"My name is Cyrus Knovell," he said evenly. "I want to order food for 500 tables. Is that a problem?"

Dylan's heart skipped. In all the years the hotel had been open, no one had ever placed an order this outrageous.

Nonetheless, business was business. A 400,000-dollar deal could not be refused so easily.

"Mr. Knovell, 500 tables will cost over 400,000 dollars," Dylan said carefully. "If you confirm, we can begin at once, but we'll need an 80,000-dollar deposit upfront."

"No problem," Cyrus replied. "Send me the account, and I'll transfer it."

Money opened doors. The manager added him as a contact, sent the bank details, and within minutes Cyrus had wired the deposit.

Once the financial department confirmed the funds, Dylan went into full battle mode. "Hurry! We've landed a massive order. Purchasing, stock up immediately. Kitchen, stop taking outside requests. We've got 500 tables of food to prepare within a day!"

On the other end, Cyrus hung up and exhaled. "Money will be worthless in a month, but for now, it's still the key to everything."

Between his parents' inheritance and his own savings, he had about 800,000 dollars. Half was gone in a single transfer. The sting passed quickly. It was better to spend it than watch it turn to waste paper. Most people would never even have the chance to do so.

Still, he needed more. Much more.

His gaze swept across the apartment. The 1,300-square-foot unit sat in Volaris' central ring and had been purchased outright a decade ago. At over 800 dollars per square foot, its market value easily exceeded 1,000,000 dollars

Cyrus grinned. "I'll mortgage it. That'll give me the cash."

The best part? He would never need to repay it.

He grabbed his keys, left home, and drove straight to the bank. Halfway there, his phone buzzed. It was a message from Diana.

Diana: [Cyrus, weekends are so boring. I wish someone would take me out.]

He glanced once before tossing the phone aside.

At the bank, the process was smooth. His house was fully paid, his documents in order, and he requested a large loan. They approved 800,000 dollars. It was less than he wanted, but he did not argue. Free money was free money.

He signed the papers, and soon the funds hit his account.

'After the banquet transfer, I still have about 400,000 dollars left,' he calculated. 'It's enough to turn the apartment into a fortress. But weapons and medicine will cost plenty. This still won't be enough.'

Cyrus rubbed his chin, plotting ways to raise more cash. Just then, a street punk with bleached hair and a sly grin spotted him.

The punk's eyes flashed, and he strolled over. "Hey, buddy. Need money?"

"Who are you?"

The punk leaned closer and lowered his voice. "I asked if you need cash. The bank wouldn't lend to you, right?"

Cyrus' eyes narrowed. 'A loan shark.'

A plan flickered in his mind. He let out a heavy sigh and forced a troubled look.

"Yeah. My family business needs urgent capital, but the bank…" he trailed off.

The punk smirked. Anyone who could borrow from a bank wouldn't be standing there.

"Yeah, banks are slow and picky these days," the punk said smoothly. "But me? I can help. If you need fast money, I've got connections."

Cyrus gave him a cautious look. "You? Are you sure? I need at least 1,000,000 dollars."

The punk's eyes lit up. 'Big fish.'

He whipped out a business card. "Our company specializes in rescuing people from desperate situations. If you need money, you came to the right place."

The card read: [Duomore Finance. Mason Hackett, Sales Manager.]

Cyrus' face brightened with feigned excitement. "You can really lend me money? I need a million. Help me through this, and I swear I'll pay it back within three months."

Mason chuckled. "That can be arranged. Our company is capable. We exist to help people like you. Come on, let's go to the office. We'll discuss the details there."

Cyrus nodded eagerly and followed.

The "office" was tucked inside a shabby building. Mason led him straight to his employer's room. A broad-shouldered man in a sharp suit sat waiting, his businesslike smile undermined by his menacing gaze.

Mason made the introduction. "Mr. Brond, this is the client I told you about."

Russell Brond smiled widely and gestured for Cyrus to sit. "Mr. Knovell, how much do you want to borrow?"

'Typical loan shark—straight to the point. No contracts, no red tape. Just the money and the price of it,' Cyrus thought.

"One million," Cyrus said calmly.

Russell's brows lifted. "That's not a small sum. Let me be clear. Our interest rates are very high. You'll need to be prepared."

Mason jumped in quickly. "But Mr. Knovell just needs cash to keep his business afloat. Once it turns around, paying us back will be easy. Right?"

The two played off each other, their act obvious to Cyrus.

Still, Cyrus maintained an eager expression. "Yes, exactly. I can repay quickly. High interest or not, I'll take it—as long as you lend me the money."

Russell grinned. "Good. Our interest rate is 40%. You borrow 1,000,000, you pay back 1,400,000. Write me a promissory note for 1,400,000 dollars."

He leaned back, eyes glinting. "And of course, you'll need collateral. A house, a business, a car—something of value."

Cyrus hesitated for effect, then gritted his teeth and pulled out his property deed—the same one he had used earlier at the bank.

"My apartment's worth over 1,000,000 dollars. That should cover it, right? I've also got a Benz worth 60,000 dollars. If I can't pay, you can take that too."

Russell's eyes lit up as he scanned the documents. The market value was easily closer to 1,200,000 dollars. With a car on top, the deal was solid.

Still, he wore a dissatisfied expression. "Mr. Knovell, your place is worth 800,000 dollars, maybe 900,000 dollars at most. And you want to walk away with 1,000,000 dollars? It sounds like I'm taking a loss."

Cyrus widened his eyes, panic flashing across his face. "Mr. Brond, you have to help me! I need the cash desperately. If you can transfer it today, I'll settle for 900,000 dollars!"

Russell and Mason exchanged a glance and smirked faintly. They thrived on desperation—the more a man begged, the deeper they could cut.

"Impossible. That's too much of a stretch," Russell said firmly.

After a round of fake bargaining, they settled on 800,000 dollars. Cyrus had one condition: the funds had to hit his account today.

Loan sharks were ruthless but fast. Efficiency was their only advantage over banks. The paperwork was done in minutes. Soon after, Cyrus' account lit up with an 800,000-dollar transfer.

He smiled. For Russell, that money might as well have vanished into a black hole. It was never coming back.

He chuckled and walked out humming.

Behind him, the office erupted in laughter

"Hahaha! Easiest deal we've ever made," Mason said, slapping the desk. "That idiot just walked out with 800,000 dollars like it was nothing."

Russell puffed on his coffee and said smugly, "We'll clear at least 400,000 dollars, maybe 600,000 dollars in profit. Our monthly quota's already in the bag."

Mason frowned. "Boss, he signed the papers too easily. What if there's something wrong with the house?"

Russell waved the deed with a grin. "It's real. The place is his. With this and the 1,400,000-dollars promissory note, he's not going anywhere. If he defaults, we take the property. And if that's not enough, we have other ways to squeeze him dry."

His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a cruel murmur. "Worst case, we sell some of his parts overseas. We never lose money."

Outside, Cyrus strolled away with a cheerful grin. He glanced back at the dingy office building and muttered mockingly, "Such kind souls. Just handing me money to burn."

He would never cross paths with Russell or Mason again. More likely, they'd be frozen corpses in a month.

His coffers now held 2,000,000 dollars—enough to execute his plan. With prepayments and deposits, that money carried the buying power of tens of millions. He wouldn't need to scrape for more, though exploiting online loan platforms would be trivial if he wanted.

Instead, he drove across Volaris to Wyvern Security's headquarters, one of the nation's largest private firms. They were famous for protecting billionaires, celebrities, and sometimes government officials on sensitive trips.

Cyrus chose them because he had heard they had built a billion-dollar doomsday fortress for the heir of a real estate empire in his past life. That man had survived comfortably through the apocalypse thanks to Wyvern.

At the front desk, Cyrus stated his request. Within minutes, he was ushered into a lounge, and a receptionist brought him freshly ground coffee.

Then the door opened, and a mountain of a man strode in. He had a buzz cut, a black suit stretched taut across his broad chest, and radiated the air of a "gangster in formal wear." He was intimidating yet strangely reassuring.

Hector sat across from Cyrus. "Good afternoon, sir. I'm Hector Webb, the manager of the business department. How can we assist you?"

Cyrus sipped his coffee calmly. "I want you to build me a safehouse. The best you can manage. Something strong enough to withstand the end of the world."

Hector's eyes sharpened instantly. To outsiders, the request would sound absurd. But to Wyvern, it made perfect sense. The rich and powerful feared death more than anything. Billionaires worldwide had spent fortunes on doomsday bunkers, whether fearing natural disasters or human enemies. Wyvern had simply carved its niche.

'Here's another fat contract,' Hector thought.

"Mr. Knovell, Wyvern is a world-class security company. Whatever you need, we can provide."

Cyrus leaned forward. "What if I want my 24th-floor apartment completely remodeled into a fortress? Can you do it?"

Hector blinked. Most clients preferred standalone villas or underground shelters. Rarely an apartment. Still, a client was a client.

Hector plastered a confident smile. "Of course. We're the best in the industry. If that's what you want, we'll make it happen."

Cyrus' decision was set. He would stay. He wanted to watch his back-stabbing neighbors die with his own eyes.

Hector handed him a sleek tablet. "All our services are bespoke, custom-made. You can browse the options here, complete with pricing."

Cyrus scrolled carefully. The range was staggering: steel reinforcements, blast-proof doors, air filtration systems, even shelters 300 feet underground or beneath the sea.

But time was short. He had only one month.

Cyrus scrolled through the catalog of safehouse options and began selecting what he needed.

First came full structural reinforcement. His apartment would be gutted, every wall, ceiling, and floor replaced with 8-inch alloy panels. The material was aerospace-grade—one-third the weight of steel but ten times stronger—ideal for embedding into a high-rise without overloading the building. The windows would be swapped for the world's toughest bulletproof glass.

Next, the ventilation system would receive full air filtration, keeping out any toxic gas. Then a complete surveillance network would cover every angle, inside and out. Finally, the door: it would be replaced with a vault-grade security door, like those used in major banks. Even a small bomb would barely scratch it.

In short, Cyrus' demand was simple: his apartment would become an impenetrable fortress.

He handed the tablet back. Hector skimmed the request, eyebrows rising. Cyrus wanted to transform a 1,300-square-foot apartment into a steel box.

"With weapons inside, this wouldn't just be a house. It'd be a fortress," Hector muttered.

Cyrus' eyes flickered. "Oh? You know a thing or two about fortresses?"

Hector chuckled. "I used to work overseas as a mercenary. I know my way around military hardware."

An idea sparked in Cyrus' mind. He lowered his voice. "Then tell me—can you get guns?"

Hector's expression turned grave. Firearms were strictly forbidden in Cretora.

"Mr. Knovell, you should know that's illegal," he said quietly. "What's this really about? Dangerous enemies?"

Cyrus seized the chance to play along. "Exactly. I crossed some people from the underworld. They're armed, ruthless. I just want to protect myself. Otherwise, hiding behind reinforced walls won't help."

Hector smiled wryly. "I'm afraid I can't help with that. We're a legitimate company."

Cyrus caught the hesitation in his eyes. Hector was capable but unwilling to take the risk. He leaned forward. "This project will cost me over 1.6 million. If something happens to me afterward, that won't look good for your company. I only need a few weapons to defend myself. Help me, and you won't regret it."

Hector fell silent with a frown. He had the connections, but was Cyrus worth the risk?

"Go home for now," Hector finally said. "I can't promise anything, but I'll ask around. If I hear something, I'll contact you."

Cyrus did not press. Guns were sensitive. It was better to wait. He smiled. "Then I'll wait for your news. In the meantime, start work on the safehouse. I need it as soon as possible."

"Half a month," Hector assured him. "We'll have it ready."

They signed the contract on the spot. Cyrus paid a 200,000-dollar deposit, knowing he would likely never pay the balance.

Leaving Wyvern Security, Cyrus ticked "shelter" off his mental checklist. That problem was settled. Next: weapons.

Back in his car, he called an old acquaintance, Seamus Lancaster, who ran a private hunting ground on Mt. Barat—hundreds of acres stocked with harmless game for leisure hunters.

Seamus had plenty of legal hunting gear like crossbows, compound bows, and air rifles. Cyrus had visited before and had Seamus' number.

This time, he asked for bulk and offered extra payment.

Seamus, a businessman first, agreed easily. "Mr. Knovell, what do you need so many for? These are for hunting, right? Not hurting people?"

Caution laced his voice. Selling the gear was one thing, and liability was another.

Cyrus laughed. "Relax. I'm taking friends on a hunting trip in Kongor. Just stocking up."

Seamus whistled. "Kongor, huh? Lions and hyenas out there. Stay safe."

"Don't worry. When can you have the gear ready?"

"I've got stock on hand. Swing by anytime."

Cyrus did not waste a second. He drove straight to Mt. Barat and loaded up: five steel crossbows, three high-grade compound bows, and 300 arrows and bolts for each. Two Damascus steel hunting knives, razor-sharp and nearly unbreakable, rounded out the haul. They were perfect for close combat.

By the time he finished, his trunk was full. The sight filled him with a deep sense of security. With a hunting license already in his name, no one would question it.

By dusk, he returned home.

That evening, he treated himself to a barbecue feast at a famous smokehouse. As he bit into sizzling ribs and brisket, he realized that soon, if he wanted barbecue, he would have to grill it himself.

Thus, he did the only logical thing—he ordered 10,000 packs of the restaurant's signature barbecue rubs and sauces.

The staff froze, assuming he was playing a prank. Once the manager confirmed he was serious and would pay in full, they proceeded with the order.

Cyrus dropped over 200,000 dollars on the spot. The manager, grinning ear to ear, even tossed in an extra 500 bottles for free.