As Logan drove a few hundred meters down the road, the sound of a motorcycle engine roared behind him. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he saw a figure dressed in black, wearing a helmet, speeding toward him under the dim streetlights, obscuring any clear view of their face.
Logan deliberately steered onto a more isolated road.
The motorcycle stayed on his tail, the rider—Harold—glaring through his helmet with bloodthirsty intent.
Harold was a man who had scraped together a living through dangerous jobs, risking life and limb to earn his keep. If he could kidnap this rich kid, extort a few hundred thousand or even a few million, he could live comfortably for a long while. Rich brats were the easiest targets, terrified of death. A little intimidation, a few compromising photos, and they'd hand over their fortune without hesitation.
Harold wasn't new to this game—he had done it successfully several times before. Logan's apparent wealth and youthful appearance made him the perfect mark.
After trailing Logan through a stretch of residential area, Harold twisted the throttle and zoomed in front of Logan's car, skidding to a stop with a perfect drift, blocking Logan's path.
As he did, his hand discreetly moved toward the knife strapped to his leg. He was ready to overpower Logan the moment he stepped out of the car.
It was still only around 8 PM—early enough that the streets, though quiet, weren't entirely deserted. Harold had intentionally chosen this time, knowing that it was when people were most likely to lower their guard. As he had carefully disabled the surveillance cameras along the route, Harold planned to quickly subdue Logan, then disappear without a trace.
But Logan wasn't an ordinary young man. He was a survivor of an apocalypse, someone who had witnessed the ugliest sides of human nature.
Gripping the steering wheel, Logan's eyes flashed with cold determination.
He floored the gas pedal, aiming straight for Harold.
In seconds, the car accelerated from 60 to over 100 kilometers per hour.
At that speed, the distance of a few meters was covered in an instant.
Harold's pupils contracted as he realized the car wasn't slowing down. He tried to leap out of the way, but it was too late.
"Boom!"
The car struck with a tremendous force, followed by the dull thud of a body hitting the ground.
Harold and his motorcycle were sent flying over ten meters by the impact.
The front of Logan's car was severely damaged, the headlights shattered, and the bumper caved in. But the motorcycle had it worse—its twisted parts were scattered across the pavement.
Ironically, the motorcycle Harold had chosen for its maneuverability and quick escape had become the reason for his downfall.
If Harold had been driving a car, Logan might have had to lure him to a more secluded area before making his move. But Harold had foolishly chosen to block Logan's path with a bike, practically inviting his demise.
Hearing the loud crash, distant onlookers began searching for the source of the noise, but from that far away, they couldn't see what had happened.
Logan calmly stepped out of his car and approached Harold.
Harold, still conscious, was spitting blood, his limbs twisted unnaturally. His eyes, filled with venomous hatred, locked onto Logan. He tried to speak, but no words came out.
The tables had turned—Harold, who had always been the predator, now found himself as the prey. He had grossly underestimated this seemingly young, wealthy target, who had turned out to be just as ruthless as he was.
Logan stopped a meter away from Harold and spoke softly, "You're probably wondering why I dared to run you down, aren't you, Harold?"
Harold's eyes widened in shock. He had clearly underestimated Logan, who now seemed every bit the cold-blooded killer that he was.
"Mis...under...standing..." Harold managed to gasp, trying to save himself even as his life slipped away.
The collision had shattered his left leg, driven his ribs into his internal organs, and crushed his right hand when he hit the ground. He was completely immobilized.
If he had any strength left, he would have killed Logan right then and there.
But Logan wasn't about to give Harold the chance.
He crouched down, picked up a piece of metal that had fallen off the motorcycle, and, with Harold staring in terror, drove it through his throat.
Harold's eyes bulged, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to speak, but the light in his eyes quickly dimmed.
As his life ebbed away, Harold couldn't comprehend how this kid could be so fearless, killing him right here in the open. Didn't he worry about killing the wrong person?
Logan spoke quietly, "On my way here, I noticed a few surveillance cameras had been tampered with. That was your doing, wasn't it?"
"Thanks for preparing your own grave."
"Uggh...uggh..." Harold tried to choke out a response, but his vision blurred, and he slumped lifelessly to the ground.
With a thought, Logan absorbed Harold's body, all the debris, and even his own damaged car into the Cornucopia.
By the time the people who had heard the commotion arrived, they found only a pool of blood on the empty street.
Some of the more vigilant residents called the police, who confirmed that the blood was human. However, with no evidence of a crime, no victim, and no witnesses, the investigation stalled and the case was quickly closed.
Logan walked a short distance before hailing a cab and heading home.
This wasn't his first kill, so he had no fear or remorse. In a world where every person was both hunter and prey, being ruthless was a necessary survival skill.
If someone dared to target him, they had to be prepared for the consequences.
Back at his warehouse, Logan took a shower and went straight to bed.
The next morning, after a glance at the calendar, Logan realized it was already March 7th, his seventh day since returning to the past.
Checking the international gold prices, he saw that they had risen by five dollars over the last two days. Deciding not to wait any longer, Logan planned to sell the gold and cash out so he could continue stockpiling supplies.
After his morning workout and breakfast, Logan headed to the bank.
Since his infamous gold purchase a few days ago, Logan had become something of a celebrity at the bank. The moment he walked in carrying his suitcase, a staff member recognized him.
"Mr. Logan, how can we assist you today?"
Since Sydney Chase had been fired for leaking Logan's information, the bank had assigned him a new account manager, Ethan Ward, a man in his thirties.
Ethan had been in the middle of assisting another customer with a credit card application when he noticed Logan enter. His eyes lit up when he saw Logan and the suitcase in his hand.
The last time Logan walked in with that suitcase, he dropped $2.5 million on gold bars.
Back then, when Sydney's client was buying $2.5 million worth of gold, Ethan and the other managers had been green with envy.
Now, Ethan was thrilled that it was his turn to handle such a lucrative client.