Chapter1

The phantom pain of claws brutally tearing my spine apart shot through my nerves. I sprang up from the cold-sweat-soaked sheets, the final, unvoiced scream of my dying breath still choked in my throat. The digital calendar on the wall flashed a glaring red: April 3, 2029.

Thirty days until the Abyssal Beasts would tear the earth's crust apart.

In the last second of my previous life—right after Marcus shoved me off the transport truck and into the beast tide from behind—I saw his twisted face full of relieved laughter. That man, who spent three years calling me his brother and swearing we'd "live and die together," didn't hesitate to use me as a meat shield on the twelfth day of the apocalypse. He slammed on the gas and sped away from the edge of the horde, leaving me to be shredded by mutant claws for exactly forty-seven seconds before I finally lost consciousness.

Now, he was reborn. And he thought he had won.

Deafening hacking sounds erupted from the security door. The reinforced steel lock cylinder severely deformed under the heavy blows, splintering wood in all directions. The phone tossed on my bed suddenly lit up. Caller ID: Marcus.

"Surprised, Arthur?" His voice through the receiver carried an unsuppressible, manic excitement. "I've already transferred that ten million in public funds. The loan shark hitmen—hired using your personal seal—are right outside your door. Do you know how long I've been planning this? Three months. From the very first day I was reborn, I've been waiting for this morning."

The door hinges let out an overwhelmed, agonizing screech.

"I kept a record of the exact time you wake up from your nightmares. 3:17 AM. The exact moment you dream of being torn apart." He laughed. "I specifically chose today, because today is your birthday. Happy birthday, Arthur. Consider this my gift. I'll be straight with you: I was reborn, too. In our past life, you used me as bait and threw me to the beasts; in this life, you can stay right there and take the knife for me! I remembered that shove you gave me for five whole years. During the five minutes I was chewed on before I finally died, all I could think about was how to make you suffer a hundred times worse."

The busy tone of the disconnected call and the massive crash of the door collapsing exploded simultaneously.

A large-caliber shotgun was shoved straight through the door crack, blasting a chunk of plaster off the entryway wall with a deafening BANG. Shrapnel grazed my cheek, leaving a trail of blood. I didn't waste half a second. I snatched the tactical hard drive off the desk, grabbed a metal desk lamp, smashed the window, and vaulted out into the dark alley of the second floor.

The escape route I had simulated repeatedly over the past thirty days was burned into my mind: the sewer system of the District 13 slums, the abandoned industrial pipes, and that ancient, never-turned-off mainframe in the underground black-market cybercafe.

Almost at the exact same moment, a second shotgun blast shattered the remaining window frame. The muffled thuds of steel buckshot embedding into the wall erupted behind me. Weightlessness hit me before I smashed into the damp asphalt, rolling to absorb the impact. A sharp piece of glass dug deep into my forearm, and blood instantly welled up.

The first lesson five years of wasteland survival in my past life taught me: Pain is the proof you are alive; bleeding is the price of staying awake.

The second lesson: Let your enemies see your blood, and they will underestimate you.

"He's down there! After him!" a gruff roar echoed from above. Three silhouettes vaulted out the window, their heavy military boots slamming onto the metal awning with a tearing screech.

Clutching my wound, I plunged headfirst into the labyrinthine sprawl of the District 13 slums. This was the most forgotten corner of the city. The drainage system built in the 1960s had long been abandoned, with rusted steel frames and exposed steam pipes weaving an airtight web overhead. In my past life, I had evaded three waves of Abyssal Beast sweeps here; every hidden node was etched into my muscle memory. Three steps left on the right foot, vault over the rusted fire escape, duck under the half-blocked iron grate—I could run this route with my eyes closed.

The footsteps behind me clung like a curse. The beams of tactical flashlights swept frantically through the tangled pipes, grazing my back a few times. The three hitmen were clearly professionally trained, coordinating flawlessly to block both the left and right flanks, while the leader bit hard on my trail.

BANG! A bullet struck an abandoned steam pipe right next to me. High-pressure, scalding steam spewed out, peeling a layer of skin right off the back of my hand. I clenched my jaw, making absolutely no sound, and used the steam as cover to sprint three steps, sharp-turning left into a ventilation shaft barely wide enough for one person. Curses and the muffled clangs of metal echoing behind me.

At the end of the shaft was a rusted-shut iron grate. I kicked it savagely three times, and the entire grate gave way outward. The dilapidated wooden door of the underground cybercafe was just five meters away. I rolled out of the shaft and, ignoring the mud and blood covering me, slammed through the rickety door.

The pungent smell of cheap tobacco and burnt motherboard dust hit my face. Four or five ancient rigs with yellowing monitors were scattered across the dim room. I slapped a wad of bloody cash onto the counter. In the corner, the boss in a floral shirt instantly went wide-eyed, his hand freezing mid-air on its way to the phone.

"Don't call the cops. Don't make a sound. I'm taking that rig."

He glanced at the blood still dripping from my arm, then at the cash, and silently retracted his hand.

I charged straight for the deepest corner and forcibly plugged the tactical hard drive into the mainframe. My fingers turned into a blur over the grease-stained keyboard.

Target: Overseas Defense Agency Tier-1 Early Warning System.

Memories of my past life unfolded in my mind like a crystal-clear code repository. The backdoor vulnerability in the Defense Agency's system was discovered and patched seventeen days before the Cataclysm, leaving a full forty-eight-hour window prior to that. All I needed to do was inject a disguised warning data packet into the system's historical logs, making it look as though the automated alarm had been triggered forty-eight hours ago. This way, the top brass would think the system had been running all along, and I was just the guy who "happened" to discover the alert.

The military-grade firewall was ripped apart layer by layer. The [Abyssal Invasion Forecast] data packet began its forced upload.

Progress bar: 40%.

The cybercafe's flimsy rolling shutter was kicked in with massive force, caving inward. The three hitmen filed in, the blinding beams of their flashlights slicing back and forth through the dim room. I lowered my body, hiding behind a partition. My heart was pounding like a war drum, but my fingers didn't pause for a microsecond.

Progress bar: 70%.

Drip.

Blood from my forearm slid down my fingertips and hit the cheap linoleum floor. The sound was incredibly faint, but in the dead silence of the room, it was deafening. The flashlight beam violently locked onto my partition.

"Gotcha." The lead hitman took a massive stride forward, raising a machete high, its blade reflecting the pale light of the monitor.

Progress bar: 95%.

The blade chopped down with a heavy gust of wind. I tilted my head to dodge, and with a sharp CRACK, the machete embedded itself into the monitor beside my face, sending sparks flying. Shattered screen glass dug into my cheekbone, and warm blood trailed down my jawline. Cursing, the hitman yanked the blade free, preparing for a second strike.

I slammed my finger down on the Enter key.

Progress bar: 100%.

"BOOM—"

An ear-shattering roar crashed down from above, shaking the entire building violently in a gale-force wind. Heavy armed gunships of the Defense Agency were hovering directly outside the cybercafe's window, their searchlights rendering the interior blindingly white.

The walls violently blew inward as heavily armed SWAT operators breached through the windows, their black tactical boots crunching on broken glass. Before the hitmen could even react, they were brutally sent flying by riot shields. Dozens of assault rifle infrared lasers formed a dense, intersecting web right between my eyebrows.

Combat boots crunched over the debris as the woman leading the squad pushed past the SWAT team and stepped forward.

Elena. Supreme Commander of the Defense Agency's Special Operations Group. Her dark grey tactical uniform outlined taut, coiled muscles, and her muzzle was aimed dead at my heart.

She was younger than I remembered. In my past life, when I met her, she had already been fighting guerrilla warfare in the wasteland for three years; her left eye was replaced with a prosthetic, and her right arm was a mechanical limb. But now, her eyes were perfectly intact, staring at me with icy hostility.

"Arthur Ryan, you are under arrest for suspected hacking of the National Defense System. Maximum penalty is life imprisonment. You have the right to remain silent—"

"In ten seconds, Drilling Platform 1 will be completely wiped out," I cut her off, my voice hoarse but razor-sharp. "Your satellites are still taking pictures of daily ocean currents in the North Atlantic, but the first Abyssal Rift has already torn open there. Ten seconds, Elena. You're not out there saving lives, but you're here to arrest me?"

Her pupils slightly contracted. The gun barrel didn't waver, but the momentary twitch at the corner of her eye couldn't fool me—she was hesitating.

"The Defense Agency receives three thousand doomsday rumors a day," she said through gritted teeth.

"I only have one piece of evidence. Five seconds left."

"What makes you think—"

"Listen."

Five seconds.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

WREEEEEEEE—

Piercing air raid sirens instantly tore through the night sky. The sound surged from the far ends of the horizon, like countless massive foghorns blaring simultaneously. Elena's face went deathly pale under the searchlights as her earpiece erupted with General Wilson's near-hysterical roar: "Elena! Platform 1! Total loss of contact! The satellite feed—fuck, what the hell is that thing—!"

I watched her unclip the handcuffs. I watched the tightened line of her jaw as she forcibly suppressed her tremors. Slowly, a smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth.

"Now," I said, "take me to see Wilson."