Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!-Chapter 362: The Original Blood Bond: Sired to the Beginning

In the world of vampires, siring wasn't just an act of creation—it was a declaration of ownership. It was the oldest kind of binding. The blood that turned you also claimed you, stitched into your bones and your breath and your very sense of self.

Normally, a fledgling was simple—a human bitten, drained, given blood, turned. But in that turning, the fledgling was rewritten, made to crave their sire's approval, to answer to their call like a blade answers its master's hand. No laws. No wills. No hope. Once sired, your soul belonged to your maker. It was terrifying... and irreversible.

But that was for humans.

Vampires who were born—born of pure blood, not turned from mortal stock—were different. They were supposed to be untouchable. Sovereign. Bloodlines so dense with ancient power that no one, no matter how strong, could ever rewrite their existence.

Supposed to be.

*

Helena stepped forward, lowering herself into a deep bow, her voice carrying clearly through the stunned hall.

"My Prince," she said, "this child… she does not belong to this family."

The words hung like a guillotine.

Parker's jaw tightened, his hand flexing instinctively around the girl's back.

Helena's face darkened slightly, her tone sharpening.

"Just as that man tried to abduct Naomi," she said, nodding toward the vampires held captive by her power, "this family abducted this child. They annihilated her true bloodline—wiped it out—and claimed her as their own."

Something in Parker snapped. His blood, usually calm and colder than deep space, boiled hot behind his ribs. His eyes flickered dangerously, the kind of flicker that sent elder vampires and witches alike retreating in their seats without meaning to.

Before he could move, Nyxavere came bouncing lightly toward him, hugging the girl from the side, her tiny fingers patting the confused young one's head.

"Ohhh, you poor thing," Nyxavere cooed, face twisted in a dramatic pout.

The child didn't seem to understand what was happening, caught somewhere between terror and relief.

Helena bowed again, voice grim but respectful.

"She's sired to them, my Prince," she said. "She knows nothing of her original family anymore. Only the false bonds they forced onto her."

Parker stared down at the little one—this stolen, corrupted fragment of what was meant to be sacred—and smiled. But it wasn't a kind smile. It was a dangerous one. A promise.

Parker listened without blinking as Helena finished her explanation, his wine forgotten at the foot of the throne.

Because what that family had done—what those bastards dared to do—wasn't just a crime. It was a blasphemy against existence itself.

They had sired a born vampire.

A mere child.

They had fed her their blood in rituals so dark they could bend even a true vampire child's will, latching their broken lineage onto her soul until she forgot who she was.

Until she looked at her captors and thought: family.

Parker's blood boiled beneath his skin, a slow, searing fury curling up his spine. Omni Energy pulsed around him in an invisible hum, rattling quietly against the gilded bones of the hall.

He couldn't imagine it.

He didn't want to imagine it.

The pain of a forced siring on a true-blooded child—the rewriting of memories, the crushing of instinct, the silencing of the old blood's song—was agony of a caliber that no adult should endure. Let alone a child barely past her first century.

Nyxavere sensed it too.

She slipped closer to him, her small hand wrapping around his, squeezing once in silent understanding. Her Omni-stitched battle aura still shimmered faintly from before, but now her energy pulsed low, protective, lethal.

The little girl, dressed in white, stood before him—confused, trusting, unaware of the chains that wrapped her spirit.

He extended a hand, gentle, fatherly.

"Come here," he murmured, voice so soft it barely stirred the charged air.

She hesitated only a second before stepping into his arms.

Parker crouched down, lower and slowly before the little vampire girl, who stood there in her white dress, blinking up at him with wide, uncertain crimson eyes. The weight of the hall, the trembling tension of ancient families around them—none of it touched her.

She was just a child, confused, lost, and utterly alone.

Parker pulled her in carefully, gathering her small body against his chest. He could feel it—the shivers that racked her tiny frame, the way her fingers clutched at his shirt like he was the last safe thing left in the world.

As a father himself, Parker had always had a soft weakness buried beneath all his cynicism, his power, his history. That part of him—the old part—ached seeing her like this.

Without a word, he lifted his hand, flexed his fingers—and sliced his own palm open with a lazy flick of his nail.

The blood spilled forth immediately, rich and heavy.

It was red, not gold—deceptively normal to a human eye—but any existence older than dirt would know better.

This blood wasn't just life.

It was law.

It was the raw, beating foundation of everything.

The scent hit the vampires like a loaded shotgun blast.

Across the room, elder vampires snarled low in their throats immediately, bodies tensing violently against the urge to crawl toward him. Even the locked vampires, pinned down by Helena's power, trembled with feral hunger, their veins singing with a need so primal it almost ripped them apart from the inside out.

This blood—

This blood was it.

The first and final draught.

The Source that birthed the them and the monsters and the dreams and the nightmares.

The blood...

It was thicker, heavier—almost dense with weight and meaning. A color so vivid it bordered on the unreal, like the moment between sunset and oblivion.

A shade that whispered not of mortality but of creation itself.

The blood of the Original.

The scent was hitting the vampires like a battering ram.

The four armored vampires guarding the criminals staggered where they stood, hands twitching toward their weapons as their instincts screamed to kneel or lunge—or both. Their faces twisted, caught between raw hunger and terror.

Even among the Origin Families, those so old they made ancient dynasties seem like toddlers, reactions rippled.

Robert Blackwood's jaw locked so tight veins bulged at his temple.

Salem Ravencroft exhaled sharply through his nose, the air around him thickening unnaturally.

Lady Noctavine Vaelith Draven's eyes flickered red, her nails sinking into the velvet of her armrest, restraining herself with an elegance that made it even more terrifying.

Because this scent...

This scent was not survival.

It wasn't conquest.

It was origin.

The source.

The law. freewebnσvel.cѳm

The marrow of existence from which all lesser things had borrowed their right to live.

And now, it was bleeding freely into the marble like a king signing a treaty none of them were worthy of touching.

Parker didn't even glance at them.

His eyes were on the little girl—the fledgling—who stared at him like he was both sunrise and apocalypse wrapped into one being. Her tiny fangs snapped down involuntarily, her whole body trembling under instincts she couldn't understand but couldn't resist either.

The child's eyes darkened instantly, her tiny fangs sliding out. She whimpered once—and then without warning, lunged up and sank her teeth into his palm.

Parker didn't flinch.

He cradled her tighter as she fed, feeling her shudder against him, feeling her soul unravel and stitch itself back together in real time.

Above them, chandeliers rattled. Marble cracked in delicate spiderwebs beneath their feet. And across the throne room, the Origin Families watched in awe and terror as history rewrote itself—again—right before their eyes.

The child in the white dress stood frozen, wide-eyed. She looked so fragile in that moment, so achingly confused—but when he held out his bleeding palm to her, she moved without hesitation.

Because somewhere deeper than blood—deeper than magic—her very soul recognized him.

Recognized home.