

I needed money, so I sold myself to that cold, handsome man for seven nights. He left behind a black card and an ice-cold eggshell, then vanished. Three months later, a doctor found six coiled serpentine shadows inside my womb. I discarded every trace of my identity and fled to a snowbound cabin, hoping to stay alive. But the day I gave birth alone in a blizzard, what crawled out weren't monsters. They were six babies with golden slit pupils who called me "Mama." My children were not priceless treasures. To the powerful guys, they were research subjects. To the other species, they were "filthy half-breeds." When cold needles pressed against all six of my children's chests, I heard the blast door torn from its frame. The man who had vanished three years ago stood in the smoke. Six golden threads glowed from his palm, each connected to a child, and black blood still seeped from the wounds he'd torn open breaking through the blockade. "Get your hands off my family."

Cast out by his own family as useless, Justin Lowe opens a supermarket in the apocalypse and staffs it entirely with S-rank anomalies. His monsters clock in, follow orders, and keep the shelves stocked while human survivors trade hexcoins for goods that shouldn't exist: prehistoric snacks, high-tech weapons, supplies from no known supply chain. Each transaction upgrades the store. Each upgrade unlocks something stranger. The anomalies are terrifying everywhere except inside Justin's shop, where they are, inexplicably, perfectly obedient. Dragged repeatedly into the power struggles and crises of the survivor world, he navigates each one with wit and nerve rather than force. In the end, it isn't a weapon or an army that defeats the cosmic evil bearing down on what's left of humanity. It's a commercial contract, and the man who signs it becomes the world's last savior.