July 26th, 2128.
7:30 a.m.
The hotel buffet was as quiet as always.
Now and then a guest hurried past with a suitcase, grabbed some bread, swallowed a couple of sips of coffee, and was swallowed back into their own life by the elevator doors.
Ethan sat in the corner.
In front of him: a simple breakfast—fried eggs, toast, salad, and a cup of black coffee.
He ate neither fast nor slow. Food in, chewing, swallow; the movements were mechanical, but not mindless—
With each bite, he was peeling his attention away from the explosive pace of the last few days and drawing it back to the one line that really mattered now:
PeachSpring One.
His frontline fortress for the next ten years.
Halfway through, he set down his knife and fork and finished the last sip of coffee.
The faint bitterness slid down his throat, his stomach warmed, and his mind snapped fully awake.
"First—Quinn."
—
Back in his room, the first thing he did was open his laptop.
The architecture forum page was still on last night's thread. He opened his inbox, scrolled straight to ID:Q.N..
Still quiet. No red dot. No new messages.
He wasn't disappointed.
People like that not replying was normal.
But the timeline had already been nudged.
Some seeds only needed to be planted. They'd break through on their own later.
Under his previous message, he typed another line:
My name is Ethan.
I'm fully aligned with your 'extreme–climate micro–city' concept—
what humanity really needs isn't a temporary shelter, but a city where people can actually live.
If you're interested, here's my number: XXXXXXXX.
Whether it's a real project or just exchanging ideas, I'd really like to talk.
Send.
Another quiet speech bubble appeared. No notification. No reply.
"That's fine."
He closed the laptop and, in his mind, put this matter into a drawer labeled:
Quinn — Waiting for a reply
Now it was time for an "old comrade" from the real world.
—
He picked up his phone and scrolled to a contact.
The note was simple:
Chen
In the long, chaotic wasteland of his last life, the final image of that name was—
After a riot over food, in a blood–streaked stairwell, that middle–aged man had clutched a key ring drenched in red, asking with the last of his breath:
"...Are the supplies still there?"
Even now, thinking of it made Ethan's chest tighten.
"This time, it won't end like that."
He took a slow breath.
Before dialing that number, he tapped another name.
Summer.
If you're poaching, you say hello first.
The call connected quickly.
"Ethan?"
Her voice, like the woman herself—tidy, controlled, with that practiced professional warmth.
"Morning, Summer."
He got straight to the point without losing politeness. "I owe you an apology in advance about something, so I wanted to talk to you first."
"Oh?" She paused, a hint of curiosity in her tone. "What is it?"
"I need an assistant I can trust absolutely," he said frankly. "After thinking it over, the best candidate is still the assistant who's worked with me for years—Chen. He's still at your company."
Silence for a beat.
Ethan continued, not dancing around it:
"He's been with me a long time. Most of my work habits were built with him.
What I'm doing now spans a lot of fronts. If I bring in a stranger, the time and cost of building trust and rhythm will be too high."
"Under normal circumstances, going directly to him would be disrespectful to you—and unfair to him."
"So I'm calling you first."
"If you say no, I'll treat this thought as never having existed and go find someone else."
Summer didn't answer right away.
He knew: no boss could hear the word "poach" and feel absolutely nothing.
The only question was how they handled it.
A few seconds later, she gave a small laugh.
"First of all, thank you for this call, Ethan."
"That's… a lot of respect, to be honest. More than I expected."
"Frankly, I don't know Chen that deeply as a person, but he has helped me a lot these past two years."
"If it were anyone else, they'd have skipped the courtesy call and just walked off with their right hand."
"I didn't think you'd be the 'wave your sleeve, don't even take a cloud' type."
"The fact that you called me first instead of him—that alone is enough for me to want to cooperate."
"So yes. You want him—I agree."
She paused, then added:
"Of course, same condition: it still depends on whether he wants to go."
"Thank you, Summer."
Ethan smiled. "I hope he comes. But I'll ask him straight. Past or present, I've never needed people who are being forced to stay."
On the other end, she seemed to picture his expression.
"Go ask him," she said, voice a touch softer. "I'd be surprised if he didn't come running."
"When he gives you an answer, let me know."
"Will do."
They lightly touched on PeachSpring One's current tenant shuffle and timelines—nothing improper, but full of a very real sense of "we're building something together."
When the call ended, Summer's fingers tapped the desk.
—Before poaching, a boss calls you, clearly says:
If you don't agree, I'll drop the idea.
—and promises not to work you behind your back.
"Respect, boundaries…"
She smiled to herself.
"That man's inner ruler really is straight."
—
On Ethan's side, the second call was already ringing.
"Beep—beep—"
It was answered before the second ring completed.
"Hello? Hi—?"
A familiar voice, carrying a trace of caution and nervousness.
"It's me."
There was a one–second blank.
Then the voice shot up half a pitch. "Mr. Ethan?!"
He seemed to realize he was too loud and hurried to rein it in, but couldn't hide the very real joy underneath.
"I—uh, why'd you change your number? How have you been these days? Honestly it's… weird not seeing you around…"
Ethan couldn't help but smile.
"Chen."
He cut through the fluster. "I have a question."
"Y–yes, of course."
"If I told you I needed an assistant right now—would you still be willing to come?"
The silence lasted barely a second.
Then Chen blurted out:
"Yes!"
He startled himself with the volume.
"Of course yes! I—I can come anytime! If you give the word I'll hand in my resignation today!"
The happiness was so sincere it seemed to vibrate down the line.
"Don't get that worked up." Ethan laughed. "I haven't even told you the salary."
"Salary doesn't matter!"
That came out too fast. He clearly realized how that sounded and scrambled to clarify:
"Not that it doesn't matter, I just… I know you're starting a new company, money's tight everywhere."
"Even if it's less than I'm making now at first, I'm fine with that."
"Working with you is the one thing I've never regretted in my whole life."
The words had no polish, no technique—just honest and clumsy.
"I'm thinking three hundred thousand a year," Ethan said. "Plus some arrangements later. Those won't be written into the contract yet, and I can't explain details right now, but I won't shortchange you."
"...Three hundred thousand?"
The other end went quiet, genuinely stunned.
"Mr. Ethan, isn't that… too much?"
Chen rushed on, "I feel lucky just to be useful to you. You really don't have to raise it so much just because you called me back. I know you're under pressure starting out. I'd feel bad if I dragged you down."
"My current salary is just over ten thousand a month. If you doubled that already I'd—"
"Don't make me sound like a pushover, Chen," Ethan interrupted, still with a smile. "Three hundred thousand is what I think you're worth."
He paused, then added seriously:
"I know you've been quietly absorbing all the junk on my behalf for years—staying late, fixing fires—and you never once complained to me."
"If I brought you back at the same pay, that would be disrespectful."
There was a soft inhale on the other end.
"Mr. Ethan…"
He seemed to want to say more, but swallowed it back. In the end, he squeezed out the simplest, most old–fashioned line:
"I'll give everything I have to help you."
"Don't." Ethan chuckled. "I'm not asking for your life. I need you to keep it and walk with me a long time."
"Are you free at noon?"
"Yes! Yes!"
"Come meet me then. I'll send the location. We'll have lunch and talk things through face–to–face."
"Okay!"
Chen, as if afraid he'd change his mind, repeated, "I'll go hand in my resignation right now and get the paperwork done as fast as I can!"
"I already spoke to Summer," Ethan said. "She'll approve it. Just follow the normal process."
The line went quiet for two seconds.
"You… talked to Ms. Summer first?"
"Yeah."
"You're her employee right now. If I went to you behind her back, that'd disrespect both of you."
That sentence stunned him into silence.
After a long moment, he managed:
"Mr. Ethan, if that's the kind of person you are… then I'm sticking with you for the rest of my life."
When the call ended, the room held only the dim glow of the phone screen and the hum of the AC.
Ethan stood there for a moment with the phone in his hand, then dialed Summer again.
She picked up almost immediately.
"Just as you predicted," he said. "He's very happy to come over."
"I figured as much." She laughed. "You toss him a rope, he'd cling with both hands."
"I've already told HR to prep his paperwork. He can complete everything tomorrow."
"Not a day of pay missing."
"Thank you."
Ethan's voice softened. "Even if he's back at my side, long–term… he might be building something for you too."
She actually laughed out loud at that.
"I'll take that on faith."
"I'm very curious what exactly you're doing, but I'll hold the questions for now."
"I'll just look forward to what you end up bringing me."
They touched base again on the PeachSpring One move–out and renovation timelines.
After they hung up, Ethan set the phone aside and sat back at the desk.
Now it was PeachSpring One's turn.
—
On the table lay a detailed floor plan—the latest internal blueprint from Qingyuan Group.
Structural data, load–bearing limits, above– and below–ground layouts—all clearly marked.
"PeachSpring One…"
The name looked delicate, commercial. High–end residence meets office tower.
But to him, the four characters were too shallow—no taste of "paradise," no hint of sworn brotherhood.
He picked up a pen and wrote two characters on a clean sheet.
PeachSpring — Peach Garden.
A Peach Garden like the hidden utopia.
A Peach Garden like the place of blood oath.
To the outside world, this would be a one–stop lifestyle complex.
Inside, it had to be a place that could stay standing for ten years under extreme conditions.
Let the world outside turn into hell—here, the "peach blossoms" would keep blooming.
And the Twelve Star Wardens would swear themselves here.
In his mind, he crossed out "PeachSpring One."
The new name settled in.
Next came the skeleton of Peach Garden.
Underground
Seven basement levels, each larger than the one above:
B1: ~8,000 m²
B2: ~9,000 m²
B3: ~10,000 m²
B4: ~11,000 m²
B5: ~12,000 m²
B6: ~13,000 m²
B7: ~14,000 m²
If the ground were the tree canopy, then these seven underground layers were its inverted root system.
"B1 and B2," he thought, sketching two large blocks, "are 'supermarket' on the outside, 'buffer layer' on the inside."
—B1–B2: underground hypermarket and cold–chain storage.
When the apocalypse first hit, people hadn't completely broken yet.
The grid would still hold for a little while.
Most residential buildings had home storage systems by then—enough for about two weeks.
On the surface, "order" would still look intact.
He knew: the worst part of the end wasn't the beginning—it was when order collapsed.
Until then, supermarkets were the simplest way to steady people.
—"Prices are crazy and shelves are empty everywhere else."
—"But this place somehow still has everything."
As long as a city had one place like that, people would crawl toward it with everything they had left.
And there, he could start selectively drawing in his captains, his fighters.
"B3 to B7 are storage."
He drew a long rectangle and sliced it into segments.
With around a thousand square meters per storage unit, he tiled each floor with rectangular warehouse cells.
No lightweight partitions. All solid wall. All reinforced with the strongest materials he could specify—even under hard quakes or impact, they shouldn't collapse as a whole.
In his previous life, this building had never failed structurally.
But this time he was modifying it.
When you change a survivor, you make them stronger, not weaker.
"Most important is the movement path."
He drew arrows between the warehouse cells:
—From the elevator and main corridor, you can only enter Warehouse 1.
—To get to Warehouse 2, you have to go through a coded door at the very back of Warehouse 1.
—To get to Warehouse 3, same pattern.
One–way chain. No side halls, no shortcuts.
Each connecting door had its own code and could be sealed independently.
The benefits:
Outsiders would only ever see "the one warehouse currently in use," maybe guess there were "a few more behind it."
And the key:
His secret only ever needed to be bound to "the next room."
He leaned back, fingers tapping the paper.
His real supply source was the white, incorruptible Storage Space in his mind—the warehouse where nothing rotted and nothing sprouted worms.
No one needed to know that.
In his head, he ran through the future usage pattern:
Once the basements were remodeled, every storage cell would be sterilized and sealed as close to vacuum as possible. Official line: no lights, no traffic—it's all "for better shelf life."
No cameras inside. Once a cell's door was shut and locked, it could only be opened with external system authorization. Any attempt at forced entry would trigger alarms.
Whenever a new storage cell was to be "opened," Ethan would quietly move the real goods from his Storage Space into it the night before.
By the time anyone saw it, every record—from books to cameras to logistics—would tell the same story:
The supplies have been stored here the whole time and preserved under optimal conditions.
No one would know the goods had been sitting in another dimension, perfectly fresh.
People would just think:
"The boss planned ahead. Somehow, each warehouse is always stocked like magic."
Only he would know:
"The warehouse is just the shell. The real hand is somewhere else entirely."
Finally, across B3–B7 he drew another line: power system to be solved.
Only then did he look up from the "roots" toward the "trunk and crown."
Above Ground — A 'Normal' City
"To anyone outside," he thought, "it has to look normal. Even prosperous."
"Before the freeze hits, people will only know it's 'under renovation.' It won't actually open."
The day renovations finished would be the day the apocalypse began.
On a fresh sheet, he wrote out the public–facing plan from floors 1 to 20—layer by layer, building a complex that looked perfectly ordinary.
1st Floor: Global brands + luxury multi–label stores
The façade. It had to be bright and beautiful.
Luxury, designer multi–brand boutiques, top–tier cosmetics—anyone who wanted to prove they were "still doing okay" would love to tap a card here and post a photo.
Before the apocalypse, this floor would plate the building in gold.
After, it could be reworked into:
—resource exchange hall
—registration point
—temporary intake area
2nd Floor: Womenswear
Women's consumption was the soft engine of every city. Even the fake version of the plan needed it.
And later… the people he intended to save would need clothes.
This floor could be reworked as the women's communal living zone.
3rd Floor: Menswear
Everything for men.
Later, it could become the men's zone, or be partially carved out for training and duty–shift rest areas.
4th Floor: Kids' clothing, family play zone, small theater
After the end, children would become a luxury.
But until the end arrived, he refused to cut away that gentleness early.
This floor would remain in the blueprint as a promise.
Even if hail pelted and the wind cut like knives outside, he wanted kids to play here, laugh here, learn and grow here.
A corner as untouched by blood as he could make it.
5th–6th Floors: Appliance city + big–box retail
Ultra–fresh smart fridges, washer–dryer combos, instant hot–water units, and the era's must–have gadget—the "temp unit," a plug–and–play room–scale thermal machine that made old–era air conditioners look primitive.
Most importantly, he needed tenants that sold generators and compact storage batteries. In this age, most households had some form of distributed storage.
Later: this would be the energy hub. Water purification station. Electrical workshop.
7th–8th Floors: Home & furniture showrooms
Beds, sofas, cabinets, desks—everything now came as AI–enabled "transformer furniture."
These would be the raw materials for future modular rooms.
After the end, one person's territory might only be a few square meters, but with good design, even a few square meters could hold dignity.
These floors would be the materials depot for future residential reconstruction.
9th Floor: Food court + cinema
A city without a place to eat a real meal and watch a bad movie would lose its mind much faster.
Ethan reserved a huge area here for restaurants and screens so that someday—
When a survivor could still cradle a hot bowl of food in the dim light of a theater and stare, laugh, or cry—
they wouldn't crumble completely.
10th Floor: Gym + pool + small sports court
To ordinary people: fitness, selfies, "check–in" posts.
To him: training ground.
His future crew would run drills here—fitness, combat, team tactics.
Beneath their feet, floors once meant for treadmills. Overhead, tons of reinforced concrete.
Civilization's "combat power" was built in places like this, one rep at a time.
11th–12th Floors: Clinic + inpatient wards
His pen lingered a little longer over these.
He knew that at some point, he wanted to hand them to someone crucial:
Selene.
She would redraw the plan: more ORs, negative–pressure rooms, intensive monitoring, large swaths reserved for testing and quarantine.
"This will be one of Peach Garden's hearts," he thought.
"Its white blood cells."
13th Floor: Lounge + hotel lobby + reception
To society, this would be the junction of mall and hotel.
Inside, it would be the buffer between Peach Garden and the outside world.
Here he'd enforce strict screening and registry—
After the end, anyone wanting in would complete ID, health, and cargo checks on this floor.
14th–17th Floors: Hotel rooms (high–density living)
Publicly—a five–star hotel "under renovation."
Internally, these four floors would be fully reworked into dense but dignified living units.
—About 1,000 m² per floor reserved as shared living space, with small rooms that could double as meeting spaces.
—200 rooms per floor, each around 15 m².
—Each room holding 8 capsule–style bunks.
In this era, "transformer furniture" was cheap and mature.
Each capsule bunk could fold into a desk, with an integrated screen terminal—TV and computer combined.
Closed, each capsule was fully private and soundproof.
Every room had its own bathroom.
Cramped, but enough for the eight people inside to retain a minimum of human dignity.
Four floors total:
200 rooms × 4 floors × 8 people = 6,400 people
"These," he thought, "will be the first batch of residents."
First to be protected. First to be trained. First to be used.
He didn't write their real role on the page.
He only tapped once in his chest:
Soldiers.
18th Floor: Core leadership + partial command
This floor was for the backbone and reserve command tier.
—Sixty 15 m² rooms, single occupancy.
The future "captains" of his city would live here—the ones the Star Wardens themselves would someday name.
—Twenty 100 m² suites,
for the Wardens, core officers, and their families—people like Chen, Blaze, and others.
Around 1,100 m² reserved for command and ops—
fourteen ~50 m² offices, one 100 m² conference room, and one 200 m² office just for him.
The rest: corridors and shared areas, linking command, coordination, and information flow.
19th–20th Floors: Office + private quarters
Officially, these would be for the project company and operations teams.
In reality, they'd be "home" for him and the future management core.
These floors would only open at his say–so.
—
He set the pen down and wrote a single line across the bottom of the page:
Peach Garden — One–Stop City of Life
Big brands, food, entertainment, doctors, hotel, offices.
Perfectly normal. Painfully normal.
"Only if it looks normal," he thought, "will people let their guard down."
As for the deeper layers—
How this tower would hold heat in the freeze and shed it in the burn.
How it would generate power with the grid dead.
How it would keep water flowing after the mains died—
Those would come step by step.
With current tech, none of it was impossible. Cost was the only question.
For now, the skeleton just needed to exist.
—
He didn't know how long he'd been sketching when his phone buzzed softly on the table.
Chen: Mr. Ethan, I'm at the lobby.
Ethan glanced at the time.
11:57 a.m.
Right on time.
He stacked the densely scribbled sheets and, with a thought, sent them into his Storage Space.
"Next," he murmured, "is moving it, bit by bit, into reality."
He grabbed his jacket and headed downstairs.
The hallway lighting was soft. As the elevator doors slid shut, sunlight turned the city beyond the glass doors bright and transparent.
No one knew that in an unremarkable hotel room—
a blueprint had just been born.
One that might change the fate of thousands over the next ten years.