The Church of Judddak (Part 3)

It was just about time for the trolls to respawn, so I had steeled my resolve to sweep the gallery clean once and for all.

"Still, these trolls are operating on an entirely different level, aren't they?"

The core problem was that they weren't ordinary bad-faith agitators. They weren't the garden-variety degenerates who posted shock gore, tactical nukes like naked muscular orcs, or cursed comic strips depicting the sensual seduction of a stone golem. No, they were worship trolls—and worse, they weren't merely running a WWE-style kayfabe gag for laughs. Genuine, unhinged religious fanatics had crawled out of the woodwork, proving to be the most stubborn, troublesome pests of all.

"You literally cannot reason with these people."

What about standard trolls? Of course, you couldn't reason with them either.

Yet brute physical force worked like a charm against them. Trolls were fundamentally identical to hit-and-run terrorists who timed their strikes during periods of low activity. Knowing their transgressions warranted an instant ban, they purposely struck when moderation was thinnest. Subjecting them to the supreme agony of an IP suspension resolved the issue cleanly every time.

A naked orc? Compared to the unspeakable, eye-melting tactical nuke known as "Grandmother's Seduction" that had once circulated on the boards, that was practically like looking at a wholesome gif of a puppy. Hardened by countless years of brutal forum browsing in my past life, regular trolls weren't even a speed bump to me. My true adversaries were these unhinged cultists.

"Are you f*cking insane?"

This mental gymnastics was the very reason worship trolls were terrifying. Whatever I did, any positive outcome was hailed as my divine favor, while every single punishment, disaster, or setback was rationalized as their own sinful inadequacy. If I beat them senseless, it was their own fault for forcing their god to personally descend and discipline them. If I tossed them a can of tuna, it was heralded as an act of boundless, heavenly mercy.

Standard disciplinary measures simply fell flat against this brand of zealot. The whip had reached its structural limits.

"Hmm. So what should I do?"

When the whip failed, it was time to pull out the carrot. Tearing my eyes away from the gallery feed, I pulled up the system shop menu.

Conveniently enough, the perfect carrot was waiting right there.

It had been twelve hours since the whip of the marketplace suspension descended. Not even a single day had elapsed, but the gallery users, thoroughly domesticated by modern goods, were already screeching in sheer despair. This wasn't merely a localized squabble of dozens of people; millions upon millions across the entire world were screaming in unison. Under such immense pressure, any normal faction would have shattered under the weight of guilt.

"This is but a trial."

"Ah..."

"Do not falter."

In the center of the sunlit prayer hall, standing with his back turned to the sacred statue of the Half-Elf Judddak Goddess, the Hero spoke, and the assembled flock bowed their heads in unison. Every single one of them was a fervent disciple of Judddak, each having incurred an insurmountable debt of life to the administrator. Having tasted his terrifying miracles firsthand, their souls were bound to him in absolute, unwavering faith.

"Sir Hero, even so, Lord Judddak specifically commanded us to cease..."

Cathedral Knight Colin ventured cautiously, but Darian's expression remained as unyielding as a fortress wall. Seeing that granite resolve, Colin knew these men would never bend an inch.

Then again, the scale of what Lord Judddak has displayed to the world is simply monumental... Colin mused. He was no blind zealot, but he understood all too well why these warriors were so thoroughly captivated. Conjuring food from thin air, stitching severed limbs back onto broken bodies with a casual touch, and transforming apocalyptic rifts into bottomless dango duplication engines through sorceries beyond comprehension—under such circumstances, Colin caught himself wondering whether he was the abnormal one for not falling to his knees in worship.

He had assumed this agonizing stalemate would drag on for days, but then the feed abruptly exploded.

The gallery was instantly seized by madness. Wondering what could have provoked such a commotion, Colin swiftly tapped open the trending post.

"A new variety of ration?" Colin murmured. Yet the prevailing consensus judged it distinctly inferior to tuna. Naturally, compared to the bland, rock-hard fare of this impoverished fantasy world, it was still a delicacy from the heavens—making its instantaneous sellout an inevitability.

Did Lord Judddak bestow this upon us so we wouldn't starve? Colin wondered, tapping on the next thread. What awaited him there was a reaction nothing short of theatrical.

What was the Otherworld Destruction Gallery, after all? It was an immense collective think-tank obsessed with unlocking how to extract maximum decadence from whatever rations Judddak deigned to release. Considering that to these survivors, even a cheap dollar loaf of convenience-store bread was regarded as royal provisions, Spam crisped over a licking flame was nothing less than the nectar of the gods.

Crispy, pan-seared Spam. Spam dipped in hoarded ketchup packets. Spam draped over piping-hot white rice. The instant they discovered this culinary singularity, the users lost all semblance of sanity, frantically sharing recipes and raving like madmen.

"Could it truly be that exquisite?"

Colin's pupils shook uncontrollably. Long before he was an Adrian holy knight, he was a die-hard gallery user; he knew with visceral clarity that mere words could never capture the transcendental perfection of marketplace goods. His trembling fingers reached out to smash the purchase button, only for a prompt to slam into his vision.

"What?!"

The Head Mod had placed an IP blacklist over their holy ground.

"It is a trial! Do not waver!" Darian bellowed to his trembling congregation. Yet nobody failed to notice the violent tremor in Darian's own eyes—or the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠minute, desperate spasms shaking his lips and hands at the mere ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thought of that savory meat.

"Kgh... krrgh...!"

"Sir Hero?"

Though he was a legendary warrior who would march unflinchingly through lakes of fire, the delicacies of the marketplace were sufficient to reduce his mental defenses to dust. Canned tuna alone had been a revelation that made every blood vessel in the human body roar in euphoric praise—a sacred salvation that reconnected weary souls to the joy of living. And now...

Thud.

Unable to endure the spiritual torment, Darian collapsed onto both knees, trembling violently on the cold flagstones.

"O Judddak... for what sin hast Thou cast such an agonizing ordeal upon Thy servant...!"

His chest heaved with ragged, agonized breaths. Right then, a discrete chime resonated in Colin's private message box.

Colin's eyes expanded to their absolute limit. Ten cans of Spam! If he prudently partitioned each can into three meals, that was thirty days of heavenly feast—ten whole vessels of absolute savory perfection!

"B-But..."

How could he commit such blatant treason against his revered commander? Just as his conscience wavered, the Head Mod provided the perfect golden ladder to descend upon.

"A... A Divine Command...?"

Colin understood far better than anyone that Judddak despised being treated as a divinity, and that this was nothing more than a convenient excuse handed to him on a silver platter. But in the end, Colin was only human.

"...Sir Hero."

Colin softly placed a firm hand upon the shoulder of the writhing champion. The instant Darian laboriously turned his tear-streaked face upward:

"Forgive me! Curse my name to the end of your days!"

"Sir Colin?! MMMPH?!"

With lightning precision honed through decades of martial discipline, Colin forced open the Hero's jaw and shoved a steaming, freshly seared slab of Spam straight into his mouth.

A heavy, cold metallic artifact materialized directly into the weathered palms of a solitary bounty hunter. It was the legendary Grand Magic of the Head Mod, breathtaking in its mechanical severity.

"The AK-47..."

He had seized the supreme crown of the hunt, earning the right to command that apocalyptic authority for an entire week. For a long moment, the hunter smiled with overwhelming reverence, before fingers instinctively snapped back the charging handle.

Clack-clack!

"Finally... my vengeance is at hand."

With an ominous, blood-chilling grin carving across his face, he turned his boots toward Kellierton.