Raising the World Tree (3)

The World Tree had reclaimed her power.

The elves across the gallery erupted in wild jubilation. Riding high on her restored strength and fueled by the boundless expectations of her people, the World Tree chose her very first course of action.

She logged onto the gallery as an unregistered IP user: 137.7.32.

An unregistered IP user—an anonymous wanderer without a fixed forum handle. Since almost everyone in the community operated under registered nicknames, seeing an old-school anon drop by was a genuine blast from the past.

"And on top of that, she's a total troll."

The moment 137.7.32 entered the boards, she hurled a tactical nuke straight into the feed.

The onslaught didn't stop there. Rapid-fire posts flooded the screen in quick ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠succession:

Every single tactical nuke was tailored specifically to terrorize the elven psyche. I narrowed my eyes as I watched the deluge of hateful memes and comments piling up from the divine entity.

"...Should I even classify this as trolling?"

From an objective moderation standpoint, it was a headache. Generally speaking, if the overwhelming majority of a forum loathes someone's behavior, it's considered disruptive trolling. But here, the consensus was totally split.

The non-elf majority—the humans and dwarves—were having the absolute time of their lives cheering her on, putting me in an awkward spot. Banning her outright felt a bit excessive, so I decided to intervene with a gentle public warning.

"Can she not type?"

She didn't enter actual text, substituting every response with custom stickers of unknown origin. The avatar depicted in them was striking—a young girl with green braided hair. Not quite a middle-schooler, yet not entirely grown up either. She had the distinct, prickly aura of an adolescent going through a rebellious phase.

However, rather than calming down after my mediation, she went in the exact opposite direction. She started trying to play buddy-buddy. And of all people, she was aiming her cliquey advances squarely at me, the Head Mod.

"Okay, this is textbook trolling."

What constituted toxic disruption on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠an imageboard? Unsolicited cliquey socializing, graphic shock content, repetitive flood posting, and bad-faith engagement. Cliquey socializing was arguably the most venomous of all, threatening to rot a public community into an exclusionary private circle. And here was this ancient timber trying to butter up the Head Mod in broad daylight.

"A completely un-self-aware troll...!"

The legendary, pure-strain variety born of sheer innocence and zero shame.

Seeing her pick reckless fights with the Assistant Mods who tried to step in was the final straw. I brought down the administrative hammer on our little mythological hell-raiser.

"A week in the cooler ought to clear her head."

I understood where she was coming from. If I had spent centuries on the brink of death only to suddenly regain my freedom and get revenge on the people who neglected me, my brain would be swimming in pure dopamine too. But apparently, I had vastly underestimated the sacred pillar of elven civilization.

She had ambushed an innocent elf walking past her trunk and forced them to write an appeal on her behalf. In all my days managing communities, I had never witnessed ban evasion executed via literal hostage-taking. I was utterly speechless.

Fortunately, the World Tree's reign of terror did not drag on.

The moment I lifted the ban, she released her elven loudspeaker and returned to being remarkably docile. More importantly, she addressed the root problem that had triggered this entire disaster in the first place: she stabilized the rift they had so foolishly treated as pet lava.

Up until now, the elves had avoided the horrific mutations and corruption of the rifts entirely thanks to the World Tree's passive protection. With her recovery, both the blinding migraines and the impending famine that had plagued them were resolved in a single stroke—even if the crisis had originally erupted from their own sheer negligence.

"Is that settled, then?"

Our crisis response to the rifts had concluded for now. The humans were patched up with Tylenol, the dwarves knocked out their insomnia with ninety-six-percent Spirytus, and the elves had their sacred tree back online.

A few rifts might seem trivial on paper, but terraforming always started with the tiniest variables. Survival was the ultimate priority; if this other world collapsed, I went down with it. Total preparation was everything.

Just as I leaned back to savor a job well done, however, the elves stirred up another tempest in the comments.

The World Tree was no longer the all-forgiving matriarch who showered her children with unconditional bounty. She adamantly refused to drop so much as a single wild berry for an elf, which opened up a brand new existential headache.

"Which means they're going to have to learn how to farm."

Elves had never cultivated an acre of soil in their entire history. For generations, they had survived purely by gathering whatever the tree produced; some of them didn't even know the basics of cooking over an open flame. Since the World Tree obeyed only my words, the public sentiment instantly shifted toward dragging me over to El-Ladh to manage her.

I gave them my definitive response in four simple letters.

Not a chance in hell. What lunatic would willingly walk into El-Ladh? While I had no intention of holing up in this cramped rabbit warren forever, an elven forest was dead last on my list of relocation spots.

"Unless it's an impenetrable underground bunker..."

I had bolted in such a rush when the assassins struck that most of my survival gear remained back in the ruined capital's warehouse. The moment my return ticket was patched up, I was heading straight back to my own domain.

"Head Mod-nim, preparations are complete. Myo."

"You're finally finished?"

"Yes. Here..."

Myoran offered a shimmering, golden slip of parchment adorned with an illustration of a sobbing rabbit surrounded by walls of tiny warning notices. Did the clan scribes etch that guilt-trip on purpose?

"So if I use this..."

"You will return to the location you hold clearest in your memory. Please disregard the warnings. Myo."

"Right. Thanks for everything up till now."

The rabbit warren had served as a flawless sanctuary. Not a single shred of identifying information had leaked to the forum, and they had treated me with absolute hospitality. Whenever raiders or kidnappers attempted to infiltrate ten times a day, Myoran had repelled every single one with her shotgun.

"...Still, it feels a little bittersweet to just leave."

"Is that so?"

"It was safe here. And Myoran was always around to handle the heavy lifting, wasn't she?"

I genuinely contemplated lingering a bit longer. Going back meant having to fend for my own survival all over again. But right at that moment—

Slurp.

"Haaah... Head Mod-niiim..."

A spine-chilling purr brushed against my ear, followed by the soft, tickling brush of rabbit whiskers across the bridge of my nose. Startled, I scrambled to jump up, but two pale, impossibly strong hands reached through the iron partition and locked onto my shoulders.

"Myoran, help!"

"Oh no!"

The grip was terrifyingly unyielding; my body wouldn't budge an inch. Eyes blown wide in shock, I glanced sideways to find a rabbit beastkin right in my face—a breathtakingly fluffy, half-human hybrid leaning in with dilated pupils.

"I'm sorry... but I just... I can't hold back anymore."

With that sinister declaration, those plush lips closed the distance. Moving with the reflexes of an Olympic sprinter, I shredded the golden ticket in two.

"Whoa."

Rough cobblestones underfoot. Two-story timber-framed buildings straight out of an old European travelogue towering around me.

"I'm back."

I was standing directly before the cellar entrance of the ruined restaurant where I had first transmigrated.

Safety above all. That rule admitted no exceptions. In the end, even the rabbit clan wasn't entirely safe from mortal peril.

"What about Zombie Sam?"

Fortunately, not a single Zombie Sam was in sight along the desolate streets of the fallen Kelton capital. Checking over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, I slipped down into the underground warehouse, coming face-to-face with the half-shattered barricade.

Rotting assassin corpses, foul stench, and the wrecked aftermath of my once-cozy home sweet home... I quickly patched the broken doorway with a few salvageable wooden planks.

Hummm. Hzzzt.

"Yeah, good to see you guys too."

Inside, my luminous sleep lamp—the Dwarven Masterpiece Sword—and my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠daytime floodlight, the Adrian Holy Sword, hummed softly in greeting. The blades had done a thorough job while I was away, executing every remaining straggler who tried to pillage the stockpile. Thanks to them, none of my supplies had been looted, but still...

"This place is way too exposed."

I desperately needed a defensive perimeter. Not just a thin wooden door, but double and triple layers of impenetrable shielding. In that regard, the ruined, lawless capital of Kelton was an awful long-term base.

"Should I look into moving somewhere else?"

It was easy to say, but hard to execute. Moving without leaking my coordinates was nearly impossible, and I had no countermeasure against sudden ambushes along the road. I didn't even know the geography of this world—where was I supposed to relocate to?

Yet that dilemma resolved itself almost instantly.

"Oho?"

A golden business opportunity had just dropped right onto my dashboard.