Chapter Two
The SUV tore through the snow and wind, not heading towards the helipad, but speeding down the mountain and stopping in front of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in downtown Denver.
I went into the penthouse suite and casually tossed my heavy coat onto the sofa.
Just as I turned around, that godlike, high-dimensional barrage of text flashed across my retina again, this time in a rapid, bright yellow:
【Doomsday Countdown: 165 hours】
[Male lead, stop daydreaming! Immediately smash that titanium-plated military tag pendant your grandfather left you! Hurry!]
Military license plate?
Without hesitation, I ripped off the old Cold War-era military tag I'd worn since childhood from my neck, grabbed the marble ice bucket from the bar, and smashed it down on the tag!
A sharp crack echoed as the hard titanium-plated casing shattered , the sharp metal edge cutting my clenched fist.
Blood gushed out instantly, dripping onto the worn tag. Then,
an incredible scene unfolded—the blood didn't stain the table; instead, it was instantly absorbed by the tag like a sponge. Immediately afterward, a faint blue light burst from the metal's center, merging directly into my palm!
My vision was suddenly pulled into a vast space beyond description.
Boundless and utterly still.
I tried to mentally store a glass of whiskey on the rocks on the table inside, and when I took it out a few seconds later, the ice hadn't melted at all, and even the condensation on the glass remained intact.
Time was completely frozen here. This was truly a god-level "infinitely folded subspace"!
I stared intently at my palm, suppressing the maniacal laughter that was about to erupt in my throat. I decisively pulled out my phone and immediately dialed Citibank's senior customer service.
"This is Ed. Immediately cancel my and Vera's Centurion Black Gold co-branded credit card and freeze all her supplementary accounts. Yes, effective immediately!"
From now on, that gold-digging woman who dreams of being a queen won't even be able to get a Starbucks coffee from me.
Immediately afterward, I dialed the encrypted number of a Wall Street black market financial broker. My voice was as cold as a machine: "Sell all your Goldman Sachs tech stocks, my offshore trust in Silicon Valley, and those five Ferraris and Aston Martins in my garage. I don't care about valuations, just cash! I want $100 million in my anonymous offshore account within 48 hours. Not a penny less will be considered a default."
The power of capital is overwhelming. With such a hefty reward, my phone notified me of the $
100 million deposit in less than a day and a half. With ample ammunition, the real revelry began.
I used the cash to rent an entire abandoned heavy industrial logistics park in the suburbs of Denver as a cover. Then, I went straight to the largest Costco warehouse distribution center in Colorado.
"Listen, I'm going to empty your entire region's inventory."
I slammed a multi-million dollar cash check on the regional manager's desk.
Under his awe-inspiring gaze, a massive influx of supplies poured into my logistics park.
Five hundred pallets of Spam military-grade luncheon meat, eight thousand boxes of high-calorie chocolate, twenty thousand bags of premium high-gluten flour, one hundred thousand cans of stewed soybeans and meat, and dehydrated vegetables.
To cope with the extreme cold of -100°C, I emptied the market of all warm clothing: ten thousand sets of military-grade ECWCS seventh-generation cold-weather suits capable of withstanding polar storms, thirty thousand polar down sleeping bags, one thousand high-powered industrial ground-source heat pump generators, and two hundred tanker trucks loaded with polar heavy-duty diesel fuel with antifreeze.
When the night was deep and the logistics park was deserted, I walked to the mountain of supplies. With a simple lift of my hand, the mountain of goods vanished instantly, neatly stacked in my folding space.
But cheap stored food was only the bare minimum for survival; what I needed was absolute, overwhelming luxury in this apocalyptic world.
I spent a fortune to book the kitchens of Denver's two top Michelin three-star restaurants and the entire Texas BBQ Interstate chain.
"Triple pay for everyone, 24/7! Pack them up as soon as they're done cooking!"
For those three crazy days, the air was thick with the intoxicating aroma of sizzling fat.
Six thousand freshly baked Texas smoked black pepper tomahawk steaks, sizzling brisket dripping with golden fat, tens of thousands of Wellington steaks wrapped in crispy pastries, five thousand air-freighted Alaskan king crabs, and even steaming black truffle cream of mushroom soup.
As soon as these delicacies were packed into insulated containers, I would secretly store them in my spatial dimension when no one was looking. Because time was absolutely frozen within that dimension, even if I took them out ten years later in the apocalypse, the juices in the steaks would still be bubbling, and the seafood soup would still be piping hot.
The only thing missing was force. The countdown began
late at night , 24 hours to go . I walked into the underground heavy metal shooting range controlled by the Russian mafia, wearing a black baseball cap.
"Yuri, hand over your entire fortune." I tossed two suitcases full of cash onto the carpet.
Yuri's breathing became heavy.
Twenty minutes later, I was surrounded by a collection of terrifying steel beasts.
Considering the extreme cold of the post-apocalyptic world, ordinary firearms would jam due to frozen oil. I directly ordered polar-modified automatic rifles capable of firing normally at -100 degrees Celsius , fifty heavy sniper rifles equipped with thermal imaging scopes , and two heavy machine guns capable of tearing apart snow-covered armored vehicles.
In addition, I also took 300,000 rounds of armor-piercing ammunition and ten boxes of military-grade C4 plastic explosives—enough to reduce a building to rubble.
These items were personally delivered to the logistics park by Yuri.
There were only six hours left until the end of the world.
