Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!-Chapter 380: Fear of the Unknown and Feast of the Forgotten Guardian

His words hadn't been unfounded. Far from it.

Once, long ago, the sight of black snow would've emptied cities. Would've sent people screaming into churches, falling to their knees, begging gods they barely believed in for mercy. It would've maybe triggered sirens, military, end-of-the-world hysteria. But this?

This was the new age.

The modern man.

The proudly daring species who fed on stimulation and stared the apocalypse in the eye as long as it made good content.

Instead of fleeing, they stood still—arms stretched out, palms open to the sky, welcoming the dark winter.

The flakes dissolved into their skin.

It wasn't ash. It wasn't ice. It was corruption made subtle. Liquid silence soaked in shadows. It didn't burn. It didn't chill. It just entered—and once inside, it whispered.

Daegon watched from above, one hand lazily gripping the edge of the building, the other still wrapped around the pulsing pearl that hummed like a heart craving collapse. His lips curved slowly upward, almost fond.

"Humans," he muttered, amused. "So much more daring in this era."

He tilted his head, letting the wind tousle through his dark hair as if it still knew who he was. His gaze swept the crowd, picking out each face as it changed—eyes fading from awe to emptiness, from innocence to twisted desire.

This is going to be fun.

But then—something.

A flicker.

From the corner of his gaze, he caught it. A child. The same one who had pointed to the sky. The boy had backed away. Just a step—but a real one. He gripped his mother's coat tightly, eyes wide with primal instinct. Unlike her, he hadn't let the snow touch him.

Daegon's eyebrows lifted with sudden interest. "Oh?" he whispered. "You still remember what fear tastes like?"

He smiled wider… but didn't linger. That child wasn't ready yet. Not for him.

Instead, his eyes returned to the others. And what he saw now was beautiful.

One man, maybe in his thirties, his suit still crisp from the office, stared into the void with eyes that had begun to glow faintly dark—not with power, not like Yuna—but with something far worse.

Envy.

"It's supposed to be mine…" the man said. His voice was cracked, brittle. His fingers twitched as he stared at a sleek car across the street. A man stepped out of it, holding a bouquet, heading toward a woman in red.

"She never loved me… she just wanted him…"

"No. No. No."

Another woman, down the block, dropped her groceries, her breathing erratic. "She got the promotion. But I worked harder. She lied. She cheated. She took everything…"

Another voice rose. Then another. Then dozens.

"It was mine—"

"I deserved more—"

"They didn't know what it cost me—"

Their eyes were clouded. Not black like Yuna's—not yet—but hollow, haunted. And growing darker by the second. The sins weren't empowering them. They were feasting on them. Greed and Jealousy had crawled inside their veins and were now cracking the glass of their restraints like a boiling kettle with nowhere left to scream.

And it wasn't just here. Not just this block. Not just this corner of the city.

It was in Yeouido—the financial heart of Seoul, where suits and handshakes made empires rise and fall. The epicenter of pride, status, and envy. And now?

The very ground was starting to ache with it.

The corruption spread like a fog. Unseen to the naked eye. But real. Living. It seeped through concrete, through skin, through logic and control and therapy and prayer. It didn't break things with force. It just gave people permission to be exactly who they were beneath the filters.

And Daegon watched as the first wave of screams began.

A man punched a glass window barehanded to get to a designer watch.

A woman pushed a mother on the street for not moving fast enough.

Someone nearly lit a car on fire.

Another danced in front of it, laughing, sobbing, praying to nothing.

But this… this wasn't ordinary corruption.

Most of them—too many of them—had something darker blooming inside. Like a second heartbeat. A shadow that wasn't theirs. The black snow had done more than whisper.

It had planted a seed. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

And Daegon felt it. Every pulse. Every beat. Every stolen thought.

His smile curved sharper, crueler.

"Shadow Slaves,of the Dark Pantheon? No these are my Sin Slaves!"

The moment he spoke the title, something woke up in those corrupted eyes. Not everyone. But a select few. They straightened. Their necks cracked unnaturally. Their eyes bled black ink down their cheeks as their mouths curled—not in confusion, but in recognition.

They had been claimed.

No—harvested.

These were no longer humans. These were vessels.

Corrupted. Claimed. And ready.

And it had only just begun.

The sins wept.

They screamed.

They tore into one humans randomly like wild dogs wearing human skin—driven not by hunger, not even by rage, but by something far quieter and far more terrifying: permission.

These humans were finally free to feel the things they had always pretended not to.

And Daegon—standing tall atop the world, arms stretched out like an ancient priest before a blood moon—welcomed it.

The corruption had rooted. That much was clear. But what came next was more than rot. It was reaping.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply—not with lungs, but with power. With the hunger of a Titan who had once kept chaos at bay and now invited it like an old friend. The air around him twisted. The black snow thickened, as if drawn to him, curving through the night like smoke drawn toward a dying sun.

And he felt it.

Their sins.

Greed, ripe and swollen like rotting fruit. Envy, bitter and metallic, sharp in his mouth. Jealousy, cold and clinging, like the breath of someone begging to be loved and never chosen.

The harvest of the sins poured into him like honey poured through a fracture in the sky.

His veins lit with shadowfire.

His eyes glowed—not red, not gold, but something unnatural, something ancient, something that made the air kneel.

All across Yeouido, the corrupted trembled. They didn't know why. Some screamed louder. Some dropped to their knees and wept without understanding. Others simply collapsed, eyes wide open, bodies shaking as Daegon fed on the very emotions they had been drowning in.

He opened his mouth, slowly, and drank. Not blood. Not life.

Emotion.

Pure, ugly, unfiltered desire.

"Mine," he whispered—no louder than the wind, yet somehow it echoed through every alley, every stairwell, every soul that had ever told themselves they deserved more.

They were his now. And their sins weren't burdens. They were offerings.

The man who had cried about the car?

Daegon drank his bitterness like wine.

The woman who had screamed at her reflection in jealousy of a life not hers?

Her envy melted into him like a love song twisted into a funeral hymn.

They gave themselves willingly.

And the sky responded.

Clouds began to curl into spiral shapes, like fingers dragging across velvet. The stars, already fading, turned into streaks of black ink. The flakes thickened, no longer gentle—now heavy. Sharp. Deliberate.

From the top of the tower, Daegon laughed. Not cruelly. Not joyfully.

But with the satisfaction of a being who had spent eons starving and was now being fed by the very world that once cast him out.

"Do you feel it?" he asked the night, voice booming, godlike, echoing across rooftops like thunder tearing apart confessionals. "Your anger. Your bitterness. Your jealousy…"

He placed a hand to his chest.

"It belongs to me."

Dark veins danced beneath his skin. His aura stretched, reaching not just blocks—but districts. Entire arteries of the city began to pulse in rhythm with him.

The Sin Slaves down below began to rise.

Not in masses. Not in synchronized waves.

They rose sporadically, like glitches in reality. One here. One there. Like someone was flipping a switch at random across the city grid, deciding who would act out and who would stay still. Chaos didn't bloom like wildfire—Daegon didn't want wildfire. He wanted mold. Quiet. Hidden. Spreading under floorboards before anyone thought to check the foundation.

Some screamed his name, their mouths cracking open like old wounds remembering sound.

Others collapsed in place, gasping in ecstasy, their souls boiling from the inside out like bones submerged in acid made of longing. Their fingers clawed at the air, their eyes rolled back, and when they rose again, they didn't look human anymore—not on the inside at least.

And still—he fed.

Across Gangnam, a businessman drove calmly, humming to himself, unaware that the snowflake melting into his shoulder was already growing something in his chest.

In Mapo, a college girl twitched slightly on the subway, then blinked and went back to scrolling through her phone.

In Hongdae, a man jumped a vendor's stall, screaming about betrayal, while twenty others just watched in silence.

It wasn't a frenzy. It couldn't be labeled that. It was too clean. Too scattered. It couldn't be categorized as mass hysteria. No one could even connect the dots yet. Not the media. Not the emergency services. Not even the supernatural watchdogs hiding in plain sight. That's because Daegon wasn't infecting people.

He was choosing them.

Some were left untouched—allowed to go on with their lives, sipping coffee, texting lovers, never knowing they had stood beside someone who had already begun to rot.

Others were marked. Turned. Nudged.

No blade. No fire. No war.

Just sin flowing upward like heat through a cracked altar.

And a god who knew exactly what to do with it.

But what was Daegon's plan in this?