The Man Who Bought The Apocalypse

Chapter 2: The First Purchase

Radit’s thumb hovered over his contacts again. The fifty million rupiahs sat in his bank account like a live grenade. He had two weeks before the loan sharks came looking for their payout, but he had less than twelve hours to vanish from Jakarta before his old life tried to pull him back under.

He dialed a number labeled ‘Herman - DO NOT PICK UP.’

It rang once.

"Radit? You little rat, I was just about to send the boys over. You’re three weeks late on the—"

"I’m sending seven million to your account right now, Herman," Radit interrupted, his voice flat.

"Seven? You owe me six. Where’d you get seven?"

"One million is for you to lose my number. Don’t call me. Don’t visit me. Don’t even look in my direction if we pass on the street."

"Listen to this guy! You think you can talk to me—"

"Did you get the notification?" Radit asked, checking his banking app on the monitor. "Seven million. Gone. Refresh your app."

Silence on the other end. Then, a sharp intake of breath. "Yeah. It’s here. But where the hell did you—"

"Goodbye, Herman."

He hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed. No more small-time threats. He had bigger monsters to worry about than a debt collector with a bad haircut.

He turned his attention to his room. It was full of useless junk—remnants of a man who didn't know he was already dead. He grabbed a cardboard box and shoved his books into it, then stood in front of his high-spec gaming PC. It was the only thing of value he owned.

He grabbed his phone again. "Gani? You still want the rig?"

"Radit? It’s eleven in the morning, bro. I’m in class."

"Gani. The PC. Double-cooled, GTX 780, 16 gigs of RAM. Do you want it or not?"

"You're selling it? You literally cried when you bought those parts! Is it broken?"

"It’s perfect. Twelve million. Cash. I’ll meet you at your dorm in twenty minutes."

"Twelve? Radit, that’s a steal, but I only have ten in my savings—"

"Ten million. Fine. Be there or I’m calling the pawn shop near the station."

"Wait, wait! I’m leaving! Don't move!"

Radit disconnected. He didn't feel the sting of losing the machine. It was a toy. In three years, hardware wouldn't matter; what mattered was having ground under your feet that wouldn't melt.

He arrived at Gani’s dorm nineteen minutes later. Gani was already waiting on the curb, looking suspicious.

"You look like you're on something, man," Gani said, handing over a thick envelope of cash. "Are you in trouble?"

"I'm in reality, Gani. You should try it."

"With ten million? That’s barely two months of rent in a decent place. What are you doing?"

"Buying the future," Radit said, stuffing the cash into his pocket. "Take care of the GPU. It hates dust."

"Radit, wait! We were supposed to play that raid tonight!"

Radit didn't look back. He was already waving down a taxi. "Station. Gambir. Fast."

By 4:00 PM, Jakarta’s smog was a gray blur in the rearview mirror of a rickety chartered SUV. Radit sat in the back, staring at a folded topographic map. The air was getting thinner, cooler, and the urban sprawl had given way to the jagged, green-brown hills of Central Java.

He met the broker at a roadside stall overlooking a valley of dry, cracked earth.

"Mas Radit?" Mr. Suryo, a man with a face like crumpled parchment and a deceptive smile, looked at him with pity. "You’re younger than you sounded on the phone. And smaller."

"I have the money, Suryo. Show me the deed."

"Straight to business! I like it." Suryo pointed a stubby finger toward a distant, rocky outcrop jutting out from a barren hillside. "That’s the plot. Plot 44-B. Six hectares of nothing but shale and lizards."

"Looks perfect," Radit said.

"Perfect for what? Dying of thirst? Mas, even the goats won't climb up there. There’s no municipal water line. No road. The soil is too acidic for crops. You’re better off buying a stall in the market."

"The price is forty million, right? Plus the ten million 'transfer f*e' you mentioned."

Suryo’s eyes lit up. "Ah, well, that was yesterday. With the new administrative updates... let's call it sixty total."

Radit didn't flinch. He leaned across the table, his shadow falling over Suryo’s coffee. "The 'administrative update' you’re referring to is the regional zoning for the new toll road, isn't it?"

Suryo froze. "How did you—?"

"Forget the toll road. It's going to be rerouted twenty kilometers north because of the soft soil near the valley bed. I know that, and in six months, you’ll know that. When it happens, this whole area's value will tank further."

"You... you’re bluffing," Suryo stammered, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"Check the geological surveys from '08 again, Suryo. The valley isn't stable enough for a Tier-1 highway. If I don't buy this 'worthless' land from you now, you’ll be stuck with it for the next decade. Forty-five million. All-in. Right now."

Suryo stared at him. The confidence in Radit's eyes was unnatural—too old, too certain. "Fine. Forty-five. You’re a weird kid."

They sat in the broker’s humid office, the rhythmic thud of a stamp echoing in the small room. Radit checked the legal document three times. The seal was there. His name was there.

Radit Atmodjo. Owner of Plot 44-B.

"There," Suryo said, sliding the paper over. He couldn't hide his snicker. "Congratulations. You are now the king of the most useless dirt in the province. What are you going to do first? Dig for gold?"

"No," Radit said, standing up and tucking the deed into his inner jacket pocket. "I’m going to look for a drink."

"Try the village down the road. There’s no water on your mountain, kid. Not a drop. Even if you dug a hole a hundred meters deep, you'd find nothing but more dry rock."

"We'll see," Radit murmured.

He knew what the surveys didn't. In nine years, during the Great Drought before the fire, an illegal fracking operation would accidentally puncture a subterranean aquifer right beneath Plot 44-B—a massive, ancient reservoir of pre-industrial water that would become more valuable than oil.

He stepped outside. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and soft purple. It was peaceful, but his pulse was thundering.

He checked his phone one last time.

Bank Balance: IDR 0.

He had fifty million in assets, he had a deed to a kingdom, and his stomach chose that exact moment to let out a hollow, agonizing growl. He hadn't eaten since he woke up in 2014.

"Zero rupiahs," he whispered. "I'm literally starving on top of a mountain of 'gold.'"

He reached into his pocket, hoping to find a loose coin for a piece of street bread. His fingers found nothing but the empty smartphone.

His vision flickered slightly. It wasn't hunger—it was a memory. The smell of ash. He leaned against the side of the building, gasping.

Suddenly, a motorbike roared to a stop right in front of him. A tall man in a leather jacket hopped off, his face obscured by a dark visor.

"Radit Atmodjo?" the rider asked.

Radit stiffened, his hand going to the deed. "Who's asking?"

"You just borrowed fifty million from my boss this morning," the rider said, flipping his visor up. It wasn't a collector—it was a messenger he recognized from the future. A man who worked for the military contractors. "The boss forgot to tell you one thing."

The rider reached into his jacket and pulled out a heavy, metallic folder.

"He wants to know how you knew the exactly amount to ask for to make the credit trigger go green. You aren't on the grid, kid. Nobody knows who you are."

Radit’s heart skipped a beat. "Is that a threat?"

"It’s an invitation. Get on. Someone wants to see if your brains match your balls."