The noon sunlight was harsh.
A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows divided the city into cold, perfect frames—high-rises, billboards, and traffic sliced into glossy rectangles like pieces of commercial prosperity waiting to be sold.
Ethan sat at his desk, staring at the project schedule glowing on his monitor.
Rows of milestones, payments, and responsibilities filled the spreadsheet.
With a single glance, he saw every potential disaster waiting beneath the numbers.
In his previous life, he stared at this same chart.
And saw nothing.
Now, it looked like a future accident report—with every explosion point neatly marked.
"Ethan, you don't look well. Should we delay the meeting?"
His project assistant hovered carefully beside him.
"Stick to the plan," he said, closing the laptop. "There's not much time left."
The assistant froze, misunderstanding his meaning.
"Yes—these two weeks are tight. I'll push the vendors again."
"Mm."
In the meeting room, he didn't deliver speeches or long analysis.
He simply pointed out, with chilling accuracy:
Which subcontractor would lose cash flow soon.
Which supply route would be blocked due to an upcoming policy shift.
Which "high-profit" segment was actually a minefield ready to blow.
In his previous life, he had stepped into these traps one by one, bleeding for every lesson.
In this life, he avoided them like a man with an answer key.
The managers stared at him—stunned, speechless, unable to refute a single warning.
"Ethan… how do you know all this?" someone finally asked.
"You stay long enough in this business," he said calmly, "your brain grows a bit."
The meeting ended in silence.
His phone buzzed.
[I've sent the kid to my mom's. Divorce documents are ready.
If you come now, we can make the afternoon window.]
A second message:
[You said today would be the end. So let's end it.]
Calm. Composed.
She always gave herself a perfect exit.
Not this life.
He placed the phone face-down.
"Move the rest of this afternoon's meetings to tomorrow," he told his assistant. "I have personal matters."
"Yes, Ethan."
He stepped out of the office building.
The sunlight stretched his shadow across the street.
He raised a hand.
"Civil Affairs Bureau."
The divorce system of 2128 was nothing like before.
The widely hated "cool-off period" had been abolished under massive public fury.
The new regulation was simple and brutal:
If both parties agreed, if assets and custody arrangements had no dispute,
divorce could be completed the same day.
The bureau wasn't crowded.
Young couples held hands at the marriage counter.
At the divorce side, people stood stiffly apart, each staring at their phones.
She was already there.
Light makeup. Soft colors.
She had put effort into hiding the crying and the swollen eyes—
as if reminding everyone she was still the gentle, perfect wife.
"You're here," she said, voice trembling slightly.
"Mm."
"I brought everything."
She lifted the document folder.
"Household registry, IDs, marriage certificate, our kid's birth record…
And the divorce agreement you left this morning. I printed a formal copy."
"Let's do it."
They sounded like two strangers applying for a housing loan.
The clerk looked up with professional politeness.
"You both agree to divorce? Assets and custody are clearly detailed?"
"Yes."
"Any disputes?"
Her fingers tightened slightly.
"…No."
"Very well."
The process was shockingly simple.
Sign. Confirm. Fingerprint. System entry.
Her red fingerprint smeared across the white page—brighter than her lipstick.
The printer rattled, spitting out two certificates.
No longer the festive red booklet—just a plain white card.
DIVORCE CERTIFICATE
"Wish you two… well."
The clerk's voice was mechanical. He said this a hundred times a day.
She froze as she accepted the paper.
The thin sheet weighed heavier than their marriage certificate ever had.
Half an hour.
That was all it took.
In his previous life, he and she dragged each other through years of misery before finally splitting in the chaos of the apocalypse.
By then, a certificate meant nothing.
In this life, one year and one day before the world froze…
he erased this tie in thirty minutes.
She suddenly stopped outside the bureau.
"You really don't regret it?" she whispered.
"No."
"You're not afraid of dying alone? You think without me you'll live better?"
"With or without you," he said, watching the traffic,
"I will live. I'm experienced in that."
She didn't understand the weight behind "experienced."
But the words stabbed her pride.
"Fine. Good luck."
Her heels clacked away sharply.
He didn't follow.
He simply looked at the sky.
One loose end—cut clean.
Next step: starting capital.
He didn't return to their home.
Half of that apartment was built on his effort.
The other half was built on her lies.
He wasn't going back.
A business hotel in the city center.
"Three nights first," he said at the front desk. "Possibly long-term later."
The room was small but clean.
A wall of glass faced a traffic artery.
When the curtains closed, the world stayed out.
He sat at the desk, pulled out a pen and a hotel notepad.
His first true "rebirth list."
He divided the page into four columns:
Fatal mistakes from last life
Critical future timelines
Events about to erupt
Guaranteed opportunities
He wrote slowly, carefully.
1. Fatal Mistakes
—Stayed trapped in family chaos for ten wasted years
—Kept money locked in long-term projects before the apocalypse
—No cash, no supplies
—Believed in "basic human decency," died from betrayal in a warehouse
—Never built his own team, only joined others
—Humanity understood demons and angels far too late
Each line came with a memory—
the dim warehouse, the cold rope, the agonizing stab.
His fingers tensed on the pen.
But he relaxed quickly.
"Not again."
2. Critical Timelines
July 18, 2129 — The Great Freeze begins
July 2132 — After thawing, extreme heat scorches the world
July 2134 — Heat ends, toxic acid rain starts
June 2136 — Acid rain ends, Eternal Night begins
August 2136 — Virus outbreak from corrosion + darkness
July 17, 2139 — Sunlight returns…
and in that brief hope, he was murdered.
After that—
Demons first appear in war zones…
He left blanks to fill later.
This life, he'd intervene before each crisis.
3. Events About to Erupt
A new quantum chip skyrockets a tech company's stock tenfold.
A real estate giant collapses, triggering financial shockwaves.
A "green energy miracle" explodes in scandal two months later.
A food shortage quietly pushes grain prices up.
A gaming platform's shutdown sends black-market accounts soaring…
In his past life, these were just news items.
In this life—they were chips he could cash.
4. Guaranteed Opportunities
—Super Lotto, Issue 4624 (three days later): 800 million jackpot
Numbers: [ ]
—A "garbage stock" that would become a military giant
—A forgotten industrial zone becoming post-disaster shelter land
—An abandoned underground project turning into a perfect bunker…
He paused at the lottery line.
He remembered the numbers.
He remembered how he got every number but the last one right.
He hesitated between 16 and 27 last life.
27 was her birthday.
16 was his lucky number.
To "show importance," he chose 27.
And watched 16 flash on the screen.
He had won money, but only enough to buy a nice car.
A car in which he was nearly frozen to death in a blizzard.
He still remembered the frost on the steering wheel.
He filled in the line:
1, 7, 11, 10, 20, 40, 44, 16
This time—
he wasn't asking fate.
He was taking.
He stored the notepad inside his ability's space with a thought.
Placed neatly, without a wrinkle.
16:20.
Four hours until lottery sales closed.
Enough time.
He made a call.
"Chen."
His most reliable colleague from finance.
The man froze to death in the first week of the Great Freeze.
"There are a few payment nodes I want adjusted. I'll email you."
"Now? Don't you have meetings—"
"Moved."
"Alright, send me the details."
He drafted a perfectly reasonable email:
cash flow safety, risk avoidance, updated industry forecasts.
Everyone in 2128 would see him as a responsible manager.
Only he knew:
These shifts would create his future war chest.
He shut his laptop and headed out.
Dusk fell.
The city lights flickered awake.
A shabby lottery shop sat at a street corner, its electronic sign flashing:
Jackpot: 801 million
Workers smoked outside.
Talking about dreams they'd never touch.
He stepped inside.
The owner looked up. "Lottery? Quick pick or self-select?"
"Self."
He took a pen, pulled a slip, and filled the numbers.
His hand didn't shake.
He remembered filling a nearly identical slip in another life—
only to lose everything over one wrong number.
Not this time.
He wrote the final number: 16.
The machine beeped.
A ticket slid out.
He held it between his fingers.
It felt lighter than he remembered.
Or perhaps he was heavier.
July 17, 2128.
Super Lotto Issue 4624.
His first investment of this life.
Not in stocks.
Not in real estate.
But in fate itself.
He tucked the ticket into the innermost pocket of his wallet—
close to his heart.
Some things needed to exist in the real world.
The storage space was his trump card, not his replacement.
Night fell completely.
The city glowed with artificial light.
He checked his phone.
19:32
One year and one day until the world froze.
The wind carried smoke and fried noodles through the street.
People hurried past him, unaware of the man who had just divorced, just bought a lottery ticket—
and whose eyes held no confusion.
Only calm.
And absolute knowledge of what came next.