July 28th, 2128.
7:02 a.m.
L City.
The alarm hadn't even gone off when Ethan opened his eyes.
He didn't sit up right away.
He lay there for a few seconds, letting his brain move from fog to clarity—like a machine coming back online, modules booting one after another.
His phone lit up on the nightstand, showing the date and time.
July 28th, 2128.
Day 11 since rebirth.
Less than a year before the Great Freeze.
He reached for it.
Instead of opening any chats, he tapped into the local news app.
When the homepage refreshed, one name jumped out immediately:
Mayor Nelson Carter of L City.
"L City Mayor Nelson Carter to attend 'Ten-Year Urban Strategy Forum' today, delivering a speech on the city's future development path."
Underneath was a photo:
Early forties. White shirt. Navy tie.
Standing at the side of a podium, head turned slightly. His gaze was warm without being soft, fine lines cut deep beneath his eyes, but they hadn't erased that "takes things seriously" expression.
A very ordinary picture.
Ethan stared at it for a long time.
In his last life, he'd scrolled past headlines like this countless times.
At most he'd think:
"This mayor seems pretty reliable."
But what really imprinted the name Nelson Carter into his memory was one day.
The groundbreaking ceremony for the Smart-AI Tech District.
The memory flared up like a spark hitting dry tinder.
It had been August 15th, 2128, in his previous timeline.
At the entrance to the new AI Smart City zone, temporary power and storage units had been set up. A stage was built, holographic projection rigs hung in the air, media drones hovered, corporate reps, investors, staff, security, and invited citizens formed a semicircle around the platform.
Red carpet ran up to the stage. On the ribbon-cutting table, golden scissors and a red ribbon lay ready.
Mayor Nelson Carter stood in the middle—
more alert than anyone else.
His voice wasn't loud. But every word landed clearly. He wasn't spewing slogans; he was explaining, in realistic terms, how to make this "zero-manpower city" into a real industrial engine.
The livestream chat had flooded with comments:
[This mayor actually sounds down-to-earth.]
[L City about to rise.]
[Not just chest-thumping.]
Then, just as he finished speaking and stepped toward the ribbon—
The camera jolted.
Nelson Carter clutched his chest.
The look on his face—
the kind that doesn't leave room for thought.
Like someone had taken a rasp and scraped his heart from the inside.
He wobbled.
Then dropped flat backward.
For a beat, everyone froze.
Then chaos.
"Catch him!"
"Call emergency!"
"Does anyone know first aid?"
Secretaries, security, staff rushed him, hands everywhere—
but no one knew what to do.
Someone slapped at his face.
Someone trembled as they called for an emergency med-drone.
Someone kept shouting for medicine.
There was none.
Nothing.
The livestream cut abruptly back to the studio.
The anchor's face was chalk-white as she forced herself through other pre-written segments.
Hours later, the official bulletin:
"Sudden myocardial infarction.
Because the Smart-AI Tech District was still under development, emergency air routes were not mapped to the site.
Rescue was delayed.
Despite intervention, the mayor was pronounced dead at 13:44."
After the apocalypse, in shelters where a handful of survivors understood medicine, people would still bring this up.
"If someone on site had carried fast-acting cardiac drugs, he wouldn't have gone that fast."
"A shame."
"He really was a good mayor."
Back then, Ethan had been sitting in a corner of an abandoned factory, listening to the blizzard scream outside, his hands numb with cold.
But in his mind, he'd been painfully clear—
That death was more than just a person collapsing.
It was the moment the last person in L City's system who still cared about doing things properly… disappeared.
After Carter, the next mayor had been good at only one thing:
Survival.
When the Great Freeze hit in full force, resources were quietly misused.
Early-prep projects were left hanging.
Critical infrastructure was "delayed."
Within the first three months—
Nearly half of L City's population died.
Storms.
Blackouts.
Food riots.
Internal power struggles.
Without Carter, no one dared to shoulder responsibility.
Those who did "make decisions" weren't doing it to save people—
they were trying to save themselves.
Everything went as badly as it possibly could.
Now, in this life, Ethan looked at the news photo of a still-living Nelson Carter.
Somewhere deep down inside him, a light flickered—then settled.
Same time. Same man.
But this time, Ethan was here.
And he already knew the ending.
We are not doing this again.
He set the phone aside and sat up fully, back against the headboard.
Light slipped through the gap in the curtains and drew a sharp line on the carpet—
a line he had to cross.
Eighteen days until Nelson Carter's death.
He closed his eyes for a moment, sorting through everything tied to that name:
Carter's résumé, the political trajectory Ethan knew from his last life;
snippets of family background, pieced together from rumors and reports;
the projects Carter had pushed in the year before his death.
Early forties.
Rising smoothly.
Great-grandfather: a founding figure.
Grandfather: minister in a central department.
Father: high-ranking military veteran.
A textbook red fourth-generation.
But he hadn't been a slick, useless heir.
He'd worked from the grassroots up.
His performance had been real.
He did his own research.
He didn't outsource all his thinking.
Under his term, L City had gone from "dying industrial husk" to "maybe this place has a future."
He had carried that.
In Ethan's last life, when Carter died, it hadn't just been civilians crying.
People inside the system had been genuinely gutted.
That kind of regret was rare.
From the perspective of building an apocalypse-proof civilization—
Carter had been the political foundation of L City.
Some cities didn't even have a Carter to lose.
If this foundation was torn out a second time—
building a functional "doomsday city" here would be exponentially harder.
Ethan needed him alive.
Not just alive—
aligned.
" You were not meant to die there," he murmured.
His phone buzzed.
WhatsApp.
Q.N.
**[Q.N]: Passed out last night as soon as I shut my eyes, didn't get to reply — sorry.
Saw your messages this morning at work.
Our F&B management cut two more supervisors.
What used to be five people is now three, with zero reduction in workload.
Not sure what the boss is thinking.
Today will be messy. I'll find time to talk later.]**
No self-pity. Just a report.
She tacked on a crying-sweat emoji at the end, like she'd tried to wrap the pressure in a joke.
Ethan read it.
He knew exactly what it meant.
Cutting people was the most direct—and dumbest—reaction to sustained losses.
If the problem was bad positioning, poor operations, or incompetent management, firing a few people at the bottom would never fix anything.
It just ensured more capable people would be crushed first and leave early.
He typed:
**[Ethan]: Don't apologize for falling asleep. That's good.
Note the unreasonable stuff at work if it helps, but priority is: survive the day.
Try not to burn yourself out.]**
A few seconds later:
[Q.N]: Got it. Thanks for checking in.
I'm logging in now — prayer circle for "no disasters today."
Talk later~]
He didn't push the conversation further.
Right now, Quinn's state was exactly that of someone "trapped in the wrong job, but not yet resigned to it."
He couldn't yank her forward too hard or too fast.
For now, it was enough that this line between them stayed warm.
He'd give her a position that matched her talent.
And that day wasn't far.
Another notification came in.
Mason.
**[Mason]: Morning, Mr. Ethan.
The grain you told me to order — three main suppliers have scheduled shipping.
Based on their timelines:
First batch should arrive in about three days — around 1,500 tons.
The rest will land in the three days after.
Sending some pictures.]**
Ethan glanced at the photos and replied:
[Ethan]: Good.
When unloading, make sure no one's taking pictures.
Stagger the trucks coming into the city — don't let all shipments stack up on the same day.]
**[Mason]: Understood. I'll talk to them one by one.
The warehouse park operator gave me a "cover story":
We're a transfer center for a big e-commerce platform.
They're used to it.
They only care if our money arrives on time. They won't ask questions.]**
**[Ethan]: Good.
Keep a close eye on the first batch.
Once it's in, loop Blaze in and tighten security.
No outsiders in. No "park tours," no exceptions.]**
[Mason]: Got it.]
For Mason, all of this was already surreal—
he'd never imagined commanding this scale of logistics.
For Ethan, it was just the first wave.
Grain would be followed by medicine, equipment, construction materials—
This was just the opening salvo of armament.
"First goal: ensure our own people don't starve."
That was his baseline.
After a quick breakfast, he opened his laptop and checked his email.
One subject line:
"Fuli Hotel – Financial Profile"
From Zoe.
He already had a mental picture of what he'd see.
But the actual numbers sharpened it.
Sixteen consecutive months of losses.
Cash runway of less than three months.
Room occupancy below 40% long-term.
F&B revenue sliding year after year; repeated layoffs to "save costs."
Heavy inventory in the supply chain — one or two suppliers failing to deliver could literally leave them without breakfast to sell.
Shareholders fighting: some trying to hang on, others wanting out yesterday.
At the end, Zoe had added a line:
[Zoe]: Overall assessment — without external capital injection, Fuli Hotel will tip into irreversible bankruptcy within three months.]
Any normal investor reading this would see one message:
"Stay away from this mess."
To Ethan, it was something else:
A distress flare.
He leaned back in his chair and smiled, eyes cooling.
Heavy debt.
No buyers.
Mismanagement.
But structurally decent assets—
For someone who remembered the future, that was the perfect entry point.
More importantly—
This hotel was Quinn's workplace.
And—
It was the default venue for L City's government conferences, foreign investment talks, and major social events.
A node.
"A failing shell turns into a coordinate," he thought, "once you fill it with the right functions."
He let the thought settle, then called Zoe.
She picked up quickly.
"Ethan."
"I read your report," he said.
"I didn't sugar-coat anything," she replied. "They're in serious trouble."
"That's why I'm going to acquire them," Ethan said.
"Acquire… Fuli?" she repeated.
"Yes. We start today."
There was a short silence.
"…You move fast," she said.
"From a pure financial standpoint, you think it's a bad idea?" Ethan asked calmly.
"From pure finance?" she said after a moment. "Yes. It's high risk."
"I'm not buying it for profit," Ethan said. "Not directly."
"What's the real reason?" she asked.
"Most government conferences are held there," Ethan said. "Owning Fuli makes us a natural event partner for the city government."
"That accomplishes three things:
First, it quietly builds a relationship with the city.
Second, it gives us a normal reason to be around Mayor Nelson Carter without going through flashy channels.
Third, it gives me the position to pull someone out of that hotel and put her into the kind of work she should actually be doing."
Zoe didn't speak for a moment.
"Understood," she said at last. "Want me to start the acquisition under Pingchuan Capital Group?"
"Yes," Ethan said. "Go in as Vice President of Finance for Pingchuan Capital Group. You lead the deal. I don't need running commentary or price reports. Just close it as quickly as possible at a price you consider optimal."
"Got it," she said. "And once it's done?"
"You take the role of general manager," Ethan replied. "In name."
"…Me?" she said.
"On paper," he confirmed. "You hire a strong deputy. Build a small operations team. From then on, Fuli's numbers sit on the group's books."
"If your arrangements turn it profitable, you get 50% of the net profit as a bonus."
"If it keeps losing money—I don't count it against your performance."
"You really do trust me," Zoe said, half amused.
"I trust your professionalism," Ethan said. "And I know you're not impressed by this hotel. But in the bigger layout—I'm going to be making a lot of moves in this city. You know how crucial L City's government will be for us."
"I do," she said. "I'll move on it right away."
"If you make it profitable," he added, "you'll have to accept that 50% with grace."
"I'll reluctantly accept it," she said dryly. "Strictly for the sake of this strategic sacrifice."
They both laughed.
When he hung up, Ethan let his weight sink back into the chair, fingers tapping the armrest.
The major pieces were in place.
Saving Carter wasn't the hard part.
He knew exactly what had killed the mayor last time.
He knew where.
He knew when.
He knew what would have saved him.
The hard part was—
convincing a man like that to trust a stranger.
Nelson Carter's birth, upbringing, education, career, and storms had forged him into someone very hard to impress—and even harder to sway.
He'd seen too many "smart people."
Too many "unknowns who want to get close to power."
And someone like Ethan—
Popping up from nowhere, unaligned with any faction, with no visible background—
even if he approached with genuine goodwill, Carter had every reason to think:
"What do you really want?"
What could make a man like that truly believe?
Not money.
Not favors.
Not "connections."
For someone like Nelson Carter, there was only one thing that could cut through all doubt:
Fate.
Or, in older, plainer language—
A sign from beyond.
Ethan's fingers slowed.
He understood now.
He wouldn't get to Carter through talk, or networks, or borrowed status.
He would go to him as someone who had already lived Carter's death once—
And then undone it.
Last time had been sudden. Absurdly so.
A speech, a smile, a plan laid out—
Then a heart attack and no medicine.
This time, only one person knew the exact day and time.
Only one person could put what Carter needed in his pocket beforehand.
The man from the future.
If Carter survived something that should have killed him, and realized—
That someone had warned him, and left him a cure—
What else could he call it but:
A miracle.
If, on the other hand—
He ignored the warning, stuffed the pill in a drawer, and died as scheduled—
Ethan closed his eyes briefly.
Then there's nothing I can do.
Too many would die in what was coming.
He couldn't save everyone.
He wouldn't even try.
He would focus on the ones worth betting the world on.
If a man couldn't meet him halfway even to save his own life—
Then he couldn't be part of this plan.
Everyone gets one choice, Ethan thought.
I'll offer it. What they do with it is on them.
He exhaled slowly.
Mayor Nelson Carter wasn't just "a good man."
In Ethan's plan, he was:
A keystone.
This move had nothing to do with sentiment and everything to do with architecture.
The architecture of survival.
He glanced at the time.
9:27 a.m.
For one morning, he'd already:
Pushed the grain and warehouse schedule forward;
Set Zoe on the Fuli Hotel takeover;
And raised the unseen curtain on a stage where a man would either die—
or be reborn.
With the big moves queued up, a rare gap appeared in his day.
He leaned back in the chair. His fingers tapped the armrest absently.
Under the hotel room's soft light, he saw a face float back to mind—
Bright, tired, stubborn.
Summer.
The way she'd swallowed her annoyance at a "family engagement" she never wanted.
The dry way she'd spoken about holding up a company and a family name.
The clear relief in her eyes when she'd waved at him before her car left.
When she'd said she "really enjoyed that dinner," it hadn't been polite small talk.
He'd enjoyed it too.
She was the kind of woman worth investing time in.
Not just because she was beautiful.
Because she was already, undeniably, part of his mental map.
He unlocked his phone and scrolled to the contact he'd saved yesterday:
Summer 🌅
He typed:
**[Ethan]: Summer, if you're free around noon and nearby, let me buy you a normal lunch.
I'd like to walk you through your "girlfriend persona" for future use.]
Send.
He set the phone down and went to pour himself some water.
Halfway through the first sip, the phone buzzed.
[Summer]:
Perfect timing. I have a site meeting this morning and then back to HQ.
If you're paying, I'll reluctantly come "learn about myself."
Ethan smiled.
[Ethan]: Let's go to Fuli Hotel.
It's quiet, and close to your office.
Her reply came quickly:
[Summer]:
Fine. But I'm dressed like a foreman today.
A second later, a photo came in.
Half-body shot, taken quickly in a car.
Plain white shirt. Dark work pants. Hair pulled back, sleeves rolled to her forearms. Clean, sharp, striking.
"Foreman," huh.
He studied the picture.
A Su family heiress who actually walked site.
[Ethan]: Looks good. Perfect for negotiating with clients. And perfect for lunch with me.
11:30?
[Summer]:
Works.
The thread stopped there.
No one pushed it further.
A little distance. A little anticipation.
Ethan showered, dressed in a fresh, casual suit, and paused in front of the mirror for a heartbeat.
Not to primp for a "date."
But to mark the day in his own quiet way.
This lunch meant three things:
A proper answer to last night's "boyfriend-for-hire" dinner.
A nudge—moving their relationship one notch closer to being real.
A reconnaissance—
of the hotel he was about to buy.
And, if fate was feeling generous—
A chance to see, in the corner of some banquet hall or service corridor, the Capricorn he'd already written into his constellation:
Quinn.