The Ice Age Gallery (2)
(Image of a bear that froze to death while hibernating)
Went out hunting and spotted a bear.
Must've been freezing as shit because it's stone dead lmao.
I feel like I'm about to freeze to death too, so no Q&A.
Adrian held significant geographic advantages. It enjoyed four distinct seasons, supporting diverse flora and fauna that yielded an abundance of food, and during wartime, it possessed the distinct strength of performing above average regardless of the weather conditions.
That held true everywhere—except for Adrian's northern territory.
"And you're saying that place got even colder?"
A region already frigid was plunging into deeper permafrost. The culprit was an unnatural, bitter chill that had begun spewing simultaneously from every rift across the north.
"Just like the Assistant Moderator said, it feels like a wave, but..."
It was the first time an attack had taken this form. Normally, whenever an allotted interval expired, rifts simply vomited out swarms of mutant beasts. Peering through the Gallery interface at the unfolding catastrophe in Fron, I fell deep into thought. For whatever reason, the rift assaults seemed to be growing steadily more frequent and ferocious.
(Image of someone flipping off a rift with both middle fingers)
Eat shit, you bitch.
"How does it keep getting colder?"
With every passing hour, the temperature plummeted further, spiraling out of control like runaway inflation. At this point, no ordinary winter clothes could protect anyone stepping outside. The sole silver lining was that the supernatural drop in temperature hadn't brought gale-force blizzards along with it. Faced with the sudden, lethal cold snap, the northern residents scrambled to improvise their own survival methods.
Among those tricks, the most effective was undeniably magic. Paying a mage to forcefully circulate heat through the body kept the chill at bay. Yet that method harbored a fatal flaw.
(Image of an old man screaming with veins bulging along his neck)
An old gramps has been screaming at me for a while now, demanding warmth and asking if I'm looking down on him just because he's a commoner;
I already explained three times that I'm completely out of mana, but he's still going at it.
Ugh, if throwing tantrums could solve everything, would I still be a scrub hedge mage? I'd be the Head Mod already?????
Mana depletion was catastrophic. Given how the empire's historical doctrine prioritized purely offensive magic, practical utilitarian sorcery was underdeveloped. Spells that sustained ambient body heat were foreign, crude, and terribly inefficient with mana. Worse yet, what few capable mages existed were entirely monopolized by the city's aristocracy.
"Wait, I had an appointment booked in advance! Why are you canceling?"
"His Lordship the Count summoned me. My head is on the line here, so shouldn't I report at once?"
Every mage who carried a shred of reputation had been called away to noble estates, hoarding the warmth for the elite. Naturally, public sentiment plummeted into open rage. Back during the Adrian crisis, commoners had been forcibly conscripted by the duke to march out against the Head Mod. And now, instead of resolving this disaster, those lords were walling themselves off in luxury just to save their own hides?
Internally, fractures widened across the city; externally, defenses against mutant beast incursions grew dangerously thin. It was right as the region was steadily embarking on the exact ruinous path Adrian had once walked.
"Now's the moment!"
As if I had been waiting for this exact second, I flooded the marketplace with a fresh shipment.
The supernatural chill emanating from the rifts worsened steadily. In the northern Fron territory, residents had been driven to the point where setting foot outside meant risking death. Yet remaining indoors offered little solace.
Inside was barely any better. It was merely the difference between brutally freezing and slightly less freezing. The northerners, who survived mostly by hunting, were shivering in the cold while missing meals entirely. That was when a bizarre new listing dropped before the northern folks shivering beneath their heaps of blankets.
"A hot pack?"
Accompanied by a stark crimson warning label, a peculiar pouch called a 'Hot Pack' appeared. It was small enough to nestle comfortably in one's hand and felt soft and squishy to the touch. Naturally, upon tearing open the plastic wrapping, it offered zero heat—nothing more than a limp, freezing scrap of cloth.
"Wait, this cloth gets warm?"
Any sensible person would have laughed in disbelief. Unless it was possessed by a ghost, how could an inanimate bundle of fabric spontaneously radiate heat?
In fact, anyone asserting as much would have been lucky not to be branded a raving madman. Even licensed mages were sweating blood trying to infuse heat into people one by one. But the moment the product carried the holy prefix of Supplied by the Head Mod, the entire game shifted.
(Image of a red, slightly scorched ankle)
Damn, this thing is hot as fuck lmao
(Image of roasting a crab over heat)
All those winter crabs are dead.
The Head Mod generating enough heat to inflict burns just from shaking a bag a few times... truly the GOAT.
Perpetual worship is mandatory.
Left unchecked, people were guaranteed to freeze to death. That was why I had listed the hot packs on the marketplace in the first place. As expected, they posted staggering sales figures, pulling off the feat of selling out the exact second each batch went live.
"Still, this won't be enough."
They couldn't endure on hot packs forever. At best, hot packs were nothing more than a temporary ventilator. While the Gallery went crazy over the warm pouches, I had combed through the system catalog to dig up equipment that was actually sustainable.
"The price tags are a bit steep."
Still, with gear like this properly set up, freezing to death would no longer be a concern.
The moment I tapped the purchase button, a colossal mountain of freight boxes materialized inside the bunker.
"This really is the ideal time to relocate."
The usable living space inside the bunker was rapidly shrinking. With points to spare, upgrading to a larger bunker would have been ideal, but unfortunately, that luxury had to be shoved to the back burner.
A variant beast unlike any seen before had surfaced. Sensing what was coming, I realized I needed to stockpile heavy weaponry well in advance.
"Can't hurt to be prepared."
In the past, purchasing modern ordnance was out of the question, but with the dimensional delivery service unlocked, circumstances were entirely different. Above all, they were dirt cheap. I decided to hoard a massive stockpile just in case.
At dawn, amidst a howling blizzard.
Inside an ordinary residence in Fron, several sturdy, weathered men huddled closely together. Among them, a bearded, middle-aged man who carried the presence of their leader offered a faint smile as he spoke.
"Everyone made it. Thank you. Come, let us warm our throats first."
"Oh, this is..."
"Cinnamon tea. I heard this had gone out of stock on the Head Mod's Market. Ha-ha."
In the midst of this lethal, unnatural winter, it was genuine marketplace cinnamon tea—celebrated for kindling a fire in the body from within. Each of the men had multiple freshly activated hot packs tucked inside their coats, holding back the biting frost.
"It feels as though our very lives are sustained solely by the Head Mod."
"Aye. Without the marketplace, many of us would have dropped dead long before today."
Each man chimed in with heartfelt gratitude, the room warming with shared sentiment. Yet the comfort was short-lived; the true purpose of their assembly remained. Sinking the laughter into solemnity, the bearded man took a measured breath and broke the silence.
"So... do you all know why we gathered here today?"
"How could we not? It is because of those noble lords of the North, is it not?"
"Sigh... Yes. Exactly as you say."
The instant silence seized the room, the man slowly lifted his chin and looked around at the faces before him. Every single person present had spent his entire life in Fron. And every one of them was a commoner clawing for survival, with zero hope that their lot in life would ever improve under the nobility.
"Just as you said, we live because of the Head Mod. Not because of those high-and-mighty lords up in their keeps."
"What are you driving at, brother?"
"Do you truly not feel that something is fundamentally broken in our northern land?"
While the Head Mod, the marketplace, and the Gallery were anchoring their survival and guiding their steps, the nobles were consumed entirely with padding their own nests. Reading the rising gravity in the air, another man slowly raised his head.
"Then... are you suggesting we stage a revolution?"
Revolution—a word carrying the penalty of gruesome execution, a treasonous crime that should never even be whispered. Yet not a single person in the room flinched, nor did anyone move to silence him.
The middle-aged man nodded at the word, though his expression remained hard as flint.
"A revolution? Aye, a revolution sounds grand. But if all we do is revolt, nothing will truly change in the end."
"Then what must we do?"
"We tear down the system itself."
"!"
"Abolish this hollow monarchy and the rotten caste system. Under the Head Mod, we must all stand united as one."
The man slowly rose to his feet. With every eye pinned upon him, he leaned toward the single ember flickering in the hearth and whispered with absolute conviction:
"We must build a new order—one that honors only the nation, and the Head Mod."
An empire severed in two.
The commoners of the Fron territory, slowly perishing in the cold.
On that pitch-black, frigid dawn, inside an unassuming home, the quiet embers of revolution began to catch flame.