Glacial Monopoly: My Gifts Return Hundredfold

Chapter 4: Absolute Zero

The three red dots on the holographic map didn't hesitate. They moved with the predatory confidence of men who believed they were walking into a sheep pen.

Down on Platform 3, the three newly armed militiamen knelt behind the concrete pillars. Their hands shook, not from the cold, but from the terrifying weight of the weapons they held.

The military-grade compound crossbows were masterpieces of modern engineering. Lightweight carbon-fiber frames, dual-cam pulley systems, and a draw weight of two hundred pounds, made effortless by the integrated mechanical cocking levers. Loaded into the flight grooves were titanium-shafted bolts with blunt, red-painted tips.

High-explosive.

"Steady," Alex whispered from the shadows, his eyes on the holographic disc resting on the floor. The three red dots were directly above them now, at the mezzanine grate. "Don't shoot until they hit the ground."

Above them, the heavy iron grating groaned and was pushed aside.

Three Iceborn hunters dropped down the maintenance shaft in quick succession, their boots hitting the concrete with heavy thuds. They carried rusted machetes and sawed-off shotguns.

"Scout Three, you down here?" the lead hunter grunted into the darkness.

Alex tapped the shoulder of the militiaman next to him. "Fire."

The militiaman squeezed the trigger.

The compound crossbow didn't twang like a traditional bow. It snapped with the sharp, violent crack of a high-tension whip.

The titanium bolt crossed the thirty feet of dark space in a fraction of a second. It struck the lead hunter dead center in his reinforced chest plate.

The impact trigger detonated the red-tipped micro-explosive.

BOOM.

The confined space of the subway amplified the explosion into a deafening roar. A sphere of orange fire and tungsten shrapnel vaporized the upper half of the lead hunter. The shockwave picked up the two men behind him and slammed them violently against the rusted steel walls of the mezzanine.

Blood, fabric, and twisted metal rained down on the train tracks.

The militiamen dropped their crossbows, staring in absolute, paralyzed horror at the sheer devastation they had just unleashed. A single arrow had turned a grown man into red mist.

"Reload," Alex commanded, his voice slicing through their shock. "Check the bodies."

But there was no need to reload. The other two hunters were dead, their organs ruptured by the concussive force of the blast in the enclosed space.

Alex walked up the stairs to the carnage. He ignored the gore, his eyes scanning the mangled corpses for anything useful. Ammunition. Radios.

Suddenly, a low, unnatural shriek echoed down the maintenance shaft from the surface.

It didn't sound human. It sounded like the sky itself was tearing open.

Alex froze. He knew that sound.

"Flash freeze," Alex yelled, vaulting over the railing and sprinting back down to the platform. "Get to the center! Now!"

The temperature in the station didn't just drop; it plummeted like a stone thrown off a cliff. The ambient minus-sixty-degree air was suddenly displaced by a localized super-storm. Minus eighty. Minus ninety.

The small, pathetic trash fire Elena had built instantly snuffed out, as if the cold had murdered the oxygen.

The moisture in the air flash-froze, turning the atmosphere into a swirling mist of microscopic ice needles. The concrete pillars groaned and cracked under the sudden thermal contraction.

Elena pulled the boy tight against her chest, her lips turning a terrifying shade of blue within seconds. "Alex... it's burning... the cold is burning..."

Alex felt his own muscles seizing. His expensive parka was suddenly as useless as a t-shirt. Starvation killed you in weeks. A flash freeze killed you in three minutes.

He dug frantically into his pockets, pulling out the only piece of loot he had snatched from the dead hunters upstairs before running.

A dented, half-empty plastic bottle of cheap lighter fluid.

He knelt next to Elena and shoved the freezing plastic bottle into her trembling hands.

"Hold it," Alex ordered, his teeth chattering uncontrollably.

[ Gift Confirmed: Inferior Lighter Fluid (3 oz) → Elena Vance ] [ Class Resonance Detected: Quartermaster / Survival Base ] [ Multiplier Triggered: 214x (Epic) ]

[ Reward: Military-Grade Polar Aviation Fuel (JP-8) x 100 Barrels (5500 Gallons) ] Status: Deposited in Maintenance Locker 04.

Alex didn't wait for the text to fade. He forced his seizing legs to move, sprinting the thirty feet to Locker 04.

He ripped the door open. The crates of machetes and crossbows had been pushed back. Filling the front of the space were massive, heavy-duty black steel drums with bright yellow bio-hazard and flammability warnings stenciled on the sides.

JP-8 Aviation Fuel. Freezing point: Minus 100 Degrees Celsius.

Alex grabbed the rim of the nearest fifty-five-gallon drum and tipped it back. He used his body weight to roll the heavy steel barrel out of the locker and across the frozen platform, heading straight for the locked door marked MECHANICAL ROOM.

He kicked the door open.

Sitting in the center of the room was the subway station's emergency diesel backup generator. A massive, rusted industrial beast. It hadn't run in four months because there was no fuel left in the city.

Alex unscrewed the cap of the JP-8 drum, grabbed a discarded plastic funnel from the floor, and poured the thick, highly combustible aviation fuel directly into the generator's dry intake tank.

He threw the funnel aside, primed the engine, and grabbed the heavy manual pull-cord.

He planted his boot against the steel chassis. He closed his eyes, drawing on the calories from the MRE he hadn't eaten yet, and pulled with every ounce of strength in his back.

The cord reeled out. The engine sputtered, coughed out a cloud of black smoke, and died.

The ice was creeping up Alex’s boots. His vision was blurring at the edges.

"Start," Alex snarled.

He pulled the cord again. Harder.

Chug... chug... BANG.

A spark caught the high-octane aviation fuel. The massive pistons fired. The engine roared to life with a deafening, rhythmic mechanical thunder that shook the floorboards.

Three seconds later, the electrical grid of the station engaged.

Row after row of industrial halogen lights positioned along the subway ceiling slammed on, bathing the pitch-black station in blinding, artificial daylight.

Then came the HVAC system.

Massive industrial fans positioned in the ceiling vents spun up with a jet-engine whine. They sucked the heat generated by the massive diesel engine and blasted it directly onto Platform 3.

A wave of hot, dry air—at least sixty degrees Fahrenheit—slammed into the freezing survivors.

The ice coating the concrete walls immediately began to weep and melt. The frost on Elena’s eyelashes vanished. She let out a loud, gasping sob as the feeling violently returned to her numb fingers.

The three militiamen dropped to their knees under a heating vent, practically worshipping the hot air blowing over them.

Alex leaned against the vibrating generator, chest heaving, watching the color slowly return to Elena’s face. He had done it. He had conquered the cold. In a world of absolute zero, he had just built an oasis.

But survival in the wasteland was never a victory; it was only a delay.

Alex walked slowly out of the mechanical room and picked up the holographic radar disc from the floor.

The three red dots from the scout team were gone, vaporized by the crossbow.

But the hologram of the subway station was now glowing blindingly bright on the map. The heat signature of the industrial generator, combined with the sudden blast of electric light, was acting like a flare fired into a pitch-black sky.

Alex watched the edges of the 3D map.

A new cluster of red dots appeared. Not three this time.

Fifteen.

They were moving in a tight, disciplined tactical formation, heading straight for the light. Kael's vanguard had arrived.

Alex looked up at the halogen lights, then looked at the three militiamen still shivering under the heat vent.

"Get up," Alex said, drawing his hunting knife and picking up a compound crossbow. "Warm-up time is over. We have guests."