Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!-Chapter 390: The Thread Behind the Puppet

The heavens had never been quieter, never more alive.

Above the world where mortals worried about crowns and curses and collapsing legacies, two sisters played—untouchable, unbothered, and blisteringly divine. The air was thinner here, time a little looser, space far more obedient. This wasn't just flight. It was sovereignty disguised as joy.

Nyxavere ran.

She wore something simple—just soft black pants and a sleeveless top—but it didn't matter. She could have worn shadows and the cosmos would've applauded. Each step she took across the sky left a streak of starlight in its place, the sky cracking and reforming beneath her soles like it knew who owned it.

Clouds didn't get out of her way—they split.

Gravity didn't resist her—it worshipped.

Every footfall came with a silent boom that whispered through dimensions like a bedtime story for galaxies.

And ahead of her?

Seraphina.

The girl was a comet dressed as a vampire. Her long white-silver hair snapped behind her like light caught in a storm, and her wings—oh, her wings—vampiric divinity wrapped in grace and speed. Each flap split the air like a blade, and when she moved, space bled. Her laughter echoed like thunder that forgot how to be scary. Beautiful. Alive.

She ran ahead, the sky parting like it wanted to be broken.

Nyxavere didn't chase with power. She didn't need to.

She was letting Seraphina have her fun, letting her think she could escape. Nyxavere's body wasn't moving with effort. The sky was carrying her. Not just lifting—carrying, like a mother holding her firstborn, like gravity itself had changed religions and converted to Nyxlithianism.

But then—

Her eyes changed.

Those violet eyes—already ancient, already watching things too big to name—narrowed. Not in anger. In recognition. Something far too massive to explain clicked behind them like a billion stars aligning in a single breath.

And that's when the universe hiccupped.

In the next five seconds—

The sky split open.

No warning. No light. No warmth.

Just arrival.

Something descended toward the Nyxlith estate. Something that bent space-time not just with presence, but with ownership.

The air folded. Time twisted. Reality gasped.

It wasn't a meteor. It wasn't a god. It wasn't wrath.

It was something older than those words. A presence that made time stop caring about itself.

And then—

"YOU DARE!"

Her voice didn't thunder. It declared.

It rang out through every plane of existence like the sound that birthed the first concept of fear. It didn't come from above or below—it came from everywhere at once, as if the universe had just remembered it had a mother and she was pissed.

And in an instant—

All of time around the Nyxlith estate paused.

Birds froze mid-flight. Wind stopped mid-ripple. The air remembered it wasn't allowed to move unless permitted.

Even light halted, refusing to reach surfaces it had already touched.

Because something had touched down.

And the only thing louder than the silence—

Was the recognition:

This wasn't power. This was a presence that didn't ask permission.

*

The blade had pierced Parker's chest, not deep but enough to trigger the unraveling. His form rippled—something cracking across his skin, body stuttering like a corrupted god being rewritten in real time. Light and matter curled inward, scrambling into disarray, his outline glitching into near-erasure.

And then the world cracked.

Not paused.

Like something older than time itself had slammed its fist against the rules and demanded entry.

Nyxavere tore into existence like a lightning bolt composed of will, light, and unbending omniscience. A jagged violet fissure opened in the sky above the throne hall, splitting air and atmosphere in half.

She shot through it like the laws of physics were minor suggestions to be ignored, her arrival folding light into a vortex that ruptured the clouds outside and shattered the reinforced ceiling above.

Skylight exploded.

The force of her descent sent fractures crawling down the inner dome of the hall like veins of divine fury, and the moment her foot kissed air above the throne, the temperature dropped into something deathless.

The blade continued downward—but Parker was no longer there.

He had been yanked backward in a streak of violet and silver, his body ripped out of the timeline before the final frame could load. She didn't teleport. She didn't blink. She outpaced the moment, overriding the rules with such force the air screamed.

And then time resumed.

The sword plunged through the echo Parker left behind, and the echo—unstable, seconds from deletion—detonated like a collapsing singularity.

A flashless burst snapped outward, a concussive wave that reversed light in the room. Columns cracked. The throne platform fractured down the middle. Air imploded into silence. The aftershock sent minor gods seated among the Origin Families tumbling from their chairs.

Above it all, Nyxavere hovered—eyes glowing with that same unblinking omniscient fire, two pits of violet starlight that bent shadow away. Her mere gaze forced the pressure to rise again, not with weight but with scale, as if the hall itself had to expand to fit the awareness now watching.

Robert's body rose again—forcefully, involuntarily—drawn upward like a sacrificial object offered to something too far above for prayer. He didn't resist. He couldn't. His limbs hung limp, soul screaming where the body could not.

And then she was above him.

No movement. No arc. Just position—rewritten.

One moment she hovered near Parker's throne. The next, she stood above Robert in a matter of an instant, feet floating inches from his face, the air beneath her twisting like it was trying to contain a black hole. Her right hand pulsed, then slammed forward—not with hesitation, but with total finality—and drove through Robert like nothing stood in its way.

There was no tear. No gore. Just a sound like glass being shattered underwater and a shockwave that blew dust, light, and soul fragments in every direction. Her hand buried itself into his ribcage, through bone and energy, and when she pulled it out, it came back clutching something alive.

Robert's body dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut midair, the pressure that had held him up instantly released. But before he could hit the stone, Parker stepped forward—just one stride—and caught him.

He understood what was going on.

One arm slid beneath Robert's back like he was holding an old friend… or a faded regret.

Parker didn't look down. Just turned, handed him wordlessly to Helena, whose fingers trembled as she received her broken patriarch with the weight of decades behind her stare.

Then Nyxavere landed.

No wind. No grand pulse. Just a subtle thunder that spread through the floor like the room itself acknowledged who had just stepped onto its bones.

Seraphina arrived top, dropped beside her an instant later, wings folding like razors drawn back into sheaths. Her eyes—bright, aware, burning—were locked on the thing in her sister's hand.

A soul. No—a fragment of one. Half-formed. Vile. Breathing shadows and laced with corruption so thick it bled like ink from Nyxavere's palm. It hissed against her grip, resisting like a beast that understood what it meant to be seen.

Nyxavere bowed, her voice soft but final.

"This is what was inside him. It tried to kill you. Twice."

And silence followed, not because the room couldn't speak, but because words wouldn't come. Even Parker—infinitely aware, impossibly sharp—stood still, his expression unchanging but his pulse whispering something different behind his ribs.

Because this wasn't power anymore. This wasn't revenge. This was something else.

Something had puppeted Robert Blackwood.