NOVEL WEB Chapter 8: Step Eight: Stockpile before the Storm
Because when the world ends, you can't eat apologies or sleep on promises.
Asher strode deliberately back to his room, the echoes of the conversation with his older brothers reverberating continuously in his mind.
Sitting at his desk, he rhythmically tapped his fingers against the surface, but suddenly halted, his thoughts crystallizing into focus.
It had been six days since his rebirth, a concept that both thrilled and terrified him.
The urgency weighed heavily on him; he needed to prepare.
The underground marketplace, notorious for its illicit dealings, was the only suitable place to gather the essential supplies for the looming chaos ahead.
Despite being regarded as an outcast within the Greyson family, he still received a meager allowance from his stepmother.
Unlike his half-brothers, James and Kieran, who received a staggering ten million a month, and the legitimate heirs who raked in an eye-watering hundred million, Asher's pocket money was but one million.
Yet, he managed to navigate the economic disparities with the help of gold cards generously gifted by James and Kieran, who often saved their wealth instead of spending it frivolously.
Donning an all-black cloak that billowed around him like shadows come to life, Asher slipped out of his room.
Asher slid into the driver seat of Kieran's sleek black sedan, feeling the rush of adrenaline as the engine roared to life.
With a swift turn of the key, Asher sped down the empty streets, the night air rushing past the open windows.
The city lights blurred into streaks of color as he navigated through dimly lit alleys, heading straight for the location of the black market.
Each turn brought them closer to the hidden world that thrived just beneath the surface, a place buzzing with danger and opportunity.
The anticipation brewed in Asher's chest as he approached his destination, an abandoned city square shrouded in shadows, where anything could happen under the cover of darkness.
In a world where his familial connections seemed to paint a target on his back, he relished the anonymity of being regarded as just another weakling out for a night's venture.
No one would suspect him; the harmless facade shielded his true intentions.
The Black Market stretched before him, a labyrinthine network of alleyways exuding a putrid aroma of decay.
It thrived beneath the shimmer of the Capital's Eastern Sector, where flickering neon lights cast ghostly glows on grime-coated bricks.
The air was thick with the acrid scent of grease mingled with something far more sinister: blood.
Asher could sense it, the rot that simmered just beneath the surface, like a dark tide threatening to engulf the city.
With his hood drawn low, Asher navigated through swarms of people, his face shrouded in shadow.
No one spared him a second glance; in the Black Market, questions were a luxury that few could afford, especially when someone walked with the unshakeable confidence that hinted at lethal capability.
Asher's mission was to acquire a large production of weapons.
His gold card held a mystical power in this underworld. It was all thanks to James and Kieran's frugality, he had an excess of hush money.
Prices didn't faze him; his thoughts were four months ahead, painting a bleak canvas of a city ablaze with ruin, where monstrous figures roamed disguised in human skin.
In the underground market place, Asher gathered ammo, firearms, swords, and an assortment of weaponry, all suited for the impending apocalypse.
A merchant's eyes narrowed, sizing him up.
"Are you preparing for war?" The merchant scoffed.
Asher met the man's gaze with an icy coolness that chilled the air between them.
"You'll wish you were prepared for it too," he replied, his voice flat and unwavering.
The merchant laughed dismissively and shrugged, turning his attention to the next customer.
With supplies piled high, Asher made his way to his vehicle, navigating the crowded streets with purpose.
The familiar jolt of the car's suspension greeted him as he set off towards the outskirts, where a deserted safe house lay hidden beneath the crumbling remains of a once formidable military bunker lurking beneath an abandoned freeway.
Dust motes danced in the stale air around him as he emerged from the car, the world around him silent, swallowed by layers of forgotten time.
This place felt perfect, like it had been waiting for him.
He had plans to store his supplies in his Space, but first, he needed a cover.
He aimed to leave some supplies in this bunker while securing the remainder in his hidden storage space.
He worked with meticulous speed, organizing his newfound provisions with sharp focus.
As his fingertips flickered with darkness, he embedded his aura into each item, imbuing them with his essence as a location tracker.
This time, he was determined not to scramble for survival in the chaos ahead.
This time, he would be ready.
Once he placed the last box inside, Asher leaned against the frigid metal wall, exhaling deeply.
He needed much more weapons than this.
Asher would need to meet with the blackmarket's guildmaster tomorrow to secure a higher order of weapons.
Unlike fatigue, a restless energy surged within him.
This mission reached beyond mere survival; it represented an opportunity for control.
While the guildmaster may provided access to weapons, Asher needed a more reliable source for food and medical supplies.
He couldn't place his faith in the kind of medicine exchanged in that underworld marketplace.
He needed supplies large enough to last through years of hell, not weeks of discomfort.
But even with space magic that can preserve food and a head full of future knowledge, there were things he couldn't do alone.
Tristan.
He'd need Tristan.
The man had always blended into the background: buttoned-up, polite, unreadable.
But Asher had seen flashes of something more beneath that calm surface.
A too-clean shot when killing a snake with a garden spade.
A glance toward the door seconds before someone arrived.
And once, when Asher was barely seven, he'd watched Tristan disable a faulty fuse box with a speed no normal butler should've had.
He was never just a butler.
Asher's mother had trusted him.
She wasn't just a maid, after all—not really.
She was the runaway daughter of a powerful family up north, one who'd shed her name like a stained coat.
No one ever said it aloud, but Asher had always known she was more than she let on.
And Tristan?
He had followed her across the country, took a post in the Greyson estate the very month she returned with her twin sons.
Loyalty like that didn't come from nowhere.
Asher's hand curled around the edge of the windowsill.
If his mother had trusted Tristan with her secrets, maybe it was time he did the same.
The world was ending, and only ghosts and allies would be left standing.
His past death had imparted a crucial lesson.
This time, he vowed not to let the world take from him without extracting a price first.
He would demand blood in return for everything he had lost.