The Apocalypse Hoarder

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.