Chapter 14: It’s About Time to Flaunt

The rain outside St. Jude’s Spire had not let up for sixty-five days. Across the ruined continents, what remained of human civilization had been reduced to sodden ruins, high-altitude refugee encampments, and frantic fights over half-rotted rations.

Inside Julius Vance’s private quarters, however, the temperature was a steady, climate-controlled seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit.

A silver tray sat on the marble dining table, delivered straight from the central residential kitchen. On it rested a thick, pan-seared dry-aged ribeye steak glistening with rosemary butter, a side of roasted fingerling potatoes harvested that very morning from the hydroponic bays, a crisp garden salad, and a freshly baked baguette. Next to the porcelain plate was an uncorked bottle of 1998 Château Latour, its deep ruby vintage breathing in a crystal decanter.

Julius took his seat, draped in a comfortable robe, and cut a small, tender piece of the steak. The rich flavor practically melted on his tongue.

He swallowed, took a leisurely sip of the red wine, and leaned back in his leather chair.

His phone sat beside his plate. Out of curiosity, he picked it up and unlocked the screen.

The [World Chat] channel was scrolling continuously, a river of raw, unfiltered agony:

— [IronHide]: Anyone in the Rockies? My squad has been eating boiled leather belts for two days. The streams are full of mud and dead livestock. If anyone has clean salt, I’ll trade my spare rifle.

— [GaleForce]: I managed to blow away the clouds over our ridge for thirty minutes, but it drained all my stamina. The rain came back twice as hard. My skin is peeling from the constant dampness. I can’t stop shivering.

— [Titan_01]: My leg smells like rotten garbage. I squeezed out the pus, but I can barely walk. Who has antibiotics?! I swear to God, when I find whoever hoarded the medical supplies in Sector 2, I’ll rip their head off!

— [FrostBite]: Can someone just talk to me? My camp was swept away by a mudslide an hour ago. I froze the mud around me to stay alive, but I’m trapped in a cave and the water is rising to my chest. Please. Anyone.

— [ShadowStep]: Nobody is coming, idiot. We’re on our own. 482 of us left. Eighteen died this week alone.

Julius swiped through the messages.

Julius looked down at his plate.

He picked up the phone, opened the system’s camera feature, and framed the shot. He didn’t include his face—no need to give them a physical target. He just captured the dining table: the sizzling, butter-basted ribeye, the fresh green vegetables, the warm crusty bread, the crystal wine glass glowing beneath the soft chandelier light, and, in the corner of the frame, the glowing status console on his wall showing: Indoor Temperature: 22°C | Power: 100% | Air Quality: Optimal.

He uploaded the high-resolution photo directly to the [World Chat].

Along with the image, he typed a simple caption:

[Julius (Rank 456)]: Dinner time. The hydroponic greens are turning out fantastic this week. Hope everyone else is staying dry.

He hit send.

For three seconds, the chat froze. Not a single message appeared on the screen as hundreds of starving, filthy, half-drowned players across the planet stared at the image in stunned, paralyzed disbelief.

Then, the floodgates broke.

The text raced upward so fast the screen blurred into a streak of frantic light:

— [ThunderG]: WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!

— [Bloodhound]: Is that real meat?! Where did you get fresh vegetables?!

— [Titan_01]: YOU BASTARD! YOU HAVE STEAK?! I’M DYING OF SEPSIS AND EATING COLD CRACKERS AND YOU’RE SITTING DOWN TO A FIVE-STAR MEAL?!

— [FlameLord]: Where are you?! Give me your coordinates right now!

— [Viper]: Wait... Rank 456... that’s the guy who picked Infinite Wealth!

— [IronHide]: The monopoly money guy?! You’re telling me this son of a bitch used his money to buy food before the storm started?!

— [GaleForce]: Julius, please! Please, I’m begging you! Where are you located? I haven’t seen a piece of bread in two months! Send a helicopter! Send help!

— [NightCrawler]: He’s hoarding it! Look at that screen in the background—temperature control! Clean air! He’s in a bunker! A luxury bunker!

— [Titan_01]: YOU SELFISH PIECE OF SHIT! We’re out here dying in the mud while you hide like a rat in a hole?! Tell us where you are or I swear I will hunt you across this entire planet!

— [ThunderG]: You think your money makes you safe?! Just wait until the water drops, rich boy! I’ll melt through your bunker doors with a million volts and take everything you have!

— [Bloodhound]: Selfish bastard! People are dying! We’re all in this together! You should be sharing those supplies with the rest of us! It’s inhuman to keep that to yourself!

The rage pouring through the chat was practically radiating heat off the glass. They cursed his ancestors. They demanded he open his doors. They called him a monster, a coward, a parasite, and an enemy of humanity.

Julius took another bite of his steak, chewing slowly as he watched their meltdowns scroll past.

A small, amused smirk played on his lips.

He typed a follow-up message: "Guys calm down, I’m just utilizing the skill that I have chosen. Without combat, the only way I can survive is preparing for the apocalypse. Don’t be mad at me."

The chat detonated with pure bloodlust.

— [Titan_01]: "Don’t be mad?! You smug parasite! Priority target this motherfucker! Whoever finds him gets half the loot!"

— [Bloodhound]: "My tracking skill will find his supply route. Mark my words, rich boy, every player left is forming a coalition. We’re hunting you down first!"

— [ThunderG]: "Bury yourself deep, Vance. We’re coming to crack your vault open and slit your throat."

"Okay, I think it’s about time," Julius muttered under his breath.