Anesthetic (Part 3)

Witches were dangerous.

Once prejudice took root, it was not an easy thing to pluck out. Even with the Head Moderator personally handing out the remedy, decades of ingrained bias refused to wash away.

“Even if it came from the Head Mod…”

“A witch’s potion? Isn't it cursed?”

For centuries, the rule of thumb had been simple: spot a witch, kill a witch. While the witch trials had vanished overnight following the Head Mod’s decisive intervention, generations of superstition didn't simply dissolve into thin air. To make matters worse, the very concept of anesthesia only fueled their paranoia.

Opinion across the Gallery was fiercely divided. A body bestowed by the heavens completely surrendering all motor control, going limp as a corpse, and then waking up as if resurrected from the grave? Naturally, skeptics sprang up like weeds, crying that it was planting a curse upon the boy's very soul.

On the other side of the aisle, the pragmatists immediately fired back.

In short, the board had split cleanly between superstitious doomsayers and the "Who gives a damn?" faction.

“To be fair, this world never had a concept of medical recovery in the first place,” I muttered to myself. Barely a few months ago, these people were pouring milk over open slash wounds in the name of folk medicine. It was only natural that a medical upheaval of this magnitude commanded intense scrutiny.

All that remained was to prove it. If that injured boy gallum stood up on all four intact limbs and logged on to shitpost on the Gallery, all doubts would evaporate on the spot. All I had to do was deliver results.

“Uh…”

Before my thoughts could even settle, an absolute disaster struck.

The boy, who looked as if he might pass out at any moment, had actually stopped breathing entirely.

“Ah, fuck. I triggered a massive death flag.”

I had needlessly hyped up the build-up about proving the cure, and now the poor kid was on the verge of kicking the bucket. But there was no reason to panic. After a brief flicker of fluster, the Storm Mage promptly placed both hands over the boy's chest as if nothing had happened.

In that very instant—

Miraculously, air began flowing into his lungs once more. General anesthesia naturally suppressed respiratory function, leading to dangerously shallow or paused breathing if left unmonitored. When someone was already half-dead from massive trauma, of course their breathing would stall under deep sedation.

Even a perfectly healthy person could become a formerly healthy corpse if you didn't manage their airway under general anesthesia. That was precisely why, when I procured the anesthetic, I had posted an official notice recruiting a capable mage. Not some trigger-happy offensive blaster who had dumped every single stat point into damage output, but a utility spellcaster armed with diverse, miscellaneous support spells. In other words, someone like xXStormMageXx from Jusaek Magic Tower.

He was, for all intents and purposes, a magical mechanical ventilator.

With his breathing stabilized back to normal, we transitioned straight into the next phase. Derrick uncorked the massive reserve of recovery potions we had prepped and began pouring them directly over the boy's mangled frame. Naturally, splashing low-grade potions would have achieved jack shit, but we were using top-shelf stock.

“If a treatment isn't working, first ask yourself if you simply didn't use enough potions.”

We drenched him until he was practically taking a potion bath. Then, as if defying reality itself, the horrific lacerations across his shattered body began to close.

“Even to my eyes, this is pretty damn uncanny.”

It looked like video footage playing in reverse. Mangled, torn flesh seamlessly snapped back into position, knitting together until the limb became as pristine as the day he was born.

A few hours slipped by.

“Uh… ngh…?”

The boy fluttered his eyelashes, slowly opening his eyes and blinking in confusion at his surroundings.

“Good thing mages come with built-in human ventilator functions,” I muttered, letting out a breath of relief. If he hadn't known that kind of utility magic, the kid would have flatlined without question.

Feeling a wave of satisfaction and genuine relief, I reached out to the Storm Mage first. Whatever his quirks, he had stepped forward to help me without hesitation.

“He's also the bastard who sculpted that statue of me, isn't he?”

Sure, sculpting a statue of a cute half-elf magical girl, slapping my name on it, and planting it right in front of the Magic Tower's entrance still pissed me off to no end. But credit was due where credit was due.

I decided to reward him.

“Well, rummaging through the marketplace will find pretty much anything.”

Excluding witches, no discipline on this continent burnt through resources faster than magic. The moment I offered compensation, an instant reply pinged back from the Storm Mage.

“Looked like he was researching golems lately. I could order some processed stone for him or something.”

The system market sold building stone, cut and polished in all shapes and sizes. I was fully prepared to grant whatever reasonable request he threw at me.

Then came his answer.

He went straight for the most excessive request imaginable.

Upon taking the Head Mod mantle, I had acquired community management abilities over this reality. Perhaps because of that, people seemed to view me as some transcendent existence capable of creating something from absolute nothingness.

“I'm literally just an ordinary guy who doesn't know the first thing about mana.”

Before transmigration, I was a legendary board addict who spent every waking hour glued to a computer screen. After transmigration, I was a legendary board addict who spent every waking hour lying in bed browsing the forum on a floating interface.

“At least I'm consistent.”

Put nicely, I was dedicated. Put bluntly, I was a terminally online degenerate. Me, an Archmage? Give me a break.

If I actually could, I would have recorded a clip, posted it, and farmed easy upvotes for the Hall of Fame. Tragically, I lacked even a scrap of arcane talent.

Why not mana stones? Or modern home appliances he missed out on during limited sales? Yet the sole wish of our beloved fixed-nick was stubbornly singular.

“Is this guy for real?”

Talking to him was like talking to a brick wall. Demanding magical enlightenment from me was a non-starter. How was I supposed to give him something that didn't exist?

“I'm still not becoming your Tower Master, you know.”

In the end, it was left to me to pick out a gift. The trouble was figuring out what on earth to give him. To make matters worse, time had slipped away, and the evening market opening was drawing near.

“Ah, crap. I haven't prepared any new stock.”

Forget new arrivals; I hadn't even restocked the regular listings. Furthermore, with different races, personalities, and factions desiring wildly distinct items, curating a balanced inventory was an absolute chore.

“Man, this is such a drag.”

No matter how well I curated the lineup, complaints were guaranteed to arise. Furthermore, cheap as the marketplace prices were by modern standards, big-ticket home appliances remained well beyond the reach of an ordinary commoner's purse.

Poverty was always relative. While they were spared from starvation, standing by as mere spectators while miraculous modern luxuries poured into the market naturally left a bitter taste. The general forum consensus scolded them for acting spoiled, but I saw it differently.

“It's understandable.”

If I were in their shoes, I'd crave those shiny goods too. When working your ass off still left you unable to afford what you desired, motivation soured into deep frustration. Handing out high-end goods for free, on the other hand, was an economic death sentence.

“Hmm. Is it time for *that*?”

An answer crystallized in my mind. A method that maximized engagement, spiked anticipation to fever pitch, was trivially easy to balance, and yielded insane profit margins!

“Alright… time to dive in.”

It was time for the randomized gacha lottery.

Every single day, two massive festivals took place across the continent. The first ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was the morning market opening. The second was the evening market opening.

Without fail, every session spawned endless waves of flex posts and bitter jealousy over luxury items.

Whenever such posts dropped, commoners had no choice but to seethe in quiet envy. Even if life had drastically improved, certain treasures remained permanently out of reach for ordinary folk, even if they saved every coin for a lifetime.

Right at that moment, an entirely new banner manifested at the pinnacle of the marketplace.

The draw tab sat proudly atop the category tree. As the rapt attention of countless gallums converged upon it, one brave soul pulled the trigger.

Before tens of thousands of watching eyes, the gacha unfolded. And true to its nature, the slaughter began immediately.

Right at that moment, when the entire Gallery erupted into mocking laughter—

A triumphant brass fanfare resonated through the minds of every single user across the continent. Simultaneously, a luxury refrigerator that money couldn't buy was beamed directly into the winner's inventory.

Accompanied by beloved fixed-nick OneShotJackpot’s unhinged victory screech, the Great Gallery Gambling Era officially began.