Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!-Chapter 360: Ripple Flucture and The Four

A murmur rippled through the throne hall—an involuntary reaction, like a nerve twitch.

Those perfect features. Those luminous bloodlines.

The Kingswells weren't some accident of nature. They weren't a lucky evolutionary lottery ticket.

They were crafted.

Sculpted straight from the bones of a cosmic titan.

Born from a tree that had once brushed the heavens clean. Just for one sole purpose... Serve their master.

Helena continued, her voice relentless, barely giving them a second to breathe, to even absorb the depth of what she was laying at their feet.

"After the High Elves," she said, "the Prince created the second but purest High Human bloodline." She turned slightly, her gaze brushing across the Zhangs—the stoic, silent titans among the families.

The ones who had stood when the world was young—and who, somehow, still stood now.

"And from his own magic," Helena added, her voice dropping lower, heavier, like the tolling of an ancient bell, "he created the Ravencroft Witches."

Her gaze now settled on Salem Ravencroft—the patriarch of the Ravencroft line—and then Maya, whose proud posture stiffened ever so slightly, the old pride and pain flickering in her shoulders.

The air thickened almost imperceptibly, a weight you could taste but not touch.

"The Ravencrofts," Helena said, her voice almost gentle now, "have always drawn their strength directly from the Prince's magic. When his magic flourish... they flourish."

She let that truth hang in the air like a crown dripping with blood and starlight.

"But when his magic weakens—sealed, lost, forgotten—" Helena closed her eyes for a brief heartbeat, as if touching an old wound that hadn't yet healed. "They, too, fall into slumber. Weaker than the others... until the Prince awakens fully once again."

Parker sat there on his throne, swirling his wine with a lazy flick of his wrist, utterly relaxed.

Amused.

Predatory.

It was weird, watching history slap people in the face—raw and unfiltered, like they'd been living in cardboard worlds their whole lives and someone finally ripped the curtain down.

The crowd still sat frozen in their seats.

Naomi looked like she needed a shot of whiskey and maybe a cigarette break to process her entire existence.

Parker smiled wider, shark-like, not even bothering to hide it.

'And that,' he thought smugly, 'was just the intro.'

*

With the demons, devils and deamons already wandering existence like ancient mistakes left unchecked, Parker had realized early on that raw chaos wasn't enough. He needed something more.

Something smarter, sharper—a bloodline that didn't just react to existence but bent it at its will.

Thus were born the Deamons—another kind of deamons—not savage, not mindless, but crafted with deliberate malice and design. They were his scalpel where others had been hammers, a race meant not just to destroy, but to thrive in destruction, dancing through the ruins they left behind.

Yet even that wasn't enough. The Prince demanded more than tools. He wanted monsters that could grow, evolve, devour—become nightmares even to gods.

Thus, the final and most dangerous Bloodline was created: the Dravens. In the language of men, Draven might translate to "hunter"—simple enough for those who didn't know better. But in the true tongue, the sacred words carved into existence itself, Draven meant something entirely different. Master Devourer. Not just hunters of flesh or blood, but of power, of lineages, of fates. The Dravens fed not simply to survive, but to ascend, layer upon layer of stolen strength welded into their bones.

Their first and purest meal had been their creator—the blood of Prince Nyxlith himself.

In those first lost days of reality, the most powerful of the Dravens was the firstborn, a name older than war itself. Lia. The mother of all Dravens. The perfect predator.

Parker, sitting atop his throne with his wine swirling lazily between his fingers, allowed a small chuckle to escape him at the memory. Below, amidst the gathering of young blood and older fear, Scarlett Draven stiffened. Not visibly to most—she was too proud for that—but Parker caught it. The slight tightening of her jaw. The flicker of horror in her eyes.

She understood now why she had always been drawn to him with a hunger she couldn't explain, why every drop of his blood she ever tasted had felt like breathing for the first time.

Even before his true awakening, even before she knew his name, her very Bloodline had betrayed her, craving the source it had been born to worship. And Parker, once a boy she had toyed with for sport, had been her creator all along. Worse still, she had turned herself into his thrall, into her creature—thinking she was taking power when all along she was crawling closer to her roots.

Noctavine Vaelith Draven, regal and composed, stepped forward at that moment and dipped into a bow low and deep, a gesture not of fear, but of acknowledgment, of debt.

A bow from the Matriarch of the Night to the one who had given her people breath.

Now it settled across the room like falling ash—the realization. Parker wasn't just a prince because he had seized power. He was the Origin of them all. He was the first flicker of will that made them possible.

Their creator. Their blood. Their chains. And perhaps, if he willed it, their final end.

For the younger generation—who had only ever known pride, power, and the illusion of their independence—the truth hit with all the subtlety of a guillotine.

Parker smiled faintly, a slow, knowing thing. They understood now. And he hadn't even gotten to the real part yet.

Parker during creations, he'd always created the purest and the most powerful of creatures and Bloodlines already in existence.

*

Helena stood before the hall, her hands clasped lightly behind her back, the air bending ever so slightly around her presence. She shifted, slowly, deliberately, pointing toward the gathered bloodlines, her voice steady and clear, cutting through the thick silence like the whisper of a sword being drawn. She did not need to shout; she was the kind of woman whose every word felt like a decree carved into stone.

"Each time the Prince dies," Helena began, her silver gaze sweeping across the grand families seated below the throne platform, "and is fated to reincarnate again, the cycle grants a privilege to the bloodlines who once pledged themselves to him."

She lifted her hand, pointing first toward the Voidhowls, her tone sharpening like a silent strike. "Each family is given a chance—a rare chance—to birth four unique existences, bound directly to the Original."

Her finger moved like a clock hand, slow and heavy with meaning, stopping over one group after another. "First, Judgment," she said, and though her voice was calm, the word itself seemed to ripple through the hall with an almost living weight. "The living will of the Prince's authority. The unbending law carved into flesh."

She moved on, her hand now pausing over the gathering of Voidhowls. "Second, Fenrir. The fang and claw of the Prince. The beast who howls not at the moon but at existence itself."

Her hand lifted higher, and she turned slightly, her body angling toward Maya who stood proudly at the front. A faint smile, almost imperceptible, touched Helena's lips, and her voice softened a fraction, becoming almost reverent.

"And third..." she said, her words a brushstroke of both pride and warning. "The Empress."

The hall exhaled, a collective breath no one realized they'd been holding.

All eyes shifted toward Maya—daughter of the Ravencroft line, the one who stood so effortlessly poised, whose blood shimmered with a touch of something older than magic itself. The woman who, through nine lifetimes and more, had always been destined to stand beside the Prince.