The world plunged into a new Ice Age. As the frozen apocalypse spread, 95% of humanity perished.

In his first timeline, Cyrus Knovell's kindness cost him everything. The people he had helped betrayed him and left him for dead.

Fate, however, granted him a second chance. He awakened one month before the world froze, gaining a dimensional ability that let him store anything without limit.

Now he hoarded supplies by the billions and built a fortress no one could breach. While others shivered, starved, and traded their dignity for a morsel, Cyrus lived in comfort.

The desperate came begging.

The manipulative vixen: "Cyrus, let me into your shelter, and I'll be your girlfriend, okay?"

The spoiled rich heir: "Cyrus, I'll give you all my money for just one meal!"

The greedy neighbors: "Cyrus, you shouldn't be so selfish. You should share your supplies with us!"

Cyrus remembered their betrayals. Lounging in his steel fortress and savoring his private paradise, he sneered, "Your survival has nothing to do with me. I'd rather feed the dogs than feed you."

Unbearable, bone-crushing pain tore through every inch of Cyrus Knovell's body. It was no illusion. It was real. Too real.

He lay sprawled on the ground, beaten by the very friends and neighbors he had once trusted and helped. Their fists, their boots, even their sticks struck him with ruthless force.

In this apocalypse, where food and water meant survival, kindness no longer mattered. They cared only about tearing him apart.

Through the haze, Cyrus spotted a familiar figure at the edge of the mob. It was Diana Feynor, the woman he had once worshipped as a goddess.

Her delicate face twisted with false pity as she shouted, "I was the one who told him to open the door! Make sure I get an extra share of the supplies!"

That woman had tricked him into opening the door. She had delivered him to his death.

Cyrus glared at her, hatred and regret burning in his eyes.

If anyone was to blame, it was himself—for being too soft and foolish. In this brutal world, his kindness had turned him into nothing more than a stepping stone.

If only he could start over. If only he had another chance, he would never show mercy again. He would live for himself alone.

Darkness swallowed him.

The next instant, Cyrus’ eyes snapped open. He jerked upright on his couch, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. The memories, the screams, the agony, the betrayal—they were all still fresh, as vivid as if they had just happened.

"What the hell? Didn't those bastards kill me?" he muttered.

He glanced around. This was his apartment. Everything was exactly as he remembered it. And yet, the air was warm and comfortable. That made no sense. In December 2050, the world had plunged into a new Ice Age. A supernova explosion 500,000 light-years away had triggered a global cataclysm, later called the Frostfall.

Temperatures had plummeted. In Volaris City, where Cyrus lived, it reached -50 or -60°C daily, with blizzards burying the city under ice for over a month. In the north, temperatures dropped to -70°C or lower. The land froze, countless species vanished, and 95% of humanity died in the first wave.

But here, in his apartment, it was warm. Normal.

Cyrus staggered to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and downed half in one go. The chilled liquid slid down his throat like nectar of the gods.

In the apocalypse, water meant venturing into subzero hell, digging snow, and melting it. Most who tried never came back.

Cyrus wiped his mouth and fumbled for his phone. It was November 12, a full month before the Frostfall began.

A long breath escaped him. "I came back. I really returned to the past. I regressed."

It was not a dream. It could not be. The memory of his death, every stab of pain, was too sharp, too real.

Relief washed through him, followed by a flash of steel in his eyes. He remembered every traitor who had turned on him. This time, he would not play the fool. He would live, and they would pay.

His first priority was survival. He had one month to prepare before the Frostfall's arrival.

His situation was not bad. His parents had died young, leaving him a 1,300-square-foot apartment in Volaris and more than 400,000 dollars in savings. It was a decent amount of money in normal times.

When the world collapsed, money would be worthless. What mattered was stockpiling massive amounts of supplies.

Cyrus wanted more than survival. He wanted comfort, security, a life worth living even in the apocalypse. Food, entertainment, little luxuries. Without them, one's sanity would crack. He would need weapons as well if he wanted to stay alive and take revenge.

Then a streak of white light flashed before his eyes. He rubbed them, thinking fatigue played tricks, until a strange pulse stirred in his mind. The light was not outside—it was inside him, part of him.

With a thought, his consciousness plunged into it, into a vast, endless white expanse.

It was an empty dimension.

"Is this an alternate space? A pocket dimension? My personal void?" He grinned. "So, I came back with a special ability."

Joy surged through him. His regression had given him more than a second chance. It had given him a supernatural power. If he could store supplies here, surviving the apocalypse would be far easier.

He tested it quickly. Small items vanished at his will—a cup, a basin. Then larger ones: the TV, fridge, washing machine, computer, even the air conditioner. All disappeared smoothly into the void and reappeared at his command.

Not everything worked. Anything fixed or part of the structure, like floorboards, stayed put. Still, it was more than enough.

"I can hoard as much as I want with this space," he mumbled. "With this, I'll never run out of supplies."

His thoughts leapt to his job. Cyrus was a warehouse supervisor at Volmart's South Cretora distribution center, the largest warehouse complex in the world. Built in 2040, it stretched 4,900 feet long and 2,360 wide, covering more than 11,000,000 square feet. It was big enough to be called the Eighth Wonder of the World.

And the name was no exaggeration. Its inventory could supply entire cities for weeks—food, clothes, appliances, even luxury goods, all strictly quality-controlled.

If he could empty that warehouse into his space, he would not just survive one apocalypse. He could live in comfort for ten lifetimes.

And who better to pull it off than him? As a supervisor, he knew every corner, schedule, and security measure.

A plan began to take shape, steadying his nerves and filling him with confidence.

His stomach growled. He glanced at the takeout box of spaghetti on the table, chuckled, and shook his head. "One month left before the world ends. Why bother saving now? Better to enjoy the good stuff while I can. Once the apocalypse hits, I'll never get another chance."

Before his regression, he had suffered through hunger and cold. This time, he wanted warmth and flavor.

More than that, he wanted to live.

Money? It would be worthless when the world ended. It was better to spend it all now.

With that thought, Cyrus turned, ready to head out. This time, he would eat well at a restaurant he had never dared to splurge on before.

Cyrus stepped out of his apartment and into a scene of warmth and peace. Parents laughed with their children in the square. Their faces were bright with carefree smiles. He knew better. In a month, this idyllic picture would shatter like glass.

He quickened his pace. Just a short walk away stood a Michelin three-star restaurant. It was a place he had never dared enter. After all, a single meal there cost at least 1,000 dollars..

Today he did not care. He had already died once. If that did not call for celebration, what would?

Inside, Cyrus chose a seat by the window and ordered the most expensive dishes along with a bottle of Chateau Lafite. By the time the waiter left, the bill had already climbed to nearly 10,000 dollars.

The servers eyed him with curiosity and envy, likely taking him for some spoiled heir. What ordinary man would throw away that much money on a single meal?

Cyrus did not bother to explain. When the dishes arrived, filling the table with color and fragrance, he dug in without restraint.

After half a year of freezing to death in the Frostfall, tasting food like this again nearly moved him to tears. He ate ravenously, almost feral, drawing whispers from nearby tables.

He could not care less. They had no idea. When the world collapsed, people would beg on their knees for a single pack of instant noodles. Civilization and morals would vanish overnight.

As Cyrus ate, a woman outside the window stopped short. She was striking, with long hair flowing, immaculate makeup, Gucci heels tapping lightly against the pavement, and a Louis Vuitton bag swinging from her arm.

It was Diana Feynor, the same woman who had once lured him into opening his door only to betray him and watch as others beat him to death. Walking beside her was her closest friend, Natalie Lockwood.

The two often loitered around upscale places like this. Not because they could afford them, but because they hoped to spot some wealthy heir to ensnare.

As expected, Diana's eyes widened when she glanced inside. "Wait, that's Cyrus! How could he possibly afford a place like this?"

Natalie covered her mouth in surprise. "You mean Cyrus has been a rich heir all this time?"

Then she cast Diana a sly look. "Girl, you're lucky. The guy who's chased you for years turns out to be a secret rich heir."

Her gaze flicked to the feast before Cyrus. "Look at that table. That's at least 10 grand. Who else but a rich heir would spend that on dinner?"

Diana pursed her lips as her mind raced. For two and a half years, Cyrus had pursued her without pause. She had never accepted, but she never rejected him either.

To her, he had always been a backup, useful enough to keep close but never worth commitment.

Now doubt crept in. Could he actually be a hidden heir, pretending to be ordinary to test her love? The idea thrilled her. If it were true, she believed all she had to do was nod and he would drop to one knee.

Natalie tugged at her arm. "Let's go in and say hi. Maybe he'll invite us over."

Her real goal was obvious—the food. Most people would never taste three-star Michelin cuisine in their lives.

Diana hesitated, then shook her head. "No. That would make me look like I'm chasing his money. Let's wait outside. If we bump into him, it'll seem natural."

She was not stupid. One meal was not worth ruining her goddess-like image. If Cyrus truly was rich, she would stay firmly on the pedestal, holding all the power.

Therefore, the two women lingered nearby, waiting.

Inside, Cyrus ate until his stomach was round and full. The flavors were not as heavenly as the price suggested, but to a man who had starved through the apocalypse, it was a feast beyond measure.

Next, he planned to stop by the supermarket to test how much his pocket dimension could store. It was better to be cautious now than risk disaster later.

He paid the bill with a wave of his hand and stepped out into the afternoon sun.

A sweet, saccharine voice echoed behind him. "Cyrus! What a coincidence."

He turned to find Diana and Natalie.

Diana tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and exposed the curve of her neck and the pale pink of her earlobe. It was a practiced, subtle move meant to stir a man's heart.

In his past life, it had worked. Not anymore.

Cyrus' eyes went cold. He remembered how she had set him up, had watched while his ribs were broken one by one, and had demanded his bones be boiled into soup.

The world's end was near, so killing her now would not be a problem. His chest tightened with the urge to strike her down.

Diana shivered under his stare. "Cyrus, what's wrong?"

He pulled back, his expression flat. "Nothing. Thought you were someone else."

He changed his mind. Killing her now would be too easy and merciful. The law still mattered for one more month.

It was better to let her live and taste despair first. He had numerous ways to make her die screaming.

For now, survival came first. His priority was to build the safest shelter possible, a fortress against the end of the world.

Cyrus' attitude toward Diana remained ice-cold. She and Natalie sensed something was off, but after convincing themselves he was secretly a wealthy heir, neither grew angry. Instead, they eagerly closed the distance between them.

So what if rich men had bad tempers? That was just their personality.

"Hey, Cyrus, did you just eat at that restaurant?" Natalie asked, pretending casual curiosity.

Cyrus' brow tightened slightly. He had not forgotten that this woman was as guilty as Diana. She had helped lure him in, leading him to his near-death.

"Yeah." His reply was flat, clipped. He shoved his hands in his pockets, turned, and headed for the supermarket.

The two women hurried after him.

"Cyrus, where are you going?" Diana asked with a sweet smile.

"The supermarket." His tone remained cold, edged with irritation.

If not for the plan he had in mind—making her taste despair before ending her—he might have struck her on the spot.

Diana shot Natalie a look.

Natalie quickly added, "What a coincidence! We were just about to do some shopping too. Let's go together!"

It clicked instantly. They must have seen him dining at the Michelin-starred restaurant, assumed he was a hidden heir, and were now tripping over themselves to cozy up.

He could not be bothered to explain, so he kept walking.

The more indifferent he acted, the more convinced they became. Only someone with serious money could afford such arrogance.

The two trailed him closely. Diana brushed against his arm from time to time, then pretended to shy away, cheeks pink, as if flustered by the "accidental" touch.

Cyrus sneered inwardly. 'What an actress. If she entered the entertainment industry, she would win Best Actress without question.'

Inside the supermarket, he grabbed a cart and pushed straight toward the food aisles.

The women followed, each taking a cart.

"Were you eating with someone earlier?" Diana asked sweetly.

"I ate alone. Problem?" he replied sharply.

She rushed to explain. "No, no, of course not! I just thought that meal was expensive, so maybe you were hosting someone important."

Natalie blurted, "But your salary's just over two grand a month, right? That dinner cost at least six months' wages. Looks like your family left you more than a little inheritance."

Diana glared at her. 'Idiot! Never ask about money directly. Talk about feelings with the rich, money with the poor.'

Realizing her mistake, Natalie forced a laugh. "I was just kidding! We're all friends here, who cares about money?"

Cyrus ignored them completely. He reached the shelves and stared at the neatly stacked goods, feeling as if he had stumbled into a treasure vault. In his last life, he had stretched a pack of pasta over two days. He knew hunger intimately.

Now, his hunger was for stockpiling.

He began sweeping food into the cart: sausages, pasta, seasonings, and many more. He grabbed them in bulk.

Diana and Natalie stared, dumbfounded.

"Cyrus, why are you buying so much? Going camping or something?"

"Mm." His answer was as bland as ever.

Natalie leaned in to whisper, "Would a real rich heir stock up on this stuff for camping?"

Diana frowned, but the memory of his Michelin-starred feast kept her doubts at bay. She rushed forward eagerly. "Do you need help?"

'A free labor offer. Why refuse?' he thought.

Watching her play the innocent damsel stirred dark amusement in him. A plan began to form. He had one month to prepare for the apocalypse. With his ability and access to Volmart's warehouse, securing supplies was trivial.

But if he let Diana see just enough to think he had a secret stash, she would come crawling when the world collapsed and would beg him to save her. And when she did, he would let her choke on despair before crushing her completely.

Even if she tried to leak news to those vulture-like neighbors, it would not matter. His safehouse would be impregnable.

'Let them come. I will turn their siege into their graves,' he thought with a twisted smile.

Yes. This was worth considering.

He would hire a security firm and build the strongest fortress money could buy. If that failed, he would fall back on Plan B, a hidden underground shelter in the wilderness. They were both solid plans.

"Push the cart for me then," Cyrus said smoothly.

Diana beamed. "Of course!"

He then told Natalie to fetch him another cart. She looked uneasy but obeyed.

They followed him as he piled in long-lasting food: noodles, sausages, cured meats, canned goods. Then he filled another cart with fresh meat, fruits, vegetables, even living fish, to test how his pocket-dimension ability handled perishables.

By the end, his three carts overflowed.

He handed the heaviest, loaded with beef, lamb, and canned goods—over four hundred pounds—to the two women. They staggered under the weight, drenched in sweat.

"Cyrus, who's going to eat all this?" Diana whined with a pout. "Are you hosting some big event?"

Cyrus chuckled darkly. "Storms come without warning. What if the world ended tomorrow? Better to stock up for the worst."

It was true, though who would believe him?

Diana giggled, brushing it off. "If you don't want to say, fine. But you owe me a meal for helping today!"

Her eyes sparkled. She wanted dinner at the Michelin-starred restaurant.

"Sure," Cyrus said with a faint smile. "But I'm busy this month. Next month, then."

Her eyes lit up. "Deal!"

Natalie grinned. "Count me in too!"

Just pushing a cart for a fancy dinner? It was thrilling.

Diana shot her a glare, but Natalie ignored her.

At checkout, Cyrus paid more than 2,000 dollars without hesitation. These supplies were priceless. In the apocalypse, not even a mountain of gold could buy a loaf of bread.

The supermarket let him borrow the carts to wheel everything back. He made no effort to hide his attitude, ordering the two women to push them home. He could have driven and loaded them all himself, but with free labor in front of him, why waste the chance?

They complained nonstop, but the promise of luxury food kept them moving.

Together, they pushed their mountain of supplies through the gates of the residential complex.