July 23rd, 2128.
7:30 a.m.
The hotel buffet was quiet.
Most guests were the type who had a train or flight to catch—grab two bites, drain a coffee, and disappear with their luggage.
Ethan sat by the window with only a black coffee and a simple breakfast in front of him.
He ate slowly.
Not because he'd lost his appetite—
but because he was working through a spreadsheet no one else could see.
Every major event since his rebirth sat on that invisible grid:
— Confirming the exact date the world would end.
— Deciding on warehousing and locking down five warehouses.
— Pulling Blaze over to his side.
— Securing PeachSpring One.
— Yesterday's eight hundred million landing safely…
Now, he needed to turn the relationship between "supplies" and "money" into a brutal, real-world number.
He set his knife and fork down, fingers tapping lightly on his coffee cup.
"Ten years."
The extreme climate phase of the apocalypse would last ten years. After that, things would stabilize—relatively. Humanity would begin to evolve. Demons would fully enter the board.
At that point, more important than "things" would be—
"People."
"If you have people, and combat power, you'll never truly lack supplies."
"The other way around—no people, and any amount of supplies is just someone else's loot."
So these ten years weren't actually about hoarding goods.
They were about hoarding living people.
He ran the coldest numbers through his head again:
Target: keep ten thousand people alive for ten years.
Ten thousand people.
Assume 1.5 kilograms of food per person per day.
That's fifteen thousand kilos a day. Fifteen tons.
Ten years is 3,650 days—
roughly fifty-five thousand tons.
"Fifty-five thousand tons of staple grain."
He bumped that number up a little, just to quiet the nagging edge in his mind.
"Prepare for sixty thousand tons. Anything less, and I won't sleep."
On paper, those five warehouses—each about ten thousand square meters, five-meter ceiling height—
could hold far more than most people could imagine if you really packed them to the brim.
But to him, those five warehouses had always been shells.
Shells for the outside world:
— Shells that showed inventory, turnover, contracts, logistics.
— The real stock would be sitting quietly in a warehouse no one knew existed.
"First, make the shell look respectable."
In his head, he sketched a rough allocation:
— Rice: 20,000 tons
— Flour: 20,000 tons
— Corn: 5,000 tons
— Millet: 5,000 tons
— Sweet potatoes (dehydrated, freeze-dried, or high-density processed): 5,000 tons
Total: just under 55,000 tons.
Add transport, racking, rotation losses…
He estimated a rough cost range.
"Buying at scale, average grain cost is about 2.5 to 3.1 yuan a kilo."
"Add warehousing, labor, transport, tax, and then bake in a safety margin."
"Staple grain alone needs at least 1.4 billion."
Right now, what he'd earmarked for supplies was—
two hundred million.
"Far from enough."
He took a sip of coffee. His expression didn't move.
"Then I'll just have to make the money bigger first."
In his last life, right up until the apocalypse hit, he'd kept the habit of watching the market.
Certain companies and certain charts had burned themselves deep into his memory.
One in particular—
Bulala Culture.
A listed company built on anime IP.
Animation, merch, theme parks—the whole chain.
In his previous life, his daughter had been obsessed with their show Bulala Magical Girl Squad.
Her backpack, notebooks, bedsheets—everything was those characters.
He remembered this very clearly—
Starting July 23rd, 2128, Bulala rode a joint promo campaign plus a blazing earnings preview.
Main funds poured in like crazy. The stock ran up 50% in just two trading days.
He'd sat there watching the K-line go ballistic…
and because he "didn't know enough," he never touched it.
He watched it all slip past.
This time—
"I'll use Bulala as my first stepping stone."
He checked the time, stood, and headed back to his room.
—
9:00 a.m.
A notification popped up in the firm's encrypted channel.
[Ethan, the revised structure from yesterday is confirmed. Once funds land today, do we execute the three-way split as planned?
— Zoe]
Ethan stood by the window, pulling the curtain aside with one hand.
The city glared a little too bright in the sun.
He replied simply:
[No changes. But once the high-risk pool funds land today, I want to put them to work first.]
The reply was almost instant.
[Please specify.]
He sent a single ticker.
[Bulala Culture.]
There was a short pause, then came a precise professional assessment:
[Mid-cap growth, currently trading rich, high volatility. From a risk perspective, not suitable for heavy concentration, even less for high leverage.]
Ethan smiled.
[I know. But starting today it's entering a primary up-leg. Time horizon: three days.]
[That doesn't sound like professional judgment. More like… superstition.]
[You can treat it as my faith in "two-dimensional consumer demand."]
The other side went quiet for a while.
Half a minute later, another line appeared:
[Then what's your concrete ask?]
[Simple.]
He sat at the desk, fingers tapping as he laid it out like a proposal.
[1. All 200M from the high-risk pool goes into Bulala.]
[2. Split the exposure into three layers:]
[a) Cash equity:
Use 80M to build a spot position in tranches. Complete within two hours without obviously pumping the tape or leaving a big fingerprint.]
[b) TRS + single-name forwards:
Use 100M as margin. Work with two of your partner brokerages / IBs to structure around 2B notional in total-return swaps and forwards on Bulala.
Condition: maximum loss capped at that 100M. If the trade goes against me and hits a preset drawdown line, everything auto-stops and closes. I'll eat the loss.]
[c) Structured calls / options:
Use the remaining 20M to buy short-dated call warrants/options on Bulala, expiry under one month, strikes one to two ticks above spot.]
[You just need to make sure everything is via compliant channels, contracts are clean, and risk disclosures airtight.]
For a few seconds, the screen stayed blank.
In professional terms, this portfolio meant:
If he was wrong on direction, the entire 200M could be swallowed by the market in no time.
Zoe finally couldn't hold back and typed a long reply:
[Ethan, this level of concentration is borderline suicidal in any standard allocation.]
[One variable misfires—news disappoints, funds don't show up, regulators turn—
your 200M can evaporate in a handful of limit-downs.]
[I understand your view on the trend, but professionally I have to advise against this.]
This time, he didn't answer right away.
He set his phone aside, took out pen and paper—almost old-fashioned—and wrote one line:
If I'm wrong on direction, two hundred million is tuition.
He snapped a photo and sent it over.
[Zoe, look.]
[I wrote it down: this 200M is my first tuition payment to myself.]
[Worst-case, I take the hit.]
[If I'm right, three days from now I'll have tens of billions more in principal—maybe over a hundred.]
[You don't carry the consequences. You just make sure the execution is clean.]
He could almost feel her choking on that.
After a long pause, she answered:
[Do you realize how much you sound like a gambler?]
[Gamblers talk about "being able to lose" without understanding what they can actually lose. I'm not a gambler.]
He typed, unhurried:
[I'm just more certain than you are about what's coming.]
On the page, the line looked outrageously arrogant.
From him, it carried the cool weight of someone stating a known fact.
Zoe stared at the words, a tangle of irritation growing in her chest—
part of it professional pride being challenged,
part of it the discomfort of having her "expert view" quietly rewritten by reality.
She forced herself to calm down.
[Fine.]
[Professionally, I've fulfilled my duty to warn and oppose. If you insist, I'll execute.]
[On one condition—you append one line under every instruction:
"I voluntarily and fully accept all consequences."]
[I'm going to archive that sentence in full.]
Ethan laughed.
[No problem.]
[You do what your profession demands. I'll do what I have to do.]
Then he added one last line:
[Zoe, three days from now, let's review which of us understands the future better.]
—
10:00 a.m.
He sat quietly in the room for another half hour, running his ten-year warehousing plan through his mind again.
Five warehouses. One at a time.
Warehouse One: packed wall-to-wall with rice and flour.
Fill it, seal it, lock it. Run the safety checks to the letter.
Then pull everyone out.
To the outside, it would look like:
the warehouse was idle, waiting for the next big client.
To Mason, it would look like:
normal lease cycles and cargo flows.
Only Ethan would know—
That when that warehouse was packed to its absolute limit,
those goods would quietly "vanish" one night.
After they vanished, he'd simply tell Mason the client had removed everything.
No one would blink.
The five warehouses were scattered across different districts, each with different suppliers and logistics chains.
On the books, it would just look like PingRiver Asset was building a big, boring warehousing business.
"Keep the shell intact, and the core stays safe."
He picked up his phone and called Mason.
"Ethan?"
Mason answered almost immediately, his voice carrying a mix of fatigue and excitement.
"Small adjustment to the plan."
"I'm listening."
"You negotiated based on stocking all five warehouses in parallel, right? We're changing that to 'one at a time.'"
"What do you mean?"
"One warehouse after another. Start with Warehouse One. Fill it until it looks like the floor might crack. I'll send you the grain mix in a bit—rice, flour, corn, millet, sweet potato."
"More suppliers are fine. Once contracts are signed, we wire deposits within three days. After that, they have fifteen days to deliver."
"Tell them PingRiver Asset is building a long-term strategic reserve. Big volumes, long cycles, fast payment."
"If we have to sweeten terms a little, that's fine."
"Once the shipment's in and the racking's up, seal the warehouse. Pull security and floor staff entirely."
"If anyone asks, you tell them: 'Client will send their own trucks to haul everything out.' Every warehouse runs the same script."
Mason swallowed his curiosity in the end. "Got it."
"And widen your supplier net. Go for big producers with stable output. No tiny workshops, no fly-by-night speculators."
"Understood."
When he hung up, it was almost noon.
Afternoon agenda—contract signing.
—
1:30 p.m.
Qingyuan Group Headquarters.
The conference room wasn't as empty as last time.
The light outside had dimmed just a fraction, like even the weather knew something that would sit on the next ten years was about to be signed.
The contract stack was thick.
Beside it were attachments, projections, and risk memos.
Summer wore a dress with a hint of warmth in the color today, but the first impression she gave was still just two words—
Calm. Controlled.
She flipped to the last page and slid the contract across to him.
"Take one more look at the final terms," she said.
"Entire building—twenty floors above ground plus seven below."
"Twenty-year master lease."
"Annual rent: average market rent for comparable business buildings in the district, multiplied by 1.2."
"Fifty-five million due within three days—ten million as deposit plus a year and a half of rent."
"Subsequent years payable one quarter in advance."
"As for the 'priority purchase' clause you wanted, that's included as well."
She looked up. "Does this work for you?"
He scanned the page, then nodded.
"Perfect."
"With you managing Qingyuan's assets, I can rest easy."
Summer let out a soft laugh. "That compliment sounds like PR copy."
"Then let me try a different version."
He picked up the pen.
"For the next twenty years, I'll do my best to make sure you don't regret signing here today."
His name flowed onto the page.
"The project company is already prepping relocation. You don't need to cover that cost," she said, tucking the signed contract into the folder. "I pushed a bit—they should be out within two weeks."
"Floors one through five tenants… I'll leave that in your hands, Ethan."
"Thank you."
He meant it.
"You've given me a much better timeline than I expected."
Summer smiled slightly. "And you've given me much better rent than I expected."
"You're giving me the right 'location,'" he said. "In return, I'll bring you returns you can't yet imagine."
She raised a brow. "Oh? Beyond rent? That really is unexpected."
"There is more."
He paused, then added quietly:
"But it's not financial. It might end up weighing more than money. I'm afraid I can't disclose it yet."
From anyone else, that would have sounded like empty bragging or lunacy.
But the way he said it—the way he looked—
she suddenly didn't feel like he was kidding.
"All right," she said. "Then I'll thank you in advance, Ethan. I'll be watching."
Their eyes met for a moment, both carrying a glint of mutual appreciation.
—
3:00 p.m.
Super Lotto funds started arriving in waves.
On the law firm's system, a string of incoming-credit notifications lit up.
Zoe sat in front of the screen.
When the 200M tagged as "High-Risk Investment Pool" landed, she let out a long, slow breath.
"Let's begin."
She issued internal orders to the trading desk—
including the scanned "client hand-written commitment" she'd already filed away:
Two hundred million, as tuition.
On Bulala's tape, things were still relatively calm.
But the intraday chart already showed someone quietly soaking up shares.
For the cash leg, the desk followed instructions—
buy in tranches, pace the orders, avoid leaving obvious footprints.
For the TRS and forward leg—
Two partner brokerages took the other side.
One hundred million margin, two billion notional exposure.
The documents spelled everything out:
If the price dropped more than 15% from build level, a kill-switch would trigger, all swaps would be closed.
Maximum possible loss on that leg: 100M.
High risk—
but not naked.
For the options and warrants—
They spread 20M across a basket of short-dated calls:
Some strikes near the money, some much higher, with tiny premiums that could blow up several-fold if the move was sharp enough.
Zoe watched the numbers dance on the terminal, nerves still tight.
Professionally, she still thought the concentration was reckless.
—
That first day—
Bulala opened slightly higher and chopped around.
Then a news ticker rolled:
[Bulala Culture: Signs exclusive IP framework with an international streaming platform; simultaneously issues positive mid-year earnings guidance.]
As soon as the bulletin hit, inflows visibly accelerated.
In the last half hour, the stock carved a long, decisive green-to-red candle and closed almost at the high of the day.
Zoe watched the turnover and flow breakdown.
For the first time, a thought surfaced unbidden—
"…Did he actually know something ahead of time?"
—
Day Two.
Bulala gapped up and kept grinding higher.
It made several attempts at a full limit-up, got pressed back, then was pushed again.
By 2:30 p.m., it finally locked into a hard limit.
The entire trading floor was talking about this sudden rocket of a stock.
In the warrant pool, floating P&L was already dizzying.
Some deep out-of-the-money calls that had been treated as lottery tickets were now up several dozen times.
On the TRS side—
With a near-50% move in two days on 2B notional,
booked gains were closing in on 1B.
Add in cash equity and the rest of the structure,
the combined unrealized profit blew past what most high-net-worth clients earned in an entire year.
Zoe stared at the figures, forgetting to blink.
For the first time, she truly understood—
When he'd said "I'm not a gambler,"
he really hadn't been bluffing.
He had done the math.
—
Day Three.
Bulala opened slightly lower and then started whipping violently.
Short-term money that had chased the move in late were panicking.
For a while, the tape looked like a stampede.
Zoe barely dared to breathe.
She fired off a message:
[Do you want to trim?]
The reply came back almost immediately.
[No.]
[Someone's here to take your chips today.]
"…?"
She didn't even have time to ask what he meant.
The tape answered for her.
At 1:20 p.m., after one more hard flush, it was as if an invisible hand reached up from the depth of the book.
A fat bid appeared, scooping up the panic.
Price stopped falling.
Then turned.
By the close, the stock never touched limit-up again—
but it held its height with ease.
Which meant:
There was still a story ahead.
But for someone who already had enough profit, there was no need—
—to fight for the last scrap of meat.
At 2:45 p.m., Ethan sent:
[Exit everything in tranches. Cash equity, TRS, forwards, warrants—use your best-execution rules.]
[Be done by 3:00.]
The system spun up.
While most of the market was still trying to pile in,
one extremely disciplined hand was quietly exiting the battlefield.
By the final minute of trading, the desk's summary report landed in Zoe's inbox.
In three days, the 200M high-risk pool, after fully closing all positions, stood at a net value that made her fingers go cold—
10.2 billion.
She stared at the number, fingertips numb.
It was the first time in her career she'd watched capital scale like this in three days.
The most terrifying part—
She knew, step by step, that it wasn't insider info.
It wasn't manipulation.
It was just someone who'd arrived at the correct time point ahead of everyone else—
leveraging his conviction with ruthless aggression and strictly capped downside.
Her phone buzzed.
[Zoe.]
[Three days are up.]
[Shall we review who understands the future better?]
She looked at the message, and a storm of emotion hit—
The sting of being proven wrong.
The discomfort of having "professional judgment" overturned.
But above all—
The shock of watching a monster slowly lift one corner of the iceberg.
In the end, she typed only:
[Ethan, I believe now that you see the future more clearly than I do. I made a fool of myself earlier. Please correct me more often from now on.]
Send.
From this moment, she no longer saw him as a "sudden rich guy."
She didn't even see him as a normal "client."
—
She wanted, a little, to learn from him.
—
6:00 p.m.
The office lights were still on at the warehouse park outside the city.
Mason had just hung up on a supplier when Ethan pushed the door open.
"Ethan."
"How's it looking today?"
"Honestly? Terrifying."
Mason scratched his head. "Just the orders we've placed so far have made several suppliers tear up their production schedules and start over."
"They're treating us like a 'strategic client' now."
"Good," Ethan said. "Stick to the plan."
"Remember: save where it makes sense—
but don't be stingy on reputation, capacity, or delivery reliability. No cutting corners on those."
"Got it."
After the report, Ethan asked a few questions about Blaze.
Hearing that the man had spent the entire day walking every blind spot in the park, mapping it with his own feet,
the knot of tension in his chest loosened another notch.
By the time he got back to the hotel, it was near ten.
—
10:30 p.m.
Only the desk lamp was on.
Ethan sat at the desk, his laptop open on a search page.
He typed in a name.
"Quinn."
In his last life, for a long period after the apocalypse broke out,
he'd been trapped in a place called New Mountain Shelter.
A shelter built under insane constraints—
limited space, limited materials, limited manpower.
And yet that structure survived all ten years of hell.
The chief designer of that shelter was a young woman named Quinn.
People who'd actually met her said she was kind and brilliant,
but her health was terrible.
She forced her body to hold on long enough to get the shelter running.
By the time it was fully operational, there was nothing left to save.
He refined the search:
[Quinn] [architect] [student architecture award] [young architect]
Pages of results.
None that fit.
He gave up searching her name directly and switched to a different angle:
"Architecture for extreme conditions."
Unexpectedly, on a professional forum he found this post:
"If the world really ends, what humans need isn't a lonely little 'bunker'—
but a small city that can still maintain basic urban functions under extreme conditions."
"That city needs three layers:
a surface defense tier, an underground living tier, and an energy/circulation tier."
"I've been building models and doing simulations for this for a while, but I haven't had the chance to work on a real project."
The post was signed:
ID: Q.N.
Replies underneath:
[End of the world? Great premise. Someone should film this.]
[OP, too many post-apocalypse movies?]
[But 'underground city' could be a fun angle for urban renewal.]
Q.N replied in a restrained tone:
"I hope we never have to use it."
"But if the day comes when we do, I hope I've finished the model by then."
Ethan leaned back, pupils narrowing.
ID: Q.N.
"Quinn."
He was nearly certain:
You don't build a shelter that can survive ten apocalypse years from scratch—
without years of quiet prep and thought.
Her horizon had never been just "a shelter."
It had been a small, self-sufficient underground city.
"If it's really you…"
"This time, I'll give you a whole building. A whole city. You can build everything in your head, piece by piece."
He opened Q.N's profile.
There wasn't much there.
Looked like she hadn't logged in for a long time.
He still sent a private message:
[Hi.
I read your thoughts on 'small cities for extreme climate scenarios.'
I strongly agree—humans don't just need temporary bunkers; they need cities that can actually live.
I'm working on projects in a similar direction. If you're willing, I'd love to talk.
Even just to exchange ideas would be great.
— Someone who takes "extreme climate" very seriously.]
Send.
The message sat there quietly.
No reply.
He didn't mind.
"Some teammates need to be hidden on the timeline in advance," he thought.
He closed the laptop and glanced out at the night.
The city lights still shone as if nothing could touch them.
No one knew that in the dark underbelly of this city, a few invisible threads had already started to weave together:
The path of a hundred billion in capital.
The destination of sixty thousand tons of grain.
The fate of a building.
The survival of a group of people.
And one private message, still unread, to a user named Q.N.
He closed his eyes.
"If it really is you, Quinn… once I'm done 'refitting' PeachSpring One, we can try building a small underground city."
The night sank deeper.