Apocalypse Rebirth: Making Billions With My Fortune-Telling Skill

The glass doors of the estate opened to a crisp morning, the lingering fog clinging low to the immaculate stone driveways.

Waiting right beside a black sedan stood Samuel, impeccably dressed in his dark suit, holding the rear passenger door open.

”Good morning, Miss April, Miss Emily,” Samuel greeted with a crisp, fluid bow. ”The vehicle is prepared, and the private perimeter at the venue has been secured by Mr. Reed’s advance security detail.”

”Good morning, Samuel,” Emily replied brightly, stepping into the car first with a spring in her step, clutching her phone to her chest as if still keeping track of her delivery updates.

April lingered on the step for a fraction of a second, her eyes evaluating Samuel with a new, quiet intensity. Class: Unassigned. Loyalty: 100%. Looking at him now, he was as stoic and iron-clad as ever, yet knowing the system recognized his unwavering devotion made the quiet weight in her chest settle just a bit.

”Let’s get going,” April murmured, sliding into the interior beside Emily.

Samuel shut the door with a soft, solid click, rounding the car and sliding into the driver’s seat. Within seconds, the sedan glided smoothly through the towering iron gates of the estate, merging onto the secluded highway leading toward the city’s premier international exhibition district.

Inside the quiet cabin, Emily turned her screen toward April, showing off an array of pastel-colored ceramic sets and cozy home textiles. ”Look, April! The first batch of things I ordered yesterday is arriving at the estate tomorrow afternoon! I bought a set of matching plush slippers for us too.”

”They look comfortable,” April said, a subtle curve softening her lips as she leaned over to look. ”Order a few extra sets in different colors. We’ll have plenty of space for them.”

While Emily happily scrolled through her cart, April’s mind drifted back to the pending tasks at hand. The Culinary Championship was scheduled for tomorrow, Sunday.

Based on her suggestion, Xavier had engineered a hidden, private judge’s stage built specifically to keep her identity completely anonymous from the prying eyes of the audience and rival chefs.

And so they wouldn’t know about her keeping all the dishes away in her spatial dimension, and wouldn’t make a fuss about it.

Twenty minutes later, the sedan pulled up to the rear VIP loading bay of the Grand Metropolitan Convention Center. The massive facility was sprawling, surrounded by high temporary barricades and heavy security banners advertising the upcoming competition.

Black-suited guards with earpieces instantly stepped forward to clear the path, bowing respectfully as Samuel stepped out first to open April’s door.

”Miss April,” a sharp, familiar voice called out from the shaded hallway of the loading bay.

Dr. Oliver stepped into view, his white lab coat replaced by a sleek, dark trench coat, his wire-rimmed glasses gleaming under the fluorescent corridor lights.

He held a tablet under his arm, his expression as calm, analytical, and unsettlingly sharp as always.

”Dr. Oliver,” April noted, stepping onto the concrete pavement while Samuel remained half a pace behind her, his posture instantly vigilant. ”I didn’t expect you to handle the venue inspection personally. Is this also a part of your survey of my daily life?”

”You could say that. Mr. Reed deemed it necessary that I oversee the acoustic and spatial isolation of your stage,” Oliver replied smoothly, adjusting his glasses with a slender finger. ”After all, constructing a fully functional, Michelin-grade hidden kitchen that is completely invisible to three thousand live spectators requires a certain degree of... clinical precision. And I believe I will get more of your trust and good grace, and get the chance to observe you better with this.”

April narrowed her eyes slightly, observing the man. ”Well, you’re not entirely wrong.”

Oliver... April thought silently, recalling the locked system metrics. Just how high is your trust in me? They just met, and though she had conducted one reading for him, he was not in the clients tab, which meant his trust was not yet over 80%.

Well, it would’ve been suspicious if it did. She had never done anything for him, and aside his obsession with her spatial manipulation, and her ability to read into the future accurately, he had no other interest in her.

”Dr. Oliver,” April called coolly, stepping forward. ”You speak about getting my trust and good grace, but what about you?”

”What are you implying?”

”What must I do to get your own trust?” She boldly asked. She had no other way of gaining his trust. She certainly wouldn’t suggest she lie down on an operating table and let him dissect her. So she decided to ask...

There had to be at least something he wanted.

Dr. Oliver paused, his fingers coming up to rest against the bridge of his wire-rimmed glasses. Behind those spotless lenses, his sharp, pale eyes gleamed with an unnerving, almost fanatic spark of curiosity.

​A faint, dry chuckle escaped his lips—a sound as cold and sterile as a surgical blade.

​”My trust?” Oliver echoed, his analytical gaze scanning April’s face as if measuring her vitals on the spot. ”Miss April, trust is a biological, emotional variable. It is built on predictability, mutual dependence, and psychological comfort. To me, those things are merely neurochemical anomalies.”

​He shifted his tablet under his arm, stepping closer until his shadow fell over her.

​”I do not ’trust’ people,” he murmured softly, his tone entirely devoid of malicious intent, yet brimming with that infamous, mad-scientist thrill. ”I observe them. I categorize them. And right now, you are the most fascinating anomaly this world has ever produced. A human being who violates the known laws of space, matter, and cause-and-effect with a mere thought.”

​April kept her expression completely unbothered, though her dark eyes remained sharp. ”So you’re saying your favor can’t be bought with standard currency or favors.”

​”Precisely,” Oliver replied, a chilling, genuine smile curling at the edges of his lips. ”You do not need to lie down on my operating table, Miss April—though I won’t pretend the thought isn’t tempting. What I want from you is much simpler, yet infinitely more rare.”

​He tilted his head, his voice dropping into a smooth, conspiratorial whisper.

​”Absolute access to your phenomena. When the world breaks, when your predictions unfold, and when whatever force guiding you reveals its hand... I want a front-row seat. I want you to share your data with me. Let me analyze the impossible at your side.”