The Apocalypse Hoarder

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.