Chapter 1

The world plunged into a new Ice Age. As the frozen apocalypse spread, 95% of humanity perished.

In his first timeline, Cyrus Knovell's kindness cost him everything. The people he had helped betrayed him and left him for dead.

Fate, however, granted him a second chance. He awakened one month before the world froze, gaining a dimensional ability that let him store anything without limit.

Now he hoarded supplies by the billions and built a fortress no one could breach. While others shivered, starved, and traded their dignity for a morsel, Cyrus lived in comfort.

The desperate came begging.

The manipulative vixen: "Cyrus, let me into your shelter, and I'll be your girlfriend, okay?"

The spoiled rich heir: "Cyrus, I'll give you all my money for just one meal!"

The greedy neighbors: "Cyrus, you shouldn't be so selfish. You should share your supplies with us!"

Cyrus remembered their betrayals. Lounging in his steel fortress and savoring his private paradise, he sneered, "Your survival has nothing to do with me. I'd rather feed the dogs than feed you."

Chapter 1

Unbearable, bone-crushing pain tore through every inch of Cyrus Knovell's body. It was no illusion. It was real. Too real.

He lay sprawled on the ground, beaten by the very friends and neighbors he had once trusted and helped. Their fists, their boots, even their sticks struck him with ruthless force.

In this apocalypse, where food and water meant survival, kindness no longer mattered. They cared only about tearing him apart.

Through the haze, Cyrus spotted a familiar figure at the edge of the mob. It was Diana Feynor, the woman he had once worshipped as a goddess.

Her delicate face twisted with false pity as she shouted, "I was the one who told him to open the door! Make sure I get an extra share of the supplies!"

That woman had tricked him into opening the door. She had delivered him to his death.

Cyrus glared at her, hatred and regret burning in his eyes.

If anyone was to blame, it was himself—for being too soft and foolish. In this brutal world, his kindness had turned him into nothing more than a stepping stone.

If only he could start over. If only he had another chance, he would never show mercy again. He would live for himself alone.

Darkness swallowed him.

The next instant, Cyrus’ eyes snapped open. He jerked upright on his couch, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. The memories, the screams, the agony, the betrayal—they were all still fresh, as vivid as if they had just happened.

"What the hell? Didn't those bastards kill me?" he muttered.

He glanced around. This was his apartment. Everything was exactly as he remembered it. And yet, the air was warm and comfortable. That made no sense. In December 2050, the world had plunged into a new Ice Age. A supernova explosion 500,000 light-years away had triggered a global cataclysm, later called the Frostfall.

Temperatures had plummeted. In Volaris City, where Cyrus lived, it reached -50 or -60°C daily, with blizzards burying the city under ice for over a month. In the north, temperatures dropped to -70°C or lower. The land froze, countless species vanished, and 95% of humanity died in the first wave.

But here, in his apartment, it was warm. Normal.

Cyrus staggered to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and downed half in one go. The chilled liquid slid down his throat like nectar of the gods.

In the apocalypse, water meant venturing into subzero hell, digging snow, and melting it. Most who tried never came back.

Cyrus wiped his mouth and fumbled for his phone. It was November 12, a full month before the Frostfall began.

A long breath escaped him. "I came back. I really returned to the past. I regressed."

It was not a dream. It could not be. The memory of his death, every stab of pain, was too sharp, too real.

Relief washed through him, followed by a flash of steel in his eyes. He remembered every traitor who had turned on him. This time, he would not play the fool. He would live, and they would pay.

His first priority was survival. He had one month to prepare before the Frostfall's arrival.

His situation was not bad. His parents had died young, leaving him a 1,300-square-foot apartment in Volaris and more than 400,000 dollars in savings. It was a decent amount of money in normal times.

When the world collapsed, money would be worthless. What mattered was stockpiling massive amounts of supplies.

Cyrus wanted more than survival. He wanted comfort, security, a life worth living even in the apocalypse. Food, entertainment, little luxuries. Without them, one's sanity would crack. He would need weapons as well if he wanted to stay alive and take revenge.

Then a streak of white light flashed before his eyes. He rubbed them, thinking fatigue played tricks, until a strange pulse stirred in his mind. The light was not outside—it was inside him, part of him.

With a thought, his consciousness plunged into it, into a vast, endless white expanse.

It was an empty dimension.

"Is this an alternate space? A pocket dimension? My personal void?" He grinned. "So, I came back with a special ability."

Joy surged through him. His regression had given him more than a second chance. It had given him a supernatural power. If he could store supplies here, surviving the apocalypse would be far easier.

He tested it quickly. Small items vanished at his will—a cup, a basin. Then larger ones: the TV, fridge, washing machine, computer, even the air conditioner. All disappeared smoothly into the void and reappeared at his command.

Not everything worked. Anything fixed or part of the structure, like floorboards, stayed put. Still, it was more than enough.

"I can hoard as much as I want with this space," he mumbled. "With this, I'll never run out of supplies."

His thoughts leapt to his job. Cyrus was a warehouse supervisor at Volmart's South Cretora distribution center, the largest warehouse complex in the world. Built in 2040, it stretched 4,900 feet long and 2,360 wide, covering more than 11,000,000 square feet. It was big enough to be called the Eighth Wonder of the World.

And the name was no exaggeration. Its inventory could supply entire cities for weeks—food, clothes, appliances, even luxury goods, all strictly quality-controlled.

If he could empty that warehouse into his space, he would not just survive one apocalypse. He could live in comfort for ten lifetimes.

And who better to pull it off than him? As a supervisor, he knew every corner, schedule, and security measure.

A plan began to take shape, steadying his nerves and filling him with confidence.

His stomach growled. He glanced at the takeout box of spaghetti on the table, chuckled, and shook his head. "One month left before the world ends. Why bother saving now? Better to enjoy the good stuff while I can. Once the apocalypse hits, I'll never get another chance."

Before his regression, he had suffered through hunger and cold. This time, he wanted warmth and flavor.

More than that, he wanted to live.

Money? It would be worthless when the world ended. It was better to spend it all now.

With that thought, Cyrus turned, ready to head out. This time, he would eat well at a restaurant he had never dared to splurge on before.

Chapter 2

Cyrus stepped out of his apartment and into a scene of warmth and peace. Parents laughed with their children in the square. Their faces were bright with carefree smiles. He knew better. In a month, this idyllic picture would shatter like glass.

He quickened his pace. Just a short walk away stood a Michelin three-star restaurant. It was a place he had never dared enter. After all, a single meal there cost at least 1,000 dollars..

Today he did not care. He had already died once. If that did not call for celebration, what would?

Inside, Cyrus chose a seat by the window and ordered the most expensive dishes along with a bottle of Chateau Lafite. By the time the waiter left, the bill had already climbed to nearly 10,000 dollars.

The servers eyed him with curiosity and envy, likely taking him for some spoiled heir. What ordinary man would throw away that much money on a single meal?

Cyrus did not bother to explain. When the dishes arrived, filling the table with color and fragrance, he dug in without restraint.

After half a year of freezing to death in the Frostfall, tasting food like this again nearly moved him to tears. He ate ravenously, almost feral, drawing whispers from nearby tables.

He could not care less. They had no idea. When the world collapsed, people would beg on their knees for a single pack of instant noodles. Civilization and morals would vanish overnight.

As Cyrus ate, a woman outside the window stopped short. She was striking, with long hair flowing, immaculate makeup, Gucci heels tapping lightly against the pavement, and a Louis Vuitton bag swinging from her arm.

It was Diana Feynor, the same woman who had once lured him into opening his door only to betray him and watch as others beat him to death. Walking beside her was her closest friend, Natalie Lockwood.

The two often loitered around upscale places like this. Not because they could afford them, but because they hoped to spot some wealthy heir to ensnare.

As expected, Diana's eyes widened when she glanced inside. "Wait, that's Cyrus! How could he possibly afford a place like this?"

Natalie covered her mouth in surprise. "You mean Cyrus has been a rich heir all this time?"

Then she cast Diana a sly look. "Girl, you're lucky. The guy who's chased you for years turns out to be a secret rich heir."

Her gaze flicked to the feast before Cyrus. "Look at that table. That's at least 10 grand. Who else but a rich heir would spend that on dinner?"

Diana pursed her lips as her mind raced. For two and a half years, Cyrus had pursued her without pause. She had never accepted, but she never rejected him either.

To her, he had always been a backup, useful enough to keep close but never worth commitment.

Now doubt crept in. Could he actually be a hidden heir, pretending to be ordinary to test her love? The idea thrilled her. If it were true, she believed all she had to do was nod and he would drop to one knee.

Natalie tugged at her arm. "Let's go in and say hi. Maybe he'll invite us over."

Her real goal was obvious—the food. Most people would never taste three-star Michelin cuisine in their lives.

Diana hesitated, then shook her head. "No. That would make me look like I'm chasing his money. Let's wait outside. If we bump into him, it'll seem natural."

She was not stupid. One meal was not worth ruining her goddess-like image. If Cyrus truly was rich, she would stay firmly on the pedestal, holding all the power.

Therefore, the two women lingered nearby, waiting.

Inside, Cyrus ate until his stomach was round and full. The flavors were not as heavenly as the price suggested, but to a man who had starved through the apocalypse, it was a feast beyond measure.

Next, he planned to stop by the supermarket to test how much his pocket dimension could store. It was better to be cautious now than risk disaster later.

He paid the bill with a wave of his hand and stepped out into the afternoon sun.

A sweet, saccharine voice echoed behind him. "Cyrus! What a coincidence."

He turned to find Diana and Natalie.

Diana tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and exposed the curve of her neck and the pale pink of her earlobe. It was a practiced, subtle move meant to stir a man's heart.

In his past life, it had worked. Not anymore.

Cyrus' eyes went cold. He remembered how she had set him up, had watched while his ribs were broken one by one, and had demanded his bones be boiled into soup.

The world's end was near, so killing her now would not be a problem. His chest tightened with the urge to strike her down.

Diana shivered under his stare. "Cyrus, what's wrong?"

He pulled back, his expression flat. "Nothing. Thought you were someone else."

He changed his mind. Killing her now would be too easy and merciful. The law still mattered for one more month.

It was better to let her live and taste despair first. He had numerous ways to make her die screaming.

For now, survival came first. His priority was to build the safest shelter possible, a fortress against the end of the world.

Chapter 3

Cyrus' attitude toward Diana remained ice-cold. She and Natalie sensed something was off, but after convincing themselves he was secretly a wealthy heir, neither grew angry. Instead, they eagerly closed the distance between them.

So what if rich men had bad tempers? That was just their personality.

"Hey, Cyrus, did you just eat at that restaurant?" Natalie asked, pretending casual curiosity.

Cyrus' brow tightened slightly. He had not forgotten that this woman was as guilty as Diana. She had helped lure him in, leading him to his near-death.

"Yeah." His reply was flat, clipped. He shoved his hands in his pockets, turned, and headed for the supermarket.

The two women hurried after him.

"Cyrus, where are you going?" Diana asked with a sweet smile.

"The supermarket." His tone remained cold, edged with irritation.

If not for the plan he had in mind—making her taste despair before ending her—he might have struck her on the spot.

Diana shot Natalie a look.

Natalie quickly added, "What a coincidence! We were just about to do some shopping too. Let's go together!"

It clicked instantly. They must have seen him dining at the Michelin-starred restaurant, assumed he was a hidden heir, and were now tripping over themselves to cozy up.

He could not be bothered to explain, so he kept walking.

The more indifferent he acted, the more convinced they became. Only someone with serious money could afford such arrogance.

The two trailed him closely. Diana brushed against his arm from time to time, then pretended to shy away, cheeks pink, as if flustered by the "accidental" touch.

Cyrus sneered inwardly. 'What an actress. If she entered the entertainment industry, she would win Best Actress without question.'

Inside the supermarket, he grabbed a cart and pushed straight toward the food aisles.

The women followed, each taking a cart.

"Were you eating with someone earlier?" Diana asked sweetly.

"I ate alone. Problem?" he replied sharply.

She rushed to explain. "No, no, of course not! I just thought that meal was expensive, so maybe you were hosting someone important."

Natalie blurted, "But your salary's just over two grand a month, right? That dinner cost at least six months' wages. Looks like your family left you more than a little inheritance."

Diana glared at her. 'Idiot! Never ask about money directly. Talk about feelings with the rich, money with the poor.'

Realizing her mistake, Natalie forced a laugh. "I was just kidding! We're all friends here, who cares about money?"

Cyrus ignored them completely. He reached the shelves and stared at the neatly stacked goods, feeling as if he had stumbled into a treasure vault. In his last life, he had stretched a pack of pasta over two days. He knew hunger intimately.

Now, his hunger was for stockpiling.

He began sweeping food into the cart: sausages, pasta, seasonings, and many more. He grabbed them in bulk.

Diana and Natalie stared, dumbfounded.

"Cyrus, why are you buying so much? Going camping or something?"

"Mm." His answer was as bland as ever.

Natalie leaned in to whisper, "Would a real rich heir stock up on this stuff for camping?"

Diana frowned, but the memory of his Michelin-starred feast kept her doubts at bay. She rushed forward eagerly. "Do you need help?"

'A free labor offer. Why refuse?' he thought.

Watching her play the innocent damsel stirred dark amusement in him. A plan began to form. He had one month to prepare for the apocalypse. With his ability and access to Volmart's warehouse, securing supplies was trivial.

But if he let Diana see just enough to think he had a secret stash, she would come crawling when the world collapsed and would beg him to save her. And when she did, he would let her choke on despair before crushing her completely.

Even if she tried to leak news to those vulture-like neighbors, it would not matter. His safehouse would be impregnable.

'Let them come. I will turn their siege into their graves,' he thought with a twisted smile.

Yes. This was worth considering.

He would hire a security firm and build the strongest fortress money could buy. If that failed, he would fall back on Plan B, a hidden underground shelter in the wilderness. They were both solid plans.

"Push the cart for me then," Cyrus said smoothly.

Diana beamed. "Of course!"

He then told Natalie to fetch him another cart. She looked uneasy but obeyed.

They followed him as he piled in long-lasting food: noodles, sausages, cured meats, canned goods. Then he filled another cart with fresh meat, fruits, vegetables, even living fish, to test how his pocket-dimension ability handled perishables.

By the end, his three carts overflowed.

He handed the heaviest, loaded with beef, lamb, and canned goods—over four hundred pounds—to the two women. They staggered under the weight, drenched in sweat.

"Cyrus, who's going to eat all this?" Diana whined with a pout. "Are you hosting some big event?"

Cyrus chuckled darkly. "Storms come without warning. What if the world ended tomorrow? Better to stock up for the worst."

It was true, though who would believe him?

Diana giggled, brushing it off. "If you don't want to say, fine. But you owe me a meal for helping today!"

Her eyes sparkled. She wanted dinner at the Michelin-starred restaurant.

"Sure," Cyrus said with a faint smile. "But I'm busy this month. Next month, then."

Her eyes lit up. "Deal!"

Natalie grinned. "Count me in too!"

Just pushing a cart for a fancy dinner? It was thrilling.

Diana shot her a glare, but Natalie ignored her.

At checkout, Cyrus paid more than 2,000 dollars without hesitation. These supplies were priceless. In the apocalypse, not even a mountain of gold could buy a loaf of bread.

The supermarket let him borrow the carts to wheel everything back. He made no effort to hide his attitude, ordering the two women to push them home. He could have driven and loaded them all himself, but with free labor in front of him, why waste the chance?

They complained nonstop, but the promise of luxury food kept them moving.

Together, they pushed their mountain of supplies through the gates of the residential complex.

Chapter 4

The three of them pushed the loaded carts back into the residential complex. Cyrus' neighbors spotted them along the way and began whispering. Cyrus did not care. Now that those two women had witnessed his shopping spree, secrecy was impossible.

If survival had been his only goal, he could have sold everything, vanished into the wilderness, and built an impregnable fortress. But what about revenge? What about the neighbors who had literally torn him apart in his past life?

Until he killed them all, the knot in his chest would never loosen.

One survival plan required staying in this very community, repaying every betrayal with a cruelty of his own design. That plan relied on the security company constructing a truly unbreakable safehouse. Failing that, Plan B awaited: an underground shelter far from civilization.

He scanned the smiling neighbors. To them, his overflowing carts were a curiosity, fodder for gossip. However, Cyrus already knew the truth—when the world collapsed, these same people would try to smash down his door and strip his home bare.

He was not afraid. Not this time. He would ensure they saw the food, smelled it, hungered for it, and still could not touch a single bite. That would be his revenge.

He and Diana lived in the same apartment block. As a supervisor at the Volmart warehouse, his neighbors often asked him to buy discounted stock. Everyone knew him.

Seeing them haul three carts of food, a grandmother out with her grandson waddled over.

"Oh, Cyrus, why so much? Did the warehouse mark this down?" Her eyes gleamed at the sight of fresh beef and lamb. "You'll never eat it all. Why not share some with the neighbors?"

It was Linda Matthews, a busybody on the Neighborhood Committee who loved throwing her weight around. She always schemed for freebies. In Cyrus' past life, she had guilt-tripped him into handing over food. When the mob stormed his apartment, she had been fiercer than the young men.

Diana and Natalie stepped back. "It's all Cyrus'. We were just helping him carry it."

Linda turned her smile on him. "Come now, Cyrus. These must be from the warehouse. Why not let me have a little?"

Even as she spoke, her brat of a grandson, Timmy Benson, climbed onto the cart and grabbed a box of imported chocolates worth over 40 dollars.

Cyrus snatched it back without hesitation and said coldly, "Sorry. These are mine."

The apocalypse was only a month away. He had no time for politeness with scavengers.

Linda's face darkened. "You!"

Her fury at the disrespect was palpable. Her spoiled grandson wailed louder, pointing a chubby finger. "You're a bad man! Give me the chocolate, or I'll beat you to death!"

Cyrus fixed him with a glare sharp enough to draw blood. "Say another word, and I'll slap your mouth."

The boy froze, then exploded into sobs, rolled on the ground, and threw a tantrum.

Linda rushed to soothe him, leering at Cyrus. "How could you pick on a child? It's just a box of chocolates! Give it to him. I'll pay you back later. Do you think I'm trying to take advantage of you?"

Cyrus sneered. Everyone paid with mobile apps now. If she had meant to pay, she could have done it instantly.

"I said it's mine. If you want chocolate, go buy it yourself." He barked a cold laugh and walked away with Diana and Natalie.

Behind them, Linda's shrill curses rattled the courtyard, but Cyrus ignored them.

Linda's son and daughter-in-law worked far from home, leaving her alone to care for Timmy. She normally bought only a day's worth of food, never more, which meant their house always ran out of supplies first when disaster struck.

In his last life, he had helped her. This time, he would not. Without stockpiles, Linda and Timmy would be lucky to survive ten days once Frostfall began. He had no interest in arguing with walking corpses.

Once the carts reached his apartment, Cyrus dismissed the women.

"Don't forget you owe us dinner!" Diana teased, batting her eyes.

The sight made his stomach turn. He muttered a vague response, too disgusted to care.

The women lingered, hoping to catch a hint of hidden wealth. When they realized he had no interest in entertaining them, they left reluctantly.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Cyrus summoned his pocket dimension and sent all the supplies into the white void. He wanted to see if they would change overnight.

By the time he finished, it was late. Instead of sleeping, he pulled out pen and paper and began drafting a one-month survival plan. Lazy as he had been in the past, the will to survive could unlock hidden potential.

He wrote: [To live luxuriously in the apocalypse, food comes first.]

He could easily acquire ordinary groceries. The real stockpiling would come from the warehouse, but only cautiously, only at the right moment. A few days in jail for theft would mean certain death.

He wrote the word "Food."

"Next is heat and warmth. Once the power grid fails, air conditioners are useless. A fireplace is the best option," he muttered.

He thought of Eldora's brutal winters. Fireplaces had kept people alive for centuries.

"If that's the case, I need to renovate the house—better insulation, proper heat-proofing." The thought stirred the memory of burglars breaking in during his last life, and his chest tightened at the recollection.

"This time, I'll turn my place into a steel fortress. Step one: reinforce every wall with heavy steel plates or alloy so it can withstand a blast."

In the apocalypse, people would kill for scraps. There was no room for mistakes. He had already died once and would not go through that again.

Securing a safehouse was simpler. Volaris had security firms catering to the rich, offering custom-built, fortified panic rooms. He recalled reading about a billionaire who had built a bunker capable of surviving small nuclear strikes.

"Next is medicine. I cannot afford to get sick. There's no treatment if I do. Volmart's warehouses stock basic drugs for cold, fever, and minor illnesses. But that's not enough. This ice storm will last decades at least. I need to be fully prepared."

Fortunately, he had contacts in hospital logistics. Money could buy any medicine he required.

He tapped the pen on the notebook, eyes sharp. "Last problem… Weapons."

Once civilization collapsed, violence would dominate. To survive, he needed firepower. He was no martial artist, and even masters fell to blades and bullets.

"Machetes, crowbars, and axes are easy to obtain. I also have sources for crossbows, air rifles, and compound bows. As for guns, foreign imports are best. That means the black market."

He rubbed his chin. Traveling abroad was unrealistic, but he still had a month. With enough cash, a way would turn up.

For three hours, he mapped out every detail. Only then did he take a long, hot shower before collapsing onto his bed.

…

The next morning, Cyrus woke groggy, still shaken by nightmares. Yet the warmth of his bed was real, and he drew a long, steady breath. Memories of the apocalypse had scarred him, but he refused to relive them. This time, he would be ready.

After breakfast, he checked his pocket dimension. To his delight, the meat, fruit, and vegetables he had left there overnight remained unchanged. Meat was hard to judge in just a day, but fruit and vegetables usually spoiled quickly. Inside the pocket dimension, they looked as fresh as if he had bought them yesterday.

"My pocket dimension exists outside this world. Maybe time works differently there. It could move slower or even stand still. Incredible. This means I can store anything I want without a single worry," he murmured.

The only exceptions were the fish. All of them were dead. Even in death, they looked lifelike, without a hint of decay.

Rubbing his chin, Cyrus realized he had just discovered another rule of the pocket dimension. "So living things can't survive here. That rules out hiding in it myself."

It was not a big loss. His apartment was far more comfortable. As long as supplies stayed fresh, he was more than satisfied.

An idea struck him. If meat and vegetables did not expire, what about prepared meals?

Cyrus could cook, but he was no chef. Eventually, he would tire of his own food. Why not stockpile ready-made gourmet dishes?

He picked up his phone and dialed the Grand Heritage Hotel, the most luxurious five-star hotel in Volaris. They offered delivery, and their food was excellent.

"Hello, this is the Grand Heritage Hotel. How can we help you?"

"Hello. I'm hosting guests at home," Cyrus said without hesitation. "I need enough food to cover 500 tables for the banquet."

Silence followed. Even for them, 500 tables of food was an extraordinary demand. At 800 dollars per table, the total exceeded 400,000 dollars.

The receptionist stammered, "P-Please hold. I need to get the manager."

Moments later, another voice came on the line. "Good afternoon, sir. I'm Dylan Thompson, the hotel manager. May I have your name?"

Chapter 5

"My name is Cyrus Knovell," he said evenly. "I want to order food for 500 tables. Is that a problem?"

Dylan's heart skipped. In all the years the hotel had been open, no one had ever placed an order this outrageous.

Nonetheless, business was business. A 400,000-dollar deal could not be refused so easily.

"Mr. Knovell, 500 tables will cost over 400,000 dollars," Dylan said carefully. "If you confirm, we can begin at once, but we'll need an 80,000-dollar deposit upfront."

"No problem," Cyrus replied. "Send me the account, and I'll transfer it."

Money opened doors. The manager added him as a contact, sent the bank details, and within minutes Cyrus had wired the deposit.

Once the financial department confirmed the funds, Dylan went into full battle mode. "Hurry! We've landed a massive order. Purchasing, stock up immediately. Kitchen, stop taking outside requests. We've got 500 tables of food to prepare within a day!"

On the other end, Cyrus hung up and exhaled. "Money will be worthless in a month, but for now, it's still the key to everything."

Between his parents' inheritance and his own savings, he had about 800,000 dollars. Half was gone in a single transfer. The sting passed quickly. It was better to spend it than watch it turn to waste paper. Most people would never even have the chance to do so.

Still, he needed more. Much more.

His gaze swept across the apartment. The 1,300-square-foot unit sat in Volaris' central ring and had been purchased outright a decade ago. At over 800 dollars per square foot, its market value easily exceeded 1,000,000 dollars

Cyrus grinned. "I'll mortgage it. That'll give me the cash."

The best part? He would never need to repay it.

He grabbed his keys, left home, and drove straight to the bank. Halfway there, his phone buzzed. It was a message from Diana.

Diana: [Cyrus, weekends are so boring. I wish someone would take me out.]

He glanced once before tossing the phone aside.

At the bank, the process was smooth. His house was fully paid, his documents in order, and he requested a large loan. They approved 800,000 dollars. It was less than he wanted, but he did not argue. Free money was free money.

He signed the papers, and soon the funds hit his account.

'After the banquet transfer, I still have about 400,000 dollars left,' he calculated. 'It's enough to turn the apartment into a fortress. But weapons and medicine will cost plenty. This still won't be enough.'

Cyrus rubbed his chin, plotting ways to raise more cash. Just then, a street punk with bleached hair and a sly grin spotted him.

The punk's eyes flashed, and he strolled over. "Hey, buddy. Need money?"

"Who are you?"

The punk leaned closer and lowered his voice. "I asked if you need cash. The bank wouldn't lend to you, right?"

Cyrus' eyes narrowed. 'A loan shark.'

A plan flickered in his mind. He let out a heavy sigh and forced a troubled look.

"Yeah. My family business needs urgent capital, but the bank…" he trailed off.

The punk smirked. Anyone who could borrow from a bank wouldn't be standing there.

"Yeah, banks are slow and picky these days," the punk said smoothly. "But me? I can help. If you need fast money, I've got connections."

Cyrus gave him a cautious look. "You? Are you sure? I need at least 1,000,000 dollars."

The punk's eyes lit up. 'Big fish.'

He whipped out a business card. "Our company specializes in rescuing people from desperate situations. If you need money, you came to the right place."

The card read: [Duomore Finance. Mason Hackett, Sales Manager.]

Cyrus' face brightened with feigned excitement. "You can really lend me money? I need a million. Help me through this, and I swear I'll pay it back within three months."

Mason chuckled. "That can be arranged. Our company is capable. We exist to help people like you. Come on, let's go to the office. We'll discuss the details there."

Cyrus nodded eagerly and followed.

The "office" was tucked inside a shabby building. Mason led him straight to his employer's room. A broad-shouldered man in a sharp suit sat waiting, his businesslike smile undermined by his menacing gaze.

Mason made the introduction. "Mr. Brond, this is the client I told you about."

Russell Brond smiled widely and gestured for Cyrus to sit. "Mr. Knovell, how much do you want to borrow?"

'Typical loan shark—straight to the point. No contracts, no red tape. Just the money and the price of it,' Cyrus thought.

"One million," Cyrus said calmly.

Russell's brows lifted. "That's not a small sum. Let me be clear. Our interest rates are very high. You'll need to be prepared."

Mason jumped in quickly. "But Mr. Knovell just needs cash to keep his business afloat. Once it turns around, paying us back will be easy. Right?"

The two played off each other, their act obvious to Cyrus.

Still, Cyrus maintained an eager expression. "Yes, exactly. I can repay quickly. High interest or not, I'll take it—as long as you lend me the money."

Chapter 6

Russell grinned. "Good. Our interest rate is 40%. You borrow 1,000,000, you pay back 1,400,000. Write me a promissory note for 1,400,000 dollars."

He leaned back, eyes glinting. "And of course, you'll need collateral. A house, a business, a car—something of value."

Cyrus hesitated for effect, then gritted his teeth and pulled out his property deed—the same one he had used earlier at the bank.

"My apartment's worth over 1,000,000 dollars. That should cover it, right? I've also got a Benz worth 60,000 dollars. If I can't pay, you can take that too."

Russell's eyes lit up as he scanned the documents. The market value was easily closer to 1,200,000 dollars. With a car on top, the deal was solid.

Still, he wore a dissatisfied expression. "Mr. Knovell, your place is worth 800,000 dollars, maybe 900,000 dollars at most. And you want to walk away with 1,000,000 dollars? It sounds like I'm taking a loss."

Cyrus widened his eyes, panic flashing across his face. "Mr. Brond, you have to help me! I need the cash desperately. If you can transfer it today, I'll settle for 900,000 dollars!"

Russell and Mason exchanged a glance and smirked faintly. They thrived on desperation—the more a man begged, the deeper they could cut.

"Impossible. That's too much of a stretch," Russell said firmly.

After a round of fake bargaining, they settled on 800,000 dollars. Cyrus had one condition: the funds had to hit his account today.

Loan sharks were ruthless but fast. Efficiency was their only advantage over banks. The paperwork was done in minutes. Soon after, Cyrus' account lit up with an 800,000-dollar transfer.

He smiled. For Russell, that money might as well have vanished into a black hole. It was never coming back.

He chuckled and walked out humming.

Behind him, the office erupted in laughter

"Hahaha! Easiest deal we've ever made," Mason said, slapping the desk. "That idiot just walked out with 800,000 dollars like it was nothing."

Russell puffed on his coffee and said smugly, "We'll clear at least 400,000 dollars, maybe 600,000 dollars in profit. Our monthly quota's already in the bag."

Mason frowned. "Boss, he signed the papers too easily. What if there's something wrong with the house?"

Russell waved the deed with a grin. "It's real. The place is his. With this and the 1,400,000-dollars promissory note, he's not going anywhere. If he defaults, we take the property. And if that's not enough, we have other ways to squeeze him dry."

His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a cruel murmur. "Worst case, we sell some of his parts overseas. We never lose money."

Outside, Cyrus strolled away with a cheerful grin. He glanced back at the dingy office building and muttered mockingly, "Such kind souls. Just handing me money to burn."

He would never cross paths with Russell or Mason again. More likely, they'd be frozen corpses in a month.

His coffers now held 2,000,000 dollars—enough to execute his plan. With prepayments and deposits, that money carried the buying power of tens of millions. He wouldn't need to scrape for more, though exploiting online loan platforms would be trivial if he wanted.

Instead, he drove across Volaris to Wyvern Security's headquarters, one of the nation's largest private firms. They were famous for protecting billionaires, celebrities, and sometimes government officials on sensitive trips.

Cyrus chose them because he had heard they had built a billion-dollar doomsday fortress for the heir of a real estate empire in his past life. That man had survived comfortably through the apocalypse thanks to Wyvern.

At the front desk, Cyrus stated his request. Within minutes, he was ushered into a lounge, and a receptionist brought him freshly ground coffee.

Then the door opened, and a mountain of a man strode in. He had a buzz cut, a black suit stretched taut across his broad chest, and radiated the air of a "gangster in formal wear." He was intimidating yet strangely reassuring.

Hector sat across from Cyrus. "Good afternoon, sir. I'm Hector Webb, the manager of the business department. How can we assist you?"

Cyrus sipped his coffee calmly. "I want you to build me a safehouse. The best you can manage. Something strong enough to withstand the end of the world."

Hector's eyes sharpened instantly. To outsiders, the request would sound absurd. But to Wyvern, it made perfect sense. The rich and powerful feared death more than anything. Billionaires worldwide had spent fortunes on doomsday bunkers, whether fearing natural disasters or human enemies. Wyvern had simply carved its niche.

'Here's another fat contract,' Hector thought.

"Mr. Knovell, Wyvern is a world-class security company. Whatever you need, we can provide."

Cyrus leaned forward. "What if I want my 24th-floor apartment completely remodeled into a fortress? Can you do it?"

Hector blinked. Most clients preferred standalone villas or underground shelters. Rarely an apartment. Still, a client was a client.

Hector plastered a confident smile. "Of course. We're the best in the industry. If that's what you want, we'll make it happen."

Cyrus' decision was set. He would stay. He wanted to watch his back-stabbing neighbors die with his own eyes.

Hector handed him a sleek tablet. "All our services are bespoke, custom-made. You can browse the options here, complete with pricing."

Cyrus scrolled carefully. The range was staggering: steel reinforcements, blast-proof doors, air filtration systems, even shelters 300 feet underground or beneath the sea.

But time was short. He had only one month.

Chapter 7

Cyrus scrolled through the catalog of safehouse options and began selecting what he needed.

First came full structural reinforcement. His apartment would be gutted, every wall, ceiling, and floor replaced with 8-inch alloy panels. The material was aerospace-grade—one-third the weight of steel but ten times stronger—ideal for embedding into a high-rise without overloading the building. The windows would be swapped for the world's toughest bulletproof glass.

Next, the ventilation system would receive full air filtration, keeping out any toxic gas. Then a complete surveillance network would cover every angle, inside and out. Finally, the door: it would be replaced with a vault-grade security door, like those used in major banks. Even a small bomb would barely scratch it.

In short, Cyrus' demand was simple: his apartment would become an impenetrable fortress.

He handed the tablet back. Hector skimmed the request, eyebrows rising. Cyrus wanted to transform a 1,300-square-foot apartment into a steel box.

"With weapons inside, this wouldn't just be a house. It'd be a fortress," Hector muttered.

Cyrus' eyes flickered. "Oh? You know a thing or two about fortresses?"

Hector chuckled. "I used to work overseas as a mercenary. I know my way around military hardware."

An idea sparked in Cyrus' mind. He lowered his voice. "Then tell me—can you get guns?"

Hector's expression turned grave. Firearms were strictly forbidden in Cretora.

"Mr. Knovell, you should know that's illegal," he said quietly. "What's this really about? Dangerous enemies?"

Cyrus seized the chance to play along. "Exactly. I crossed some people from the underworld. They're armed, ruthless. I just want to protect myself. Otherwise, hiding behind reinforced walls won't help."

Hector smiled wryly. "I'm afraid I can't help with that. We're a legitimate company."

Cyrus caught the hesitation in his eyes. Hector was capable but unwilling to take the risk. He leaned forward. "This project will cost me over 1.6 million. If something happens to me afterward, that won't look good for your company. I only need a few weapons to defend myself. Help me, and you won't regret it."

Hector fell silent with a frown. He had the connections, but was Cyrus worth the risk?

"Go home for now," Hector finally said. "I can't promise anything, but I'll ask around. If I hear something, I'll contact you."

Cyrus did not press. Guns were sensitive. It was better to wait. He smiled. "Then I'll wait for your news. In the meantime, start work on the safehouse. I need it as soon as possible."

"Half a month," Hector assured him. "We'll have it ready."

They signed the contract on the spot. Cyrus paid a 200,000-dollar deposit, knowing he would likely never pay the balance.

Leaving Wyvern Security, Cyrus ticked "shelter" off his mental checklist. That problem was settled. Next: weapons.

Back in his car, he called an old acquaintance, Seamus Lancaster, who ran a private hunting ground on Mt. Barat—hundreds of acres stocked with harmless game for leisure hunters.

Seamus had plenty of legal hunting gear like crossbows, compound bows, and air rifles. Cyrus had visited before and had Seamus' number.

This time, he asked for bulk and offered extra payment.

Seamus, a businessman first, agreed easily. "Mr. Knovell, what do you need so many for? These are for hunting, right? Not hurting people?"

Caution laced his voice. Selling the gear was one thing, and liability was another.

Cyrus laughed. "Relax. I'm taking friends on a hunting trip in Kongor. Just stocking up."

Seamus whistled. "Kongor, huh? Lions and hyenas out there. Stay safe."

"Don't worry. When can you have the gear ready?"

"I've got stock on hand. Swing by anytime."

Cyrus did not waste a second. He drove straight to Mt. Barat and loaded up: five steel crossbows, three high-grade compound bows, and 300 arrows and bolts for each. Two Damascus steel hunting knives, razor-sharp and nearly unbreakable, rounded out the haul. They were perfect for close combat.

By the time he finished, his trunk was full. The sight filled him with a deep sense of security. With a hunting license already in his name, no one would question it.

By dusk, he returned home.

That evening, he treated himself to a barbecue feast at a famous smokehouse. As he bit into sizzling ribs and brisket, he realized that soon, if he wanted barbecue, he would have to grill it himself.

Thus, he did the only logical thing—he ordered 10,000 packs of the restaurant's signature barbecue rubs and sauces.

The staff froze, assuming he was playing a prank. Once the manager confirmed he was serious and would pay in full, they proceeded with the order.

Cyrus dropped over 200,000 dollars on the spot. The manager, grinning ear to ear, even tossed in an extra 500 bottles for free.

Chapter 8

Cyrus left his address with the smokehouse staff so they could deliver the packs later. He could always fetch fresh meat and vegetables from Volmart's warehouse when the time came. Barbecue rubs and sauces were another matter. Restaurants never sold their real recipes, and supermarket bottles were cheap knock-offs, nothing close to the genuine article. If they were, nobody would bother eating at a smokehouse in the first place.

After his meal, he headed home, only to receive a call from the manager of the five-star hotel.

"Mr. Knovell, your 500 tables' worth of food is ready. Are you available to receive it now?"

"Yes. Send it over," Cyrus replied.

By the time he returned, the convoys were already en route. Five hundred tables would feed him for at least two to three years. With nearly 1,400,000 dollars still in hand, he was far from stingy. If anything, he was eager to spend it all.

He thought of more dishes he liked on the way back. He called several of Volaris' most famous restaurants and placed orders for an additional hundred tables at each. That covered eight major cuisines and ethnic fine dining, thousands of tables in total. It was enough to cover half a lifetime of meals.

Not long after, the Grand Heritage Hotel's convoy rolled up to the gates of Cervusa Residence. Two or three dozen catering trucks clogged the entrance, drawing a crowd of neighbors.

Kenneth Uthman, the complex's security guard, rushed forward nervously. "Hold up! What's all this?"

The hotel manager explained, but Kenneth insisted the property owner appear in person before allowing anyone through. With a delivery this massive, he could not take any chances.

Dylan called Cyrus, who came downstairs promptly. By then, the gate teemed with curious onlookers—neighbors, children, gossiping women. Even Diana and Natalie were there, eyes wide at the commotion.

"Kenneth, it's my delivery. Let them in," Cyrus said with a smile.

"Delivery?" Kenneth blinked. "What kind of food takes a dozen trucks to bring?"

The crowd erupted.

"Look at that! Must be hundreds of tables!"

"Is Cyrus hosting a wedding banquet or something?"

"Even if he is, who needs hundreds of tables worth of food?"

"Hold on. That logo—that's the Grand Heritage! A five-star hotel!"

"One table there runs into the hundreds. Hundreds of them? That's a fortune!"

"My god, one banquet worth over 100 grand! Cyrus has been hiding his wealth all along!"

The neighbors' eyes burned with awe and envy.

Diana bit her lip, her resolve hardening. This man had to be hers.

She approached with a bright smile. "Cyrus, what's going on at home lately? Why are you stocking up so much food?"

Cyrus ignored her, lit a cigarette, and offered one to Kenneth.

The guard nodded and swung the gates open. The convoy rolled in, and Cyrus led the way.

Diana stuck close and asked in a soft, honeyed voice, "Why not tell me? We're friends, aren't we? You can trust me. I just want to know you better."

Cyrus gave her a long, cold look, then smirked. "These? They're for my boss. Same with the Michelin-starred meal last time—he paid for them. If I really had that kind of money, life would be easier."

Her face drained of color. "You're joking, right?"

He spread his hands. "Why would I? You've known me for years. My parents are gone, and I'm just a warehouse supervisor. Where would I get that kind of money?"

Her mind reeled. Real heirs usually came from families running major businesses. Cyrus' parents had been gone for years. He might have inherited some property, but that did not make him a rich heir. Also, he just confirmed that he was ordinary, neither wealthy nor powerful.

Her smile faltered. She stepped back, smoothed her hair, and forced a polite grin. "Well, rich or not, we're still best friends, aren't we? I'm not some gold digger."

She lingered on the word friends. A true bitch would never burn bridges. A backup was still a backup.

Cyrus curled his lip in disdain and said no more.

Meanwhile, the Grand Heritage staff got to work unloading.

Cyrus had arranged with the property office to use a basement storeroom, and now the banquet tables were stacked neatly inside. Even 500 meals packed into lunchboxes took up surprisingly little space.

Prime rib, smoked salmon, Maine lobster, white truffles, caviar, aged cheeses—each box resembled a treasure chest.

Dylan shook his head in disbelief. In all his years, he had never seen an order this massive.

Cyrus waved them on. Once the staff left, he quietly transferred every last box into his pocket dimension.

Maybe people whispered. Maybe they wondered. But who really cared? Life went on, and at most, it became gossip fodder.

By evening, the 500 tables' worth of food had vanished into his personal void.

That night, Cyrus received a call from Hector of Wyvern Security.

"Our teams are ready," Hector said. "We can start the safehouse project whenever you like. When's convenient?"

"Tomorrow," Cyrus replied without hesitation.

He planned to move into a hotel while the work was done.

After wrapping up that discussion, Cyrus waited for Hector to bring up the matter he still needed most: the weapons.

Hector hesitated before lowering his voice. "If you truly want them, I can introduce you to someone. But the price won't be cheap."

Cyrus' eyes narrowed. Then he nodded. "That's not a problem. As long as the quality's good."

Hector exhaled in relief. "All right. I'll make the arrangements and contact you in three days with the time and place."