The acrid stench of smoke filled the air.
In the distance, a building was ablaze.
People were running through the streets, some calling out for loved ones.
Ambulance and firetruck sirens screamed nonstop.
It was chaos—but not much different from when he had first arrived in Britain a month ago.
What was different?
When he first crossed over into this world, Pierre had brought with him not just confusion, but also that familiar old trait: poverty.
But now?
The confusion was gone.
He was full of ambition.
And more importantly—he was rich. Filthy rich.
Standing on the roadside, watching the post-apocalyptic scene before him, Pierre pulled a cigarette from his gold case, flicked it against the lid a couple of times, and lit up.
The smoky flavor mingled with the scent of gunpowder in the air— it hit just right.
The Brits? Let them die for all he cared.
Well… maybe not all Brits.
Take Stanna, for example.
