The vast majority were either bragging about securing their cans or singing praises for the restock.

"Still smooth sailing."

Even so, this wasn't enough. I waited until the following morning and scheduled the next listing right at the Marketplace's opening bell. This time, a mere 600 cans.

"Roll it out."

First it was a thousand. Then eight hundred. With steady decreases, the cap plummeted to four hundred. Naturally, there wasn't nearly enough to satisfy demand, and the Gallery began to boil over. The craze reached such heights that even the most reclusive Fixed Nicknames came crawling out of the woodwork just to beg on the forums.

And especially this one right here.

Lo and behold, there she was: the elf who spammed low-effort shitposts every single day without ever breaking her bizarre '~da-eyo' persona. The very same elf who had offered her bed for trade a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠while back before vanishing into thin air. Watching her completely lose her mind under the agony of cola withdrawal, I knew the trap was primed.

Unsurprisingly, she was completely off her rocker. Her tuna can deal had fallen through, and having only gotten an agonizing first taste of cola before being cut off by the sellouts, her sanity had shattered. Playing the part of a concerned administrator, I tapped out a reply.

The sheer shock radiating from the chat was palpable. Full-Health Elf went stone-still, freezing for several minutes before finally typing out a tentative line.

The Trade button.

There was, however, a massive catch. A brief look at the terms would reveal it instantly: the Marketplace's barter function strictly required an exchange where both parties provided something of mutual value.

Though elves were renowned for their meticulous caution, Full-Health Elf's brain had already turned to mush from cola withdrawal. Without a second thought, she slammed down on the Trade button.

Completely oblivious to the fate she had just sealed for herself, she fell into the trap with pure, unadulterated innocence.

"Done."

With a broad grin, I promptly left the chatroom.

Scarcely five minutes later...

Someone to share the soul-rotting torment of witnessing eye-melting Tactical Nukes.

Someone to become an unpaid moderation slave grinding point labor day and night.

And best of all, someone who would endure all of it without receiving a single penny of wage.

I had successfully secured my very first Assistant Moderator.