Chapter 3: Buying an Island

Julius walked out of the coffee shop into the cool evening air, clutching his new leather planner beneath his arm. The metropolis was glowing now, neon signs and streetlamps humming to life as the sun sank below the high-rises.

Before he could buy an island, he needed a proper base of operations in the city. Wandering around with infinite money and no bed was a mistake only the other players would make.

He hailed a black cab, rode directly to the city’s most prestigious five-star hotel—The Grand Sovereign—and dropped his titanium card on the marble reception counter.

Within ten minutes, the front desk manager was bowing him into the Presidential Suite on the sixtieth floor. No background checks, no delays. The system’s banking protocol instantly cleared the exorbitant weekly rate, along with a twenty-thousand-dollar cash deposit for room service.

Julius walked into the suite, tossed his coat over an armchair, and stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking the skyline.

It was quiet. Completely soundproof.

He ordered a steak dinner, sat down at the heavy mahogany desk, and laid out his tools: the leather planner, the black ink pen, and his phone.

He opened the browser to private island brokers.

Most luxury islands were useless for his purposes. They were flat strips of white sand in the Bahamas or French Polynesia, built for tourists, tanning, and jet skis. A single tsunami or sea monster would sweep them clean off the map.

Julius crossed out tropical paradises immediately. He wasn’t looking for a vacation resort. He was looking for a natural fortress.

He opened a specialized broker site dealing in sovereign maritime real estate, remote territory sales, and decommissioned industrial tracts. Three candidates immediately caught his eye.

The first was an atoll in the South Pacific. It was isolated, thousands of miles from any shipping corridor, but sat barely four meters above sea level. Julius shook his head. Too low. Rising tides or massive waves would drown it.

The second was an islet off the coast of Scotland. It had towering stone bluffs, cold deep water, and great natural defense. But the nearby national government held strict maritime restrictions and military radar coverage. Julius couldn’t build missile silos and deep-bore bunkers under the nose of a sovereign navy.

Then he clicked on the third listing.

[St. Jude’s Spire — North Atlantic]

Location: 340 miles off the southern coast of Greenland, outside international territorial waters.

Total Area: 18 square kilometers (approx. 4,400 acres).

Terrain: Dormant volcanic basalt, high sea cliffs (80–120 meters), deep natural harbor, dormant geothermal vent system.

History: Formerly purchased by a bankrupt mining consortium. Complete territorial and resource sovereignty granted under international treaty.

Asking Price: $380,000,000 USD.

Julius zoomed in on the satellite images.

The island looked like a cracked black tooth rising straight out of the churning, iron-gray ocean.

Sheer rock cliffs wrapped around nearly ninety percent of the perimeter, dropping straight into deep water. A ship couldn’t dock unless it entered through a narrow, stone-flanked bay on the southern side—a natural choke point that a pair of automated artillery guns could hold indefinitely.

Better yet, the center of the island rose into a massive basalt plateau. Volcanic rock was dense, tough, and ideal for carving out deep underground tunnels that could withstand nuclear strikes, let alone falling debris or stray spells.

And the listing mentioned a dormant geothermal vent. That meant free, endless heat and electricity from the earth’s core, immune to surface storms, ash clouds, or grid failures.

"Isolated. Hard rock. Natural walls. Unlimited clean power," Julius whispered, his eyes gleaming.

It was utterly uninhabitable for a normal billionaire who wanted palm trees and blue lagoons. But for a fortress? It was a masterpiece.

Julius clicked the direct contact link for the brokerage firm handling the deed: Vanguard Maritime & Sovereign Assets.

A private line was listed for the senior broker, a man named Ernest Jacobs—no relation, just a strange coincidence of the mirror world.

Julius dialed the number on his phone.

It rang three times before an older, gravelly voice answered. "Arthur Jacobs speaking. If this is regarding the Mediterranean portfolios, office hours resume at eight tomorrow."

"I’m not calling about the Mediterranean," Julius said calmly, leaning back into his leather chair. "I’m calling about St. Jude’s Spire in the North Atlantic."

There was a brief pause on the line. The broker’s tone shifted, dry and cautious. "The Spire? Sir, that property has been dormant for six years. It’s an arctic rock with no running utilities, no soil for farming, and high shipping costs. It requires serious capital."

"I know what it is," Julius said. "The asking price is three hundred and eighty million."

"That is correct. Plus escrow fees, environmental transfer taxes, and international deed registry, which brings it closer to four hundred million."

"I won’t negotiate the price," Julius said, his voice flat, steady, and commanding. "I’ll wire four hundred and twenty million to your holding firm tonight. The extra twenty million is for you to expedite the entire legal process. I want the complete sovereign deed, mineral rights, and territorial air-and-sea rights cleared in my name within forty-eight hours."

Silence hit the line like a dropped anvil.

For five full seconds, all Julius could hear was the faint sound of the broker’s breath hitching.

"Sir... transferring that amount of liquid capital requires bank guarantees, international clearance, and—"

"Give me your escrow account number," Julius interrupted. "Check your terminal in sixty seconds. If the money clears, we have a deal. If it doesn’t, you can hang up."

The broker stammered for a moment, then rattled off the account routing details for a major Swiss bank.

Julius switched his screen, opened the banking app, and entered the wire transfer: $420,000,000.00.

He pressed confirm.

The app flashed a subtle golden border. No loading wheel. No delay.

Across the phone line, the quiet clatter of computer keys suddenly stopped. A sharp intake of air hissed through the speaker.

"Mr... Mr. Vance?" The broker’s voice was trembling, completely stripped of its earlier professional detachment. "The funds... they just cleared the Federal Reserve bypass. Full liquid transfer. Unconditional."

"Good," Julius said. "Start the paperwork tonight. I’ll be in your office at nine tomorrow morning to sign the physical deed."

"Yes, sir! Of course, Mr. Vance! Our legal team is working on it immediately. Is there anything else you require?"

"Yes," Julius said, looking down at his open planner where he had written Phase 1: Hire the best construction team on Earth.

"Find me the top subterranean civil engineering firm in the world," Julius said quietly. "The ones who build underground military command centers and nuclear missile silos. Tell them I have a billion-dollar contract waiting, and work begins this week."

"Right away, sir!"

Julius tapped the end-call button and set the phone face down on the desk.

He picked up his black pen, turned to the first page of his journal, and drew a thick, decisive line through the first task.

One day down. Seven hundred and twenty-nine left.