2

Three heavy cold-chain trucks pulled up in front of an abandoned corrugated iron warehouse in the suburbs. As the massive hydraulic tailgates lowered, the overwhelming stench of raw meat and blood immediately filled the air.

I stood to the side, holding a fake shipping manifest, directing the workers as they unloaded tons of premium A5 Miyazaki Wagyu, Boston lobsters, and King Crab into the warehouse.

"Hey man, you sure you don't need ice packs or liquid nitrogen for this?" The truck driver, chewing gum, looked into the sweltering iron warehouse and stared at me like I was insane. "It’s the middle of summer. Storing all this raw seafood and meat in a metal box with no AC? It’ll reek in one night, and the health department will be on your ass."

"No need," I pushed up my sunglasses, a cold smirk playing on my lips, and casually slipped the driver a $200 tip. "My sister is a performance artist. She's preparing a doomsday exhibition called 'Decay and Rebirth.' This meat is meant to ferment naturally. The more raw and primal, the better."

The driver shrugged, pocketed the cash, hurried his crew to finish, and sped off.

Half an hour later, a roaring heavy motorcycle stopped at the warehouse entrance. Chloe jumped off the back, followed by Dexter, a muscle-bound gang leader reeking of cheap weed.

"Oh my god! This is perfect!"

Chloe shrieked and sprinted into the warehouse. Looking at the mountain of premium fresh meat and the dozens of pallets of inferior PET plastic-bottled influencer zero-sugar sodas, her eyes burned with extreme greed and fanatical zeal.

Just yesterday, exactly like her blind "Chosen One" intuition predicted, she had awakened an ability—a spatial dimension the size of a football field.

Now, she couldn't wait to show off her miracle. With a dramatic wave of her hands and a slight hum of spatial fluctuation, the dozens of tons of completely unpreserved raw meat, seafood, and plastic-bottled sodas were sucked entirely into her giant, pressure-cooker-like space.

"See that, Dexter baby?! I told you I have the main character aura!" Chloe clung to the gang leader's arm, deliberately rubbing her chest against him.

"Beautiful work, babe! With this top-tier stash, when that damn nuclear winter hits, our biker gang will rule this whole sector!" Dexter laughed maniacally, giving her a hard pinch on the rear, then shot me a disdainful glare. "As for your useless errand-boy brother, we'll leave him outside the camp to shovel snow and feed the zombies. Hahaha!"

Chloe giggled flirtatiously. To fully live out her "Queen of the Wasteland" fantasy, she ripped open a package of armor right there, pulled out an incredibly heavy, fleece-lined, rivet-studded motorcycle leather jacket and Kevlar-lined leather pants, and slipped them right over her tight yoga pants.

The temperature outside was already in the 90s (around 32°C). In less than two minutes, fine beads of sweat appeared on her forehead, and her exquisite makeup began to melt from the sweltering heat.

But vanity clearly overpowered physical discomfort. Striking a pose she thought was domineering and cold, she pointed at me with supreme arrogance. "Victor, this is the difference between an NPC and the Chosen One. You busted your ass cashing out all that money, and you don't even have the right to touch the zipper of this premium leather gear. Remember your place. After doomsday, you’ll just be a laborer surviving on my charity."

"Yes, Your Majesty," I lowered my head, using every ounce of my self-control to keep from laughing like a maniac.

That heavy, windproof winter leather jacket, combined with the utterly unbreathable fleece pants, would become the ultimate mobile sauna in the 140°F hell approaching in three days. She would be trapped in her own sweat, unable to breathe, ultimately collapsing inside her proud "battle armor", dead from acute heatstroke.

Watching the two dogs—lost in their apocalyptic gangland dreams—roar away on their bike, the submissiveness on my face vanished instantly, replaced by absolute, freezing coldness.

The game’s prelude was over. Now, it was time to prepare my own chips for survival.

Using Chloe's cashed-out loans and insurance money to buy her rotting garbage had only cost a fraction. The remaining $700,000 had long been laundered through overseas accounts and funneled into my past-life military dark web channels.

Returning to the farmhouse, I immediately headed down to the spacious basement.

This was the core site where I was truly building my Extreme Heat Fortress.

The first batch of military-grade weapons and hardcore supplies had arrived via secret channels.

Walking up to the wooden crates, I didn't hesitate to open my "Micro-Tactical Black Box."

A mere 10 cubic meters of absolute stasis space might be too small for others, but for me, it was the border between life and death. Systematically, I began to pack away the most crucial survival tools:

First, thirty cases of military MREs (Meals Ready-to-Eat). I deliberately avoided the high-sodium models that caused severe thirst, opting entirely for high-calorie, mild-tasting, vitamin-rich special operation units. Next, twenty military-grade insulated hydration bladders, each filled to the brim with triple-reverse-osmosis purified water.

Under the laws of absolute stasis, even if this water sat there for a century, it would come out crisp and sweet. No bacteria growth, no risk of spoiling.

I then opened the most expensive crates. Inside were the most advanced liquid-cooled tactical suits on the market. Originally designed for armored divisions operating in Middle Eastern deserts, micro-pumps circulated ice water through tubes stitched into the fabric. Wearing one in 60°C heat felt like carrying a personal air conditioner. I carefully selected three sets, along with spare coolant, and stashed them in the Black Box.

And of course, the tools for slaughter. Two suppressed SIG MCX assault rifles, one M1014 shotgun, and 5,000 rounds of high-purity brass ammunition. In a doomsday where extreme dehydration drives the world mad, words are pale. Caliber and kinetic energy are the only universal truths.

Once the final cracks were filled with concentrated electrolyte powder and broad-spectrum antibiotics, my 10-cubic-meter Black Box hit its absolute limit.

Stash secured, it was time for the main event—fortification.

An underground construction crew I’d hired had already wrapped the exterior of the basement with a 20cm layer of aerospace-grade aerogel insulation—material designed to withstand the heat of rocket launches. Regular brick walls were replaced with reinforced, flame-retardant, blast-proof materials.

All ventilation shafts were fitted with multi-layer filters to block dust and thermal convection. Most importantly, I spent a fortune installing an independent geothermal and diesel hybrid power system, hooked up to three parallel-connected, industrial-grade AC units.

To ensure absolute safety for groundwater, I cut the connection to the municipal grid and drilled a self-sustaining, 100-meter-deep well at the very bottom of the basement, rigged with both heavy-duty manual and electric dual-suction water pumps.

For two days and two nights, wielding a power drill myself, I meticulously transformed this ordinary basement into an underground armored vault capable of surviving even the thermal radiation of a nuclear blast.

On my security monitors, I could still see Chloe parading around the neighborhood. She had used my leftover cash to buy expensive makeup, posting "Doomsday Armor Prep" selfies on Twitter in her heavy leather suit every day, farming likes from clueless followers. She even swaggered into Dexter’s gang camp, promising that if they followed her, they’d eat A5 Wagyu and drink champagne every day.

Looking at the screen—watching this sweaty, stupid woman refusing to take off her leather jacket while preaching about the coming frost—I sneered and turned off the monitor.

"Keep dreaming. When the solar storm hits, it’s time to wake up."

The afternoon of the third day.

Everything was ready.

I tossed my final wrench into the toolbox, walked over to the basement entrance, and pulled shut the one-ton, heat-insulated armored door. With a heavy, mechanical hum, the massive metal deadbolts locked into place.

I walked to the control panel and pressed the start button.

With a low hum, the industrial cooling system cheerfully hummed to life. Seconds later, cool, dry, purified air poured continuously from the vents.

I watched the digital thermostat on the wall click down until it locked at a perfect 70°F (21°C). Taking a deep breath, I fell back into an ergonomic lounge chair and cracked open a can of ice-cold Cola.

Just as I felt the satisfying explosion of carbonation in my throat, the old TV in the corner blared a piercing alarm.

Beep—Beep—Beep—

The soap opera distorted into static, instantly replaced by a red emergency broadcast screen. The anchor's voice was laced with extreme panic, trembling slightly:

"Emergency interruption... Emergency interruption! The National Observatory has issued a maximum-level warning! An unprecedented X-class super solar storm has pierced Earth's magnetic field! This is not a drill! I repeat, this is not a drill! Seek underground shelter or shaded areas immediately! Stay off the surface!"

Before the anchor could finish, his voice cut off completely.

The TV screen went pitch black.

Not just the TV—the backup radio in the basement dissolved into a harsh hiss of static.