Witch Hunt (1)

One survivor, hundreds dead.

The rift had disgorged beasts upon the world once more.

Ten villages were massacred in their wake. News of the catastrophe only reached the Gallery through a desperate post by a solitary survivor, someone who had barely managed to cling to life thanks to an old bear trap.

The skull of an emaciated stag, a desiccated frame resembling torn animal carrion, and a towering height exceeding two meters. The monstrosity spewed forth from the rift was an unprecedented variant beast unseen since the Great War. It possessed unnatural speed and arms of sickening length. There was a reason every soul had perished before any warning could circulate through the Gallery.

It was around that time that the Wendigo reached the eleventh village.

"Kkikikik?"

No humans were in sight.

No chimney puffed smoke into the winter air, nor did the faintest trace of human scent drift on the breeze. Nothing welcomed the beast except an eerie, hollow settlement that resembled an abandoned theater set.

One of the pack slipped into a vacant house to investigate. The interior was pitch-black, dark to the point where nothing was visible, yet a sharp, pungent odor of oil stung its nostrils.

"Kkikikiki."

The Wendigo let out a chilling, rattling laugh. Playing tag with terrified mortals was always delightful entertainment. Anticipating the look of sheer horror on some cornered wretch's face, it stalked into the darkness.

"Ahem."

Someone was sitting quietly upon a kitchen chair. But the figure waiting in the gloom was no frightened peasant. Cloaked head to toe in black flame-retardant gear, its face was concealed behind a respirator that looked remarkably like a grinning skull.

"Want me to shed some light?"

The Wendigo tilted its antlered skull, unable to comprehend the human tongue. In that exact moment, remaining in his relaxed posture, the man's index finger softly squeezed a trigger.

Click.

FWOOOOSH!

A torrent of roaring crimson flame erupted from the nozzle of the flamethrower.

The variant beast that had plunged the entire northern territory into freezing terror had emerged from the rift at long last—only to get completely wiped out within forty-eight hours.

"Isn't this a little too easy?"

Naturally, I was the one who supplied the flamethrower to exterminate the Wendigo. I had merely suggested fire on a hunch that it was vulnerable to heat, but I never imagined it would crumble so pathetically.

Because of that swift victory, the Gallery users began flooding the board, demanding an explanation. To be fair, the Wendigo was an aberration that had never been documented since the Great War. Its weaknesses were entirely unrecorded, and even the name 'Wendigo' was something I had arbitrarily slapped onto it. Still, it wasn't as if I had some profound secret to reveal.

The shop was literally selling it.

"Why the hell did that actually work?"

It was a book I had stumbled upon while browsing the system's literature category. It was organized like an old gaming manual, compiling all sorts of fictional lore. That was where I had read that Wendigos were vulnerable to fire. Just in case, I had tossed in a couple of hand grenades to support them, but seeing it work like a charm in reality was bewildering.

Considering how terribly everyone had shivered in the cold, the crisis ended on an unexpectedly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠anticlimactic note. Just as I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was concluding that all's well that ends well, a barter notification pinged my interface for the first time in a while.

"Ice Essence?"

Before I could even mutter, What the hell is that, you weeb?, a delivery parcel materialized in the corner of my bunker room. Cutting open the tape and peering inside, I found an ice crystal roughly the size of a tennis ball resting on the cushioning.

"Whoa..."

I didn't know what it was, but the object practically radiated an overwhelming aura that screamed, I am stupidly, ridiculously incredible. I tapped the system interface to pull up the item's details.

"Dragons? Wait, there are dragons in this world too?"

The system might omit details when uninformed, but it never generated outright falsehoods. That meant an actual dragon existed somewhere out there. Whenever dragon bait threads circulated around the Gallery, I had dismissed them as regular old trolling, but it was authentic?

Still, the shock didn't linger long.

"I mean, virgin succubi and cute demon girls are running around, so what's a dragon? If anything, that's pretty mundane."

Reflecting upon the bizarre individuals I had already encountered, finding out dragons were real felt entirely expected. Picking up the Ice Essence, I stepped into the bunker's storage chamber. The room was already brimming past capacity with miscellaneous goods despite my efforts to categorize them into labeled drawers—bracelets braided from elf hair, felted fur balls from the rabbit beastfolk, and various oddities of all kinds. I wedged the frozen crystal deep into a crevice among the shelves.

"I'll find a use for it eventually."

I had no idea why they gifted it to me after risking their necks to hunt it down, but free loot was free loot.

"Proven what?"

I pondered for a second, recalling how revolting and hideous that Wendigo had appeared. Were they asking for recognition because they had voluntarily gone out to slay such an ugly freak?

Throwing myself backward onto the soft mattress, I browsed the Gallery with a lighter heart.

"Seems like all the urgent fires have been put out."

The variant beast menacing Fron had been dealt with, so the biting cold was beginning to recede. On top of that, I had rounded up the chronic trolls disrupting the board and thoroughly disciplined them. For the moment, across every race and border, there was no sign of any massive monster wave bearing down on civilization.

"Time to kick back and binge the top posts."

Finally granted a brief respite, I navigated to the Concept Post board to see if I had overlooked any gems while busy. Just as I clicked past the final archive page to begin reading from the bottom up—

"Wait... why does this feel ominous?"

A chill crept up my spine, sending prickles through my hair. It was a sharp intuition honed over long hours as the Head Mod of the Otherworld Destruction Gallery. Whenever that gut feeling flared up, without fail, some disaster had detonated across the forum.

Then again, it made sense. With monster incursions temporarily halted and basic physiological needs met through the system marketplace, only one thing could possibly unfold next in a medieval realm.

"Are you kidding me?"

Right. The grand, time-honored medieval tradition. It was time for a witch hunt to begin.

The masses had suffered for far too long.

They had lived under the heel of a privileged few, and their flesh had been torn apart by beasts crawling out from The Outside. There was no escape to the left, nor any sanctuary to the right. Driven to madness by misery, the commoners had settled on a single outlet.

They rose up in rebellion.

To vent the fury festering deep within their chests, they slaughtered their rulers with horrific cruelty, repaying every grievance in kind. And whenever rulers were scarce, petty ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠criminals served as convenient substitutes. Binding a condemned soul securely to a wooden post with heavy rope, they heaped firewood at their feet and burned them alive.

"Die!"

"Filthy scum! You deserve to burn!"

Watching those agonized ends provided the mob with a dark catharsis, a fleeting taste of relief. But as that cycle repeated itself over and over, it turned into an uncontrollable addiction.

Most of the aristocracy had perished during the Great War. The few survivors who had dared abuse their authority were purged during the purge following the Adrian Crown Prince exile incident. In short, there were no corrupt nobles left to punish.

Curiously, the institution that grew most anxious over this lack of targets was the Church.

The Church had long enjoyed playing a real-life game of Mafia, riding high on commoner popularity while pointing fingers at the ruling class. But between the Great War and the upheaval of Adrian's Crown Prince, every 'Mafia member' among the nobility had been shot dead. With no nobles left to absorb the hatred, public scrutiny was bound to turn toward the priesthood's subtle, lingering luxuries.

A distinctly hostile atmosphere was beginning to coalesce around the Church. Sensing the brewing storm, the clergy came to a desperate realization: If there are no Mafia left in the game... can't we just shoot a citizen?

The witch hunt had been inaugurated like some festive carnival. The masses didn't even understand what was wrong; they had witnessed witch hunts from the moment they were born and considered it entirely normal.

The moment that newly minted concept post met my eyes—

I completely lost my temper.