Before Andrew's lackeys could begin loading the supplies, another group emerged from the blizzard.
Despite the intense snow, the silhouettes of this new crowd were unmistakable—more than three hundred residents of Cloudcrest Manor. Leading them were three figures: a middle-aged man, a woman with an air of maturity despite her ordinary looks, and an elderly gentleman.
"Where did these people come from?" Andrew's lead henchman muttered, swallowing nervously.
The crowd, though lacking physical prowess, was imposing in sheer number. They moved like a dark wave, filling the villa's entrance and gazing intently, a mix of hunger and anger simmering in their eyes.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The lead henchman raised his blade, stepping protectively in front of the supplies.
The elderly man at the front spoke calmly, "I'm Tyler. Tell Andrew he can take ten percent of these supplies; the rest will be shared."
"Hell no! This is ours. Why should we give you any?"
Tyler, unfazed, replied with a smirk, "Because we have the numbers."
In times like this, words were meaningless. Only strength mattered. Though stooped with age, Tyler carried an aura that intimidated. He raised a hand, motioning forward.
Instantly, the three hundred residents surged forward, and the handful of henchmen had no choice but to back off. Within minutes, the pile of supplies in the courtyard was emptied.
If Andrew was a kingpin in the underworld, Tyler was an untouchable magnate in business. A few thugs posed no threat to him, and he wouldn't flinch even if Andrew himself showed up.
As he glanced briefly at the second-floor window and then at Ryan in the storage room, Tyler took out his phone, dialing a number.
The storm interfered with the signal, but communication was still possible. After a moment, Miles's phone rang. Seeing Tyler in the courtyard, Miles answered, his tone indifferent.
"Mr. Tyler, a pleasure. What can I do for you?"
In ordinary times, someone of Miles's standing wouldn't even register on Tyler's radar. But Miles's recent actions reeked of opportunism.
Without preamble, Tyler's voice was cold, "Miles, I'll get straight to the point. I'm willing to offer you two hundred million for half of your supplies. You and one other person don't need two million in stock—this snowstorm won't last. I have reliable information that it'll be over in three months, tops."
By then, all of Miles's precious stockpile would turn to waste.
But what Tyler didn't know was that Miles's supplies were in his unique storage space, preserving them indefinitely, fresh as the day they were packed. Three months or thirty years—it made no difference.
Miles had no intention of agreeing. He intended to sow discord among the residents until they descended into chaos. Once they'd turned on each other, he'd emerge to reclaim the peace. It was a path to lasting safety.
Morality? Sympathy?
Those had died with him in his past life when they betrayed and killed him. He knew that no matter how much he offered, no one would thank him. Instead, as desperation took hold, they'd only grow more vicious, willing to kill and even turn to cannibalism for a scrap of food.
Seeing his silence, Tyler's tone turned icy. "A word of advice, Miles. Andrew may have a killer's reputation, but I'm no stranger to ruthlessness myself. Take my advice—know when enough is enough."
"Then come on," Miles replied.
"What?"
"If you've got the guts, come kill me. I'll be waiting."
Miles looked down, smiling, at the visibly shaken Tyler.
"Very well." Tyler's voice was a low, grudging snarl as he turned to the crowd. "Everyone, Miles has over two million in supplies, yet here we are, uncertain if we'll live another day. Why die of hunger when we could make him share?"
"Get Miles!"
"Kill him and take his supplies!"
Some of the crowd, already weakened by starvation, became frenzied. Abandoning all civility, they surged forward.
With anything they could use as a makeshift weapon, they began beating on the villa walls, even pounding on the door to Ryan's storage room.
But it was all futile. Their desperate blows left no mark on the fortified structure.
Ryan, beer in hand, lounged comfortably, watching the chaos unfold outside.
Somewhere along the way, he'd felt his empathy cool, replaced by a hardened indifference. In the past, he'd have felt either fear or pity. But Miles had warned him not to play the "bleeding heart."
"In a month," Miles had said, "when food runs out, those same people you once pitied will tear you apart without a second thought."
Having witnessed the eerie accuracy of Miles's foresight, Ryan now had unwavering faith in his words.
After half an hour, the clamor began to subside. Huddling together against the cold, the hundreds of residents grew lethargic. Starving and exhausted, some simply slumped onto the ground.
"Someone's dead!"
One of them, succumbing to the cold, collapsed and lay unmoving.
Even Tyler, usually steely and unflappable, froze in place, haunted by the sight of a person dying right before his eyes. He'd seen death and caused it, but watching someone freeze to death felt entirely different.
The brutal reality began to sink in for all. Shivering, they understood what awaited them if they lingered here any longer.
One by one, the crowd began to disperse, retreating back into the storm with the hope of surviving another day, if only by the hour.
Tyler exchanged a final glance with the other two leaders and, resigning, led his people back.
Inside, Miles observed the chaotic scene in the courtyard with a pleased smile, savoring his beer.
"Come now, break through this place if you can. If you manage it, I'll write off the two million as a loss."
His grin widened, a mischievous spark in his eyes.
"Two million for a billion. I wonder what Guy at Glory Build is thinking right now. That outstanding balance of eighty million is probably going up in smoke!"