July 20th, 2128.
7:30 a.m.
Ethan reached for his phone, still half-asleep.
[Notice from Qingyuan Group: The first payment of 25,000,000 will arrive before 10:00 a.m. today.]
Final payment will be transferred within three days according to the contract. — Summer
For most entrepreneurs, receiving money from a major capital group was the kind of thing that justified posting three celebratory Moments in a row.
For him, it was just another colored box filled in on his internal "cash-flow spreadsheet."
Still, his eyes lingered for a moment on the signature.
Summer.
Clean. Crisp. Beautiful in its simplicity.
After a moment's thought, he replied:
[Received. Thank you, Ms. Summer.]
The response came almost instantly.
[This is standard procedure. No need to thank me.]
[But… congratulations on your early 'graduation.']
A casual smiley face followed.
He stared at that small icon for two seconds.
"Early graduation?"
He smiled faintly.
In his previous life, he hadn't "graduated" from life —
he'd been expelled from it.
This time, he intended to walk away with top scores and a stack of rare scholarships.
He typed a few words, deleted them, then sent:
[I just hope you won't regret this investment.]
There was a brief pause.
[I rarely regret things.]
[But you — won't you miss this company after you leave?]
He watched that line for three seconds, then answered honestly:
[I will.]
[But I think I'll live better from now on.]
To anyone else, it sounded like the simple reflection of someone who'd just made a life-changing decision.
Only he knew how much blood and ruin were buried inside the words live better.
After a while, another message popped up.
[Then I hope your life truly becomes better.]
[If one day you want to start another project, come find me.]
[Working together once doesn't have to mean only once.]
Ethan's fingers paused over the screen.
In his heart, he answered:
This lifetime, it definitely won't be just once.
Summer, you're someone I intend to protect.
But he didn't type that.
He only replied:
[Okay.]
After a quick breakfast downstairs, his phone buzzed again at 9:30.
[+25,000,000 received]
Sender: Qingyuan Capital Holdings…
He glanced at the number and dragged the notification into a folder he'd created the night before:
[Doomsday Prep · Funding Pool]
"First bucket of clean water," he noted to himself.
This was money even the strictest regulator couldn't fault.
No matter how he spent it afterward, as long as the surface logic was clean, no one could follow the trail from the money to his real trump card — the Storage Space.
At 10:00 a.m., he messaged Mason:
[How's the warehouse progress?]
The reply came quickly — clearly Mason had been up and running since early morning.
[Three warehouses can be signed today. The other two tomorrow.]
[Draft of the internal zoning plan is done — I'll send the final version this afternoon.]
[Also: primary suppliers for staple grains and bottled water are shortlisted. Waiting on your decision.]
Several images followed: warehouse floor plans, shelf layouts, loading-zone photos.
Ethan reviewed them as he exited the hotel.
Wide aisles. High shelves. Strong load-bearing.
Good access to main roads.
Every detail in his mind got a small check mark.
"Good."
He called directly. "Thank you, Mason."
"It's really nothing, Ethan." Mason sounded tired but excited. "It's my first time realizing just how efficient the world gets once you actually have funds."
"This is only the beginning." Ethan smiled. "And remember — we're not speculating. We're building something long-term that most people can't even imagine yet."
"How long-term?" Mason couldn't help asking.
"Long enough that when the world changes," Ethan said calmly, "we'll still be alive. And living well."
The line went quiet for a moment.
"…Understood."
"Pick suppliers with the best reputation and stable output," Ethan continued. "Price is secondary. I want them to hear 'Pingchuan Assets' and be willing to give us their maximum capacity in the future."
"As for warehouse layout, follow what we discussed yesterday. Sign the three contracts today. I'll arrange payment."
"Got it."
Hanging up, Ethan looked up at the sky.
Blue. Clear. Mild.
Hard to imagine that in exactly one year, this same sky would be shattered by the Great Freeze.
In his mind, he opened a familiar mental document:
[The Twelve Star Guardians · Candidate List]
Taurus · Mason — locked in.
Aries · Blaze — urgent priority.
The remaining entries were still marked as pending.
"At least ten seeds need to be planted early," he thought. "The earlier, the better."
But for now, the most critical role was the one standing between "warehouse" and "loot beacon."
Blaze — the first war-banner he needed to raise.
He spent the late morning and early afternoon handling the tail end of company handover.
The legal transfer would take time, and there would be several rounds of formal handover meetings.
For those, he only planned to show his face, push a few key people into the right positions, and then step back.
By three in the afternoon, he finally had a moment alone in his office.
He closed the door, sat down, and pulled up a profile file.
Aries · Blaze
Status: Retired soldier, three years; security team captain; core of night shifts
Side job: Coach and occasional underground fighter at Ironhusk Gym
Family: Parents are farmers in his hometown; only child
Core traits: Charges forward, fiercely loyal, straightforward
Weaknesses (this life): Needs money, deeply filial, values brotherhood
Recruitment plan: High salary + relocate parents to the city
— bring him in as Security Chief for warehouse operations
In his previous life, Ethan had once watched from the shattered ruins of a high-rise as a blood-soaked man repeatedly hurled himself into a wave of demons.
Bones splintering. Muscles ripping. Blood boiling into white steam.
He had played the role of a living bomb and shattered a crucial stronghold node, buying the city three minutes of survival.
After that, the name Blaze quietly spread among survivors.
And then, in some internal purge between human city-states, Blaze died as a disposable asset —
not even at demon hands, but under human knives.
No tombstone.
No record.
Just scattered, half-remembered evaluations:
"He's insane — but if you want someone to hold the line, he's the one."
"If he thinks of you as his boss, he'll die for you without blinking."
"Damn shame."
This life—
"It won't be a shame this time," Ethan thought.
He closed the file.
"See you tonight."
By the time dusk fell, neon signs began to flicker on in the neighboring city's older districts.
Ironhusk Gym's sign glowed faintly at the end of a worn street.
Inside, the air was thick with sweat, rubber, cheap energy drinks, and a faint undertone of blood.
At the front desk, the receptionist greeted him with a commercial smile.
"Here to train or watch the fights, sir?"
"Watch." Ethan's tone was mild. "And I'm looking for someone."
"Who?"
"Blaze."
The receptionist's expression shifted into a slightly teasing smile.
"Oh, looking for our 'mad dog' coach? You a fan?"
"Something like that."
"Then you came at the right time." She checked the roster. "He's got class until eight. After that, he's in a free-fight match."
"I'll wait inside."
Ethan registered his ID, bought a ticket, and slipped into a corner seat.
On the main platform, the class changed instructors.
A man in a black tank top stepped up—
Shoulders broad, muscles cleanly cut like someone had carved them with a knife.
Short cropped hair. Hard, steady eyes.
Not conventionally handsome.
But carrying a pressure that didn't belong in a simple gym.
Blaze.
In his previous life, Ethan had seen him on a battlefield.
Now, he was seeing him under fluorescent lights.
The contrast was almost surreal.
Blaze's instructions were simple and sharp:
"Don't tuck your hand. If you're going to hit, hit like you mean it."
"Your footwork follows your fists. If you step back on every punch, you'll never reach the target."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight.
When students got sloppy, he moved in, grabbed wrists and elbows, adjusted stances.
His corrections were direct and controlled — never gentle, never cruel.
The class ended. Students dispersed.
Someone at ringside shouted, "Blaze! You in for tonight? The other gym sent someone nasty!"
Blaze glanced at the clock and clicked his tongue. "I'm in. Tell the boss — usual deal. If I win, I get an extra ten percent."
His tone was lazy, like this was just another side hustle.
He hopped down from the platform—
And walked straight toward Ethan's corner.
As they crossed paths, Blaze's gaze swept over him, instinctively sharp.
"Looking for someone?" he asked.
"You," Ethan replied.
Blaze paused. "I don't know you."
"But I know you."
The answer came naturally, almost casually.
"Blaze. Twenty-nine. Retired three years ago. Security captain at a private firm. Teaches here at night. Fights for extra cash."
Blaze's eyes cooled instantly.
"You dug into me?"
"In a civilized society, it's not hard to look into someone's résumé," Ethan said calmly. "Especially someone who's served."
Blaze watched him for a beat, shoulders subtly tensing.
"What do you want?"
"To hire you," Ethan said. "Full-time security. High pay."
Blaze snorted. "Define high."
"Thirty percent more than your combined monthly income right now. Housing provided. Full benefits. One-year contract."
Blaze actually froze this time.
"Thirty percent? You even know how much I'm making now?"
"I know more than you think."
Ethan's gaze remained steady as he asked, like it was an afterthought:
"Your parents still farming back home?"
The air seemed to tighten.
That was where Blaze's armor was thinnest.
"…Who the hell are you?" he asked quietly.
"Who I am doesn't matter."
Ethan stepped a little closer.
"What matters is — I can bring your parents to the city. Give them proper medical care and a comfortable place to live. No more earning their lives with their backs."
"And all you have to do for that—
is guard a few warehouses."
He added, word by word:
"Legal warehouses. Legal supplies. Legal security."
Every syllable landed like a weight.
Blaze's gaze darkened.
"You stockpiling what? Drugs? Guns?"
"Food. Water. Medicine. Fuel."
They stared at each other.
After almost half a minute, Blaze suddenly laughed — a low, rough sound.
"You're damn good with words."
"And you?" Ethan asked quietly. "Are you good at choosing your boss?"
Blaze's smile slowly faded.
He didn't like admitting it, but this man was hitting every nerve without missing.
"I know your type," Ethan said. "Once you decide someone is worth following — you'll take a knife for him without blinking."
"In peace, that makes you look like an idiot."
"In chaos—
that makes you the strongest war-banner on the field."
This time, Blaze didn't laugh.
"You came here tonight just to say all that?"
"Tonight is just the first meeting."
Ethan took a small step back, giving him room.
"You have a fight to finish. I'll watch. After that, if you're still interested, we'll talk details. I won't come a second time."
Their gazes locked.
"Blaze! You good to go? The other guy's warmed up!"
Blaze jerked his chin. "Yeah."
He brushed past Ethan, stepping back into the bright square of the ring.
Three minutes later, the so-called "monster" from the other gym was on the floor, barely conscious, only saved from further damage by the referee stepping in.
The crowd roared.
"Mad Dog!"
"Mad Dog!"
Blaze ripped off his gloves and mouthguard, wiped sweat from his jaw, and glanced across the gym.
In the corner, Ethan sat exactly where he'd been.
No cheering. No theatrics.
Just a small nod.
Blaze clicked his tongue.
"Back door. Ten o'clock," he muttered in Ethan's direction.
Then he left the ring.
The alley behind the gym was narrow and dimly lit, with only a single yellow streetlamp holding back the dark.
Blaze emerged in a worn T-shirt and sweatpants, gym bag slung over one shoulder. The brutal edge from the ring had faded, but the coiled tension was still there, under the skin.
"You actually waited," he said.
"I told you I wouldn't ask twice." Ethan smiled. "So the first time is worth waiting for."
He pulled a file from his bag and handed it over.
"Contract. Salary. Position. Basic warehouse info."
Blaze opened it and scanned the numbers.
Annual salary: 500,000.
He whistled, low.
"What's your angle?" he asked again.
"Peace of mind."
Ethan's voice was steady.
"I'll be sitting on a lot of supplies. Those warehouses won't just hold my money — they'll hold the safety of everyone who follows me."
"So I need someone whose concept of loyalty is… extreme."
"You think I am?" Blaze asked, half mocking.
"I know you are."
Blaze looked away, jaw tight.
"…You're really good at this," he muttered.
"Are you good at choosing?" Ethan countered.
Blaze shut the folder. "I'll read it. You'll have my answer tomorrow."
"You have until tomorrow night," Ethan said. "After that, the spot won't be empty anymore."
"…You're pretty good at pushing people," Blaze said.
"I'm helping you do what you do best," Ethan replied. "Act. Not hesitate."
Blaze turned and walked a few steps, then stopped.
Without looking back, he asked:
"You really can help me bring my parents here?"
"Yes."
"No more fields. Real doctors when they're sick. A decent place to live."
"Yes."
"Then I don't need to wait until tomorrow," Blaze said. "I'm in."
He waved a hand behind him.
"If you lie to me, I'll break your jaw."
Ethan smiled.
"This life, you'll hit plenty of people," he said softly. "I won't be one of them."
It was close to midnight when Ethan returned to the hotel.
He didn't shower immediately.
Instead, he sat down on the sofa, turned on the TV, and switched to the lottery broadcast.
On the table in front of him lay a neatly folded ticket.
Numbers he knew by heart.
Numbers that had once almost changed his fate — and then didn't.
On the screen, the host's voice was bright and overexcited.
"The Super Lotto, Issue 4624, is about to begin! Let's look at tonight's massive jackpot— 800 million!"
Bullet comments flooded the live chat:
[Bless me just this once!]
[If I win I'm quitting tomorrow!!]
[I only want 5 million, I swear!]
Ethan leaned back, expression calm.
He had already lived through this draw once.
He had already felt his heart pounding out of his chest once.
He had already watched one wrong number destroy his last hope once.
This time, there was no trembling.
Just quiet confirmation.
The countdown hit zero.
The machine whirred.
The first ball dropped.
1.
Then:
7.
11.
10.
20.
40.
44.
Each number landed like a slow, steady heartbeat.
No surprises. No deviations.
And finally—
The last ball rolled into place.
The host's voice rose with practiced excitement:
"And the special number is—
16!!!"
The chat exploded.
[Holy— someone's rich tonight!]
[16!!! I picked 17, kill me now!!]
The hotel room stayed absolutely silent.
Ethan exhaled, long and slow.
This wasn't the gasping, hysterical kind of breathing from his past life — that near-suffocating struggle between hope and despair.
This was—
Alignment.
The gears of fate sliding back into position.
He picked up the ticket.
The numbers printed on it matched the ones on the screen.
One to one.
Perfect.
"Welcome," he murmured, eyes calm.
"My eight hundred million."
The host kept talking about claims, rules, charity percentages — none of which he bothered to listen to.
His mind was already moving on.
Anonymous claim.
Dispersed accounts.
Trust structures.
Shadowed flows.
He opened his contacts and tapped out a message.
[Lyle, if you're free tomorrow, I'd like to meet.]
[I've come into a large, completely legal sum unexpectedly, and I need you to design an overall structure — anonymous, low-profile, with room for future investments.]
[If you have any financial planners or attorneys you fully trust, feel free to bring them.]
[Thanks.]
After sending it, he walked to the window.
The city outside was lit up in scattered constellations of neon and headlights.
"Now…" he said quietly.
"I have money."
"I have warehouses."
"The Star Guardians are starting to gather."
"Summer is on my timeline."
"Next—"
"Money will make more money."
"And we build the sanctuary."
He turned off the TV, took a quick shower, lay down on the bed.
The air conditioner hummed softly.
This night, he slept deeply.