Chapter 3: The Ultimate Defense

I flew to Houston and hit up the biggest gun show I could find. The place looked like a Fourth of July barbecue—except the fireworks were actual grenades. I bought up everything: heavy weaponry, mobile combat robots, clearing bots. Call of Duty, but with real money and no respawns.

With enough cash, even the impossible was for sale. I scored two nuclear warheads on the black market. Sweat prickled down my back as I signed for the warheads. One wrong move, and I’d be history—again.

In a hidden bay, I stashed a nuclear submarine and a plane, with a secret underground passage leading straight from my fortress. The setup felt like a Tom Cruise heist—paranoid, maybe, but necessary.

I hired two instructors—ex-Navy, no-nonsense—to drill me daily in piloting both the sub and the plane. Every morning started with drills: diving, surfacing, emergency escapes. By week four, I could launch a missile in my sleep.

To keep out superpowered players, I had artificial reefs built in the far-off waters. Watching the cranes drop concrete blocks into the surf, I couldn’t help grinning. No one was storming my castle—not by land, sea, or TikTok rumor.

Closer to shore, I strung an electrified net around the island. High voltage, no way to cut it. I checked the current every night, pacing the fence line like a rancher with too much to lose.

Along the coastline, I buried bombs and set up radar, ready to blast anything that tried to sneak up. Even birds weren’t safe—I rigged a massive electric net in the sky, shimmering like a second ceiling. No pigeons, no crows, no viral outbreaks.

After a year, every defense was in place. I walked the perimeter slow, taking it all in. Standing in the heart of my fortress, I felt invincible—and a little bit scared. What if all this wasn’t enough?

To throw off the other players, I staged luxury resort projects in Miami, the Bahamas, even Dubai. Fake press conferences, staged interviews, all to keep eyes off Horizon Island.

I set up backup shelters all over: New Zealand, Alaska, the Alps. Each had a private jet waiting, fueled and stocked for a year. I could be anywhere in hours, no refueling needed.

After the last NPCs left, I was the only soul on the island. I stood on the sand, watching the final ship slip over the horizon, its horn echoing. The silence that followed felt heavy, almost sacred.

I bought a space tech company and launched 6,122 satellites. Network bars always full—FaceTime, even at the end of the world.

During that year, I quietly bought every airline and shipping company. Monopoly wasn’t a game anymore—it was survival. The skies, the seas, they all belonged to me.

In the final week, I ordered every plane and ship destroyed. With one tap, fleets vanished. Brutal, but necessary.

The world freaked out. Memes exploded—my face photoshopped onto Scrooge McDuck, #RichOrDieTrying trending on Twitter. News anchors called me a madman. I didn’t care.

The NPCs thought I’d lost it. Time magazine put me on the cover with devil horns and a burning world. I almost laughed.

But only the players knew the truth: the world’s richest man was their deadliest rival.

In the player chat, paranoia ran wild. Chris Young messaged: “Alex, is that global tycoon you?” He was the only one who’d seen me pick infinite wealth. I ignored him.

The apocalypse started a week later. The sky turned purple, thunder rattled my bunker. Sirens blared—useless, but unnerving. The countdown was over.

Superpowered players all over the globe got ready to test their new tricks. I watched my control room monitors—icons blinking for teleporters in Tokyo, lightning users in Paris, mind controllers in New York. Game on.

And for the first time, I wondered—was all the money in the world enough to buy me a way out?