Daniel Mercer did not sleep.
Sleep implied vulnerability.
Vulnerability implied repetition.
He sat at his desk under the dim glow of his apartment lamp, writing with mechanical precision.
Dates.Coordinates.Casualty projections.Vault emergence probabilities.Gate instability cycles.
The notebook in front of him looked like the manifesto of a conspiracy theorist.
Except every entry was accurate.
He checked the calendar again.
March 12th, 2035.
In exactly 3,671 days, the First Gate would open above Seoul at 14:32 local time.
The world would end quietly at first.
A ripple in the sky.
A distortion in gravity.
Then monsters.
Panic.
Collapse.
He remembered it vividly.
Not the screams.
Not the blood.
But the confusion.
Humanity's greatest weakness had not been monsters.
It had been disbelief.
This time, disbelief would belong to others.
Not him.
He turned to his laptop and began coding.
In his previous life, he had ignored pre-Gate anomalies. Minor magnetic disturbances. Strange radiation signatures dismissed as solar interference.
But they were precursors.
The world had warned them.
They had simply not understood the language.
He began scraping open-source satellite feeds, meteorological archives, and academic databases.
He didn't need classified information yet.
He needed timing.
Timing was leverage.
His bank account balance glowed on the corner of the screen.
Insignificant.
In ten years, relic fragments would trade for billions.
Right now, they were theoretical curiosities.
He leaned back and closed his eyes briefly.
Money first.
Then influence.
Then relic control.
No heroics.
No coalitions.
No emotional attachments.
His phone vibrated.
Elena.
"Coffee later?"
Three words.
In this timeline, she was still his classmate.
Still ambitious. Still brilliant. Still unaware of how history would bend around her.
He stared at the message longer than necessary.
In the previous timeline, she had stood behind Adrian during his execution.
She hadn't protested.
But she hadn't looked triumphant either.
She had looked… conflicted.
He typed slowly.
"Busy today. Rain check."
He placed the phone face down.
Distance was necessary.
Attachment was liability.
He opened a financial trading platform.
NovaHelix Biotech.
Current valuation: negligible.
In six months, unexplained radiation fluctuations would create breakthroughs in their experimental energy storage models.
Their stock would multiply by 400%.
He began transferring funds.
Risk tolerance: maximum.
If he was wrong, he lost nothing significant.
If he was right—
Phase One would begin.
He opened a new document.
Phase One: Silent Accumulation.
Objective: Acquire capital and early anomaly data without drawing attention.
He listed future relic vault coordinates.
Most would not be accessible until after the First Gate.
But a few precursor artifacts—
Meteorite fragments infused with dormant mana—
Would appear earlier.
He remembered one specifically.
A small impact site in northern Canada.
Catalogued as insignificant in 2036.
Auctioned privately for $18,000.
Later identified as a stabilizer fragment worth billions.
He smiled faintly.
He checked the date again.
Two months until that meteorite landed.
This time, he would be there first.
A sudden pulse echoed faintly in his mind.
The World Core.
It was stronger tonight.
Not audible.
Not visible.
But present.
Watching.
He froze.
In his previous life, the Core had only resonated when he stood within a kilometer of it.
Now, ten years before its discovery—
It was reacting.
"That's impossible," he murmured.
Unless regression wasn't time travel.
Unless it was connection.
He opened a blank page in his notebook.
New Hypothesis: Regression triggered by Core resonance at death. Persistent link maintained.
If true—
He wasn't just remembering the future.
He was tethered to something beyond it.
A thrill ran down his spine.
Opportunity.
Or danger.
He closed the notebook slowly.
First, wealth.
Then information.
Then power.
Only after that would he investigate the Core.
Outside, the city stirred with early morning light.
Peaceful.
Fragile.
He stood by the window and looked at the skyline.
Ten years from now, most of it would be ash.
"This time," he said quietly, "I decide what survives."
His laptop pinged.
NovaHelix stock purchase confirmed.
Small.
Invisible.
The first piece on the board.
The World Core pulsed once more in the back of his consciousness.
Not approval.
Not warning.
Recognition.
As if something had also awakened.
And it was no longer alone.