Hunting the Head Mod (2)

Judddak's Marketplace opened three times a day.

Whenever it opened, traffic on the Otherworld Destruction Gallery skyrocketed as desperate crowds rushed in. On days when an official notice teased new items in stock, it wasn't unusual for half the entire user base to log on simultaneously.

That very marketplace had just been "normalized."

Sobering up yet?

For days on end, all sorts of slanderous tabloids had run rampant. The main conspiracies claimed I was the mastermind sent from the Outside, that I secretly desired the apocalypse, and even that I deliberately left extradimensional rifts open to terrorize everyone.

Even back on modern Earth, gullible people fell for fake news constantly. Transpose an anonymous internet message board onto a medieval fantasy world recovering from societal collapse, and the outcome was blindingly obvious.

Agitators had reached ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the point of arguing that everyone should boycott the marketplace altogether, claiming the goods were tainted products shipped in from the Outside.

So, I gladly handled it for them.

"Allow me to show you what an actual dictatorship looks like."

The very first order of business was stripping the shelves clean.

Of course, I didn't shut it down completely. There were still countless enclaves suffering from famine and isolated races fighting for survival who had nothing to do with the toxic forum politics. I left behind the bare minimum of sustenance so they wouldn't starve.

And with that, the market reset took full effect.

Users who usually lurked in silence joined the hysterical fray, and within seconds, hundreds of posts flooded the boards in a frantic deluge. Aimless curses and opportunists firing tactical nukes—grotesque shock images and repulsive gore memes—rained down across the forum, reducing the board to smoking rubble.

The gallery ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was rapidly spiraling out of control.

Right on cue came the agonized wails of the sub-moderators, drowning under the impossible moderation workload.

Which meant it was time to initiate Step Two.

Step Two.

Complete and total abandonment of the forum.

They claimed I was intentionally stocking the market to foster dependence? Then closing the market would cure that dependence right up.

"Saying I'm running a dictatorship?"

Then I would remove my hands from moderation entirely so they would never dare utter the word dictatorship again. I was inaugurating a 365-day Purge where anyone could run wild to their heart's content.

Naturally, starting with malicious spam raids, disgusting shock-meme tactical nukes exploded across the boards like wildfire.

"Damn, watching a community collapse really takes just a split second."

A gallery that had been pristine just yesterday was transformed into complete pandemonium in the blink of an eye. But did I care?

"Commence Step Three."

Once mob mentality reaches this stage, posting an official notice is completely pointless. If anything, realizing that even the Head Mod cannot control them only provides trolls with a sick thrill, spurring them to wreck the place even harder.

I grabbed an ice-cold cola and a bowl of popcorn from the refrigerator. Heading back into my bedroom, I fired up the beam projector and burrowed into my cozy, heated duvet.

"Winter was made for movie marathons."

The system shop sold movies as well. Whether delivered as optical discs or digital formats, I purchased about ten films across different genres.

"This should keep me thoroughly entertained for days."

Of course, nothing quite matched the drama of the gallery, but given the circumstances, a break was long overdue.

"Malphite, what are you doing?"

"Perfect timing."

"Ack!"

I snatched Penny as she wandered past, dragged her under the duvet, and ripped open the bag of popcorn. Then, I indulged in a massive binge of all the films I hadn't had time to catch up on.

When hungry, I tore into instant meal kits; when exhausted, I drifted off to sleep right where I lay; and whenever boredom crept in, I queued up another movie. I melted away an entire week in blissful, uninterrupted sloth.

When I finally powered the gallery back on...

One week ago, the gallery had been ablaze with bandwagoning mobs baying for a Head Mod hunt.

Logging back in now, there was nothing left to burn. It had become a silent wasteland of cold, scattered ash.

For exactly one week, the Head Moderator had vanished without a trace.

Having anticipated an immediate clarification post or defensive announcement, the gallery had taken his initial disappearance lightly.

Every breed of agitator ran wild, transforming the once-orderly community into a vile public latrine in mere hours.

Yet a community only lives when users inhabit it. Trolling requires the oxygen of attention to sustain its flame.

No matter how vile the spam, no matter how foul the curses, there were no bans, no warnings, and not even a sliver of attention from the administration.

Only a desolate marketplace holding those two solitary items remained open around the clock.

Users who had mockingly egged on the chaos began to sing a different tune by the second and third day. As primal herd impulses cooled, cold reason gradually kicked back in.

With the Head Mod gone, the gallery splintered into factions trading bitter blame, while countless users simply gave up on living.

And those who had orchestrated the grand conspiracy in the shadows saw the horrific aftermath, their faces draining of all color.

"How did things turn out like this?"

Inside the Grand Cathedral of Adrian, the Pope surveyed the council chamber with a stony, ashen expression.

Ever since the assassination of the Cardinal, the Holy Church had severely curtailed its overt operations. Most importantly, the Head Mod was no longer a figure they could easily rein in under the cathedral's authority. With every passing day, the number of factions swearing fierce loyalty to him had multiplied exponentially.

"We sought only to diminish his standing and reassert our righteous influence... but for him to abandon everything entirely..."

Feeling an acute existential threat, the Church had anonymously weaponized widespread, malicious rumors. Whether those claims held an ounce of truth had never mattered to them.

"He is a blasphemous wretch who routinely mocks the Divine!"

"Whether the rumors are fact or fabrication is inconsequential!"

In their eyes, any tool was righteous so long as it brought fitting punishment upon a sinner.

Yet his retaliation had defied every calculation.

Their blueprint had assumed he would post an official statement to defend himself, allowing their plants to pick apart discrepancies, manufacture more outrage, and tear him down piece by piece.

Instead, the Head Mod had simply packed up and walked away. Taking everything with him.

"At this rate, our grain stores and food supplies will..."

"Perhaps we should steer public sentiment to gently coax him into returning..."

Unlike the former Crown Prince, the Cathedral had never intended to slay the Head Mod. Their objective had been to cower behind digital anonymity, knock him down a few pegs, and exploit his miraculous marketplace for their own dominion.

"It appears the Head Mod was far younger and more frail of mind than we anticipated, unable to stomach our coordinated assault."

"Hmm... could that truly be the case?"

The revised plan was to temper their hostility, allowing the repentant public to plead for his return while making him sensitive to the community's demands. They were just about to draft this revised strategy when—

Out of nowhere, an official announcement popped up on the board.

And as the clergymen inside the grand chamber began to read its contents, their faces slowly froze in absolute horror.