I tried to drive back to the restaurant, but I hit gridlock two blocks away.

  I sat there, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel of the Terramotta, wondering if there was an accident. Then I saw the cars ahead of me turning into the valet lot.

  "Oh," I realized. "It's me. I'm the traffic."

  The line for Eden wrapped around the block.

  I turned on the radio and settled in. It took thirty minutes just to inch my way to the employee entrance in the back alley.

  From the outside, the place looked immaculate. The vertical gardens were lit with recessed lighting. The glass walls glowed. It looked like a beacon of civilization in the night of Detroit.

  The upstairs lights were off. The store wouldn't open until tomorrow. But the restaurant downstairs was booming.

  I slipped in through the kitchen door.

  Aiya was standing at the pass, looking like a conductor in front of an orchestra. She was generating. With flicks of her wrist, vacuum-sealed meals materialized, were plated by the staff, and sent out to the dining room.

  She glanced at me as I walked in.

  "You look like you just got your ass kicked," she said, sliding a plate of Immortal Venison onto a tray.

  "Not quite," I said, rubbing my shoulder where Axehill’s fist had connected. "But you're not far off."

  "How's the house?"

  "Packed," she said. "Go upstairs. Get some rest. You look terrible."

  I nodded. I climbed the stairs to the second floor. I found a pile of burlap sacks filled with Heavenly Potatoes in the corner and collapsed onto them. I was asleep in seconds.

  I woke up a few hours later. The building was silent.

  I walked downstairs. The dining room was empty, the chairs stacked on tables. Aiya was at the register, counting a stack of Spirit Stones.

  "Successful night?" I asked, leaning against the bar.

  "Ten thousand," she said without looking up.

  I whistled. "That's strong for a soft opening."

  "When the grocery store opens tomorrow, we can double that," she said. "Twenty thousand a day. In five days, we make what we made with the tea individually at the auction house. In a week, we make more."

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  "Good," I said. "We're going to need it."

  I pulled up a stool. "I fought Axehill tonight."

  Aiya stopped counting. "I know. I saw the video while you were sleeping."

  She pulled out her phone and slid it across the counter.

  The video had two million views. It was shaky footage, but clear enough. Two titans clashing in the street. My bamboo sword against his glowing fists. The shockwaves cracking the pavement.

  "You fought well," she said. "That's important. Our reputation depends on strength just as much as wealth."

  "He declared war," I said. "Or rather, he declared us 'targets'."

  "How do we handle it?"

  "We don't fight him in the streets," I said. "Not yet. The government won't interfere. We've become too powerful for them to police. They'd rather let the four factions duke it out than risk destabilizing the city."

  "So we're on our own."

  "Strategically, yes. That's why we need to expand."

  I looked around the room. "Mister O has the Thunderdome. He has dealerships. But that's just what we can see. The fear is that we don't know how deep his roots go. He could own the power grid for all we know."

  "And us?"

  "We have cash. And we have a product no one else has. We need to buy infrastructure. We are safer inside the zone than outside, but we aren't untouchable. We can't get sloppy."

  I stood up. "My corporate background is finally going to pay off. I'll handle the acquisitions. You go home. Get some sleep. You did good work tonight."

  Aiya nodded. She looked exhausted but proud. She grabbed her keys and headed for her Becket.

  I got in the Terramotta and drove to the Oil Up Gas Station.

  The place was quiet. Brady was behind the counter, engrossed in a handheld gaming device.

  "Hey Brady," I said.

  He looked up, squinting. "Bamboo Man?"

  "Present."

  He looked at my chest. "Your armor changed. It doesn't look like bamboo anymore. Looks like metal."

  "Grade 3 perks," I said.

  I leaned on the counter. "Who owns this station? The real owner."

  "The Beckenfeins," Brady said without hesitation. "Grace Beckenfein runs the holdings now."

  "Beckenfein," I repeated. "Must be a big family."

  "Used to be," Brady muttered. He scribbled a number on a piece of receipt paper and slid it to me. "That's her direct line."

  I raised an eyebrow. "How do you have the CEO's direct line?"

  "I'm a good employee," he smirked. Then he nodded at my armor. "After the Collapse, everyone quit. Except me. I stayed. As a result of my loyalty, I got certain perks. Once she sees your moves, she won't say no. You're famous, man."

  I took the paper. "Thanks, Brady."

  I went back to my truck and pulled out my phone.

  I searched Beckenfein Holdings.

  They were titans of the old world. Retail, gas stations, hotels, restaurants, toll roads. Pre-Collapse, the family was worth seven billion Spirit Stones (adjusted).

  Now? They were bleeding.

  Gas stations relied on volume. Outside the zones, nobody paid for gas. Inside, fewer people drove.

  Their hotels were empty—who vacations in the apocalypse?

  Their restaurants were struggling—without magical ingredients, they couldn't compete with places like Eden or other high end cultivator spots.

  Grace Beckenfein, age 28, was the heir to a crumbling empire. She was sitting on a mountain of infrastructure that was slowly turning into rust.

  "Perfect," I whispered.

  She had the skeleton. I had the blood.

  I looked at the number on the receipt paper.

  "Time to make a call."