Ice Age Gallery (3)

“Is it morning already?”

A full week had passed since the bone-chilling cold descended upon them. The bitter freeze gripping Fron showed no mercy, seeping into the homes just as ruthlessly as it prowled the streets outside. Hundreds had already frozen to death across the territory, but Dave was not among them.

“A ‘hot pack,’ she called it? Truly a marvel the more I look at it.”

It was all thanks to the chemical warmers he had cracked open beneath his blankets. When he first laid eyes on the unassuming little packets, he had scoffed at the notion that something so minuscule could ever generate heat. Yet he soon came to understand why his fellow villagers treated anything bearing the Head Mod’s seal like holy relics. He hadn't felt the cold at all. In fact, he was practically toasty.

Stumbling groggily out toward the kitchen, he was greeted by the bright smiles of his child and his wife, Allin, who were already up and about.

“Daddy!”

“You’re awake, Dave? Here, drink some of this.”

What his wife pulled out was something he had never seen in his entire life.

Opening the sleek black canister revealed a dense assortment of sticks made from an impossibly smooth, synthetic film. Allin plucked one out, brought a kettle of water to a boil over a flame sparked by a Marketplace lighter, and dissolved the granules. What filled the mug was a steaming, pitch-black brew.

“I've never seen tea like this before.”

The aroma rising from the cup was intoxicatingly rich and sweet.

“It’s coffee. I bought one for the house.”

“Coffee? That luxury only the high-and-mighty nobles drink?”

Dave froze just as the rim touched his lips. Wasn’t coffee an absurdly decadent indulgence that cost as much as an ordinary family's monthly earnings?

Allin waved her hands with a light chuckle.

“Do you think I've gone mad enough to buy it from a merchant? It’s from the Head Mod’s Marketplace.”

“Ah. Right. Well, then.”

Dave sank back into his seat. From the Head Mod's Marketplace. Curiously enough, even out here in their isolated frontier village, simply attaching those magic words was enough to settle any argument. No matter how absurdly luxurious an item seemed or how miraculous its effects were, invoking the Head Mod instantly made the impossible make sense.

“Here’s your breakfast, too.”

What she placed before him was another curiosity sealed in a canister—an orange tin crafted from paper-thin metal, stamped with the words Chunk Light Tuna. Without a word, Dave scooped a hefty portion into his mouth. The luscious richness of the oil and the savory depth of the fish exploded across his palate, driving his senses into a state of sheer bliss. After scraping the tin spotless right down to the edges, he took a slow sip of the coffee and exhaled a quiet breath.

“This makes no sense.”

“Doesn't it? Who on earth would ever sell such miraculous things to people like us?”

Just a few short years ago, Dave’s family had been on the brink of ruin. He had been forcibly conscripted to fight in the Great War, returning alive through what could only be called a stroke of sheer luck, only to be greeted by a sickly son and a starving wife. Meanwhile, the grand nobles had barricaded themselves behind high castle gates, doing nothing but feasting and drinking while their people perished. When starvation seemed like the only fate left for his household, the Head Mod had suddenly descended upon the Gallery like a bolt of lightning.

“He practically gave it to us for free.”

“Never mind that—aren't you heading out for that new job today?” Allin leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Her gaze was so bright and brimming with anticipation that an outsider might have assumed she was the one setting out.

“Ah, yeah. That's today.”

“It’s such a blessing. Who else would ever get an opportunity like this?”

“You're right about that. Pure luck.”

Chime.

Right then, a notification pinged from his Gallery interface. Checking his slate, he saw an alert from his newly assigned work group.

The job in question was serving ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as one of the Fron hunters personally recruited by the Head Mod. Their only duties were to conduct hunts using the specialized gear provided and meticulously record the results. Shockingly, the Head Mod had zero interest in the hides or the meat procured from the game; the quarry belonged entirely to the hunters.

“Well, I’m heading out.”

“Be careful out there. Watch out for bears.”

“Have a safe hunt, Daddy!”

Dave stared fondly at his son before reaching down to ruffle the boy's messy hair. Slinging his hunting kit over his shoulder, he stepped toward the door.

“It's bitter outside, so go over to the village chief's house today. Stay near the... what was it called again?”

“The portable generator?”

“Right, that. Well, the Head Mod provided that as well, after all.”

The harsh winter could no longer drive the people of the north into fatal despair. Starting with the hot packs and culminating in the hum of that strange, heart-like generator, no one had to shiver inside their own homes anymore. With one stationed in each settlement, villagers gathered in small groups to share hot tea and pass the time together in comfort. However, the food supply was another matter entirely.

Just as the posts across the Gallery lamented, the extreme cold had wiped out nearly all ordinary wildlife. What remained prowling the snowdrifts were vicious predators like frost-hardened ice bears and mutated beasts. Yet even that plight was about to become a thing of the past.

“He said to set it up like this, right?”

Venturing deep into the frosted mountain woods, Dave unslung his pack and carefully retrieved a hefty metallic contraption. Following the steps demonstrated in the instructional recording, he cautiously adjusted the components until it was primed.

Clack!

“...Now that is one wicked-looking contraption.”

It was a piece of hunting hardware delivered directly by the Head Mod. Dave let out a dry, incredulous chuckle as he inspected the primed device. It was a monstrous contraption designed to effortlessly ensnare the very predators that normal men would run away from on sight.

“What did he call it again... a bear trap?”

Vicious, jagged metal jaws hung open wide, lurking in the snow and eagerly awaiting its next meal.

Fron’s crisis with the cold had been stabilized to some extent, but securing food remained an ongoing dilemma. No matter how convenient the Marketplace was, relying on it for every single meal every single day was neither feasible nor sustainable. Handing out bear traps had turned out to be an immense success.

The bitter freeze was indeed a problem. While ice bears possessed pliable flesh, other monsters certainly did not. Left outdoors for even an hour, a carcass hardened into a slab of solid rock that chipped ordinary hunting blades. In the beginning, hunters frequently abandoned carcasses because of this, but they quickly adapted.

To people accustomed to logging frozen timber throughout brutal winters, carving up rock-hard meat was second nature. They dragged frozen game indoors to thaw beside the stoves or hewed off chunks with woodcutting tools; their methods were endlessly practical. With their survival secured, their outdoor ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠operational hours skyrocketed. Plastering their bodies in hot packs and slipping on ski goggles bought from the Marketplace to shield exposed skin, they adapted to the elements with resilience rivaling that of wild beasts.

Naturally, such rapid changes brought their share of bizarre developments. The northern domain of the Adrian Empire had long been the region least influenced by the Gallery, historically isolated from the wider world with stubborn traditions rooted deep within its communities. In place of the continent's major churches, local folk religions had long held dominion over the people's hearts. Until now.

The ancient local creeds were crumbling down to their very foundations. People turned away from empty superstitions and began reflecting on the raw realities before them.

When the threat of starvation was breathing down their necks, the belief that feudal lords were the sole arbiters of their lives began to wither away in Fron. Just as the embers of popular dissent were quietly smoldering, a post appeared on the forum that shattered the fragile calm.

“What?”

I stared at the screen in disbelief. The ruling nobles of Fron had abruptly altered the taxation terms to confiscate forum commodities. Worse yet, several of the items shown in the photos were the very supplies I had distributed for next to nothing out of goodwill.

Furious at the sheer audacity, I left a stern comment beneath the thread. Scarcely a few minutes later, an official response appeared right under my handle.