Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!

Chapter 357: Power Hierarchies among Originals

The best way to end all this?

End it quickly.

Parker stood still for a moment, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded like a man already counting the next ten steps ahead. He wasn't exactly thrilled at the idea of spending the entire night surrounded by attendants, servants, and all the pretentious tradition that came with his new position.

It wasn't boredom—he wasn't that arrogant. He knew damn well what tonight meant.

But he still wanted it over with.

Because tomorrow? Tomorrow was war of it's own.

This wasn't just pomp and royal fanfare. This was the formal caging of power—his power. Tonight would seat him above kings, crown him not just by title, but by absolute dominion.

Powerhouses of the Eternal Tier, even Transcendent Tier, would bow beneath him by midnight.

And more than that…

The entire Origin Families—the ruling bloodlines of the Ether Community—were already seated. Already watching. Which meant, by right, by blood, and by legacy, Parker Black, the Original, the Nyxlith Prince, had just inherited the entire Ether world.

And tonight? Tonight was the night the universe said it out loud.

To say the moment was just a formality?

Would be blasphemy.

This was his move.

The move before the rest of the board cracked open like porcelain.

And damn if he wasn't going to take it fast.

****

The Throne Hall stretched wide before him—immense and suffocating in its splendor. The walls shimmered with runes older than language itself, pulsing with faint cosmic breath. Pillars reached toward a ceiling so far above it looked like the sky had bent to make room.

And at the far end of the hall—on a raised platform of obsidian and starlight—sat the throne.

Sculpted from a fusion of blackstone and crystallized time, laced in silver fractals that twisted in motionless swirls, it looked less like furniture and more like a divine seat where Eras waited to be ruled.

Below it, seated in perfect rows, were the entire entourages of the Origin Families. Clad in their regalia. Eyes sharp. Faces unreadable.

All of them watching him.

Waiting.

Not for a king.

But for a Nyxlith.

Power level-wise?

If you lined them up one by one, most of the people seated below could crush cities with a flick of their wrist. Giants among men. Monsters wrapped in mortal flesh. Even the leaders themselves—Robert Blackwood, Salem Ravencroft, and others—were all solidly Eternal Tier, a breathe away from Omnipotent.

Some of them were older than dynasties. Some had fought wars when the continents were still arguing about where the oceans should go.

And yet—

Every single one of them was a subject.

Because titles meant jack shit here.

Blood did.

And Parker Black wasn't standing in this hall as some nouveau-riche upstart. He was seated at the apex as Prince Nyxlith—the Original.

And that bloodline?

That was something not even primordials contested.

*

He sat on the throne now, one leg lazily crossed over the other. His Prince's regalia clung to him perfectly—black and silver threads stitched with Omni silk, runes faintly alive across his sleeves, a circlet of shadow-forged platinum resting lightly on his brow.

In one hand, he held a goblet of wine, swirling the dark liquid casually as if it wasn't blood and oaths that had filled this hall a minute ago.

His presence was absolute.

Authority incarnate.

One glance at him was enough to remind even the cockiest old monster in the room that they knelt not to a boy, not to a ruler, but to existence's oldest debt.

He looked like a fucking painting. A piece of myth come to life.

Untouchable.

Unshakable.

A living crown.

Or at least, he would have been—

If not for Nyxavere.

The little terror was sitting right on the armrest of his throne, swinging her legs like she didn't just derail a thousand years of political poise with one adorable, entitled move.

Her battle suit had reverted to a simple shimmering white dress again, her tiny tiara slightly crooked atop her silver hair, her golden eyes sparkling with unfiltered mischief as she kicked her heels lightly against the carved obsidian.

The throne wasn't just Parker's.

It was theirs.

And anyone who had a problem with that?

Could fucking try it.

The goblet in Parker's hand tilted slightly as he looked at her, fighting the smallest, most traitorous smirk. He didn't tell her to move. Didn't even pretend to care.

Because deep down?

This was exactly how it was supposed to be.

Down below the obsidian platform, seated at the very front in a perfect row of "don't-you-dare-underestimate-us," sat the core circle.

Tessa, legs crossed, arms resting light over the edge of her chair, looking equal parts elegant and calculating—like she was already drafting harem alliance treaties in her head. Her dress was sculpted war. One look from her and you knew she wasn't here to clap and smile.

She was here to rule beside the man she claimed—whether he said it or not.

Next to her sat Helena, spine straight, hands clasped loosely in her lap like she could either bless a nation or erase it, depending on what you called her daughter. Her expression was neutral, but her energy? Screamed godmother of chaos.

Maya sat still, dignified, but those who knew her could see the faint twitch in her temple—courtesy of Tessa. Because Tessa wasn't hiding the smug. And Maya wasn't in the mood to lose her empress seat without a clawed-out fight.

Zhang Ruoyun was there too, the quiet storm. Chin lifted, mask polished, silver hair braided like celestial silk. She wasn't tense—she was ready. Like if someone breathed wrong, she'd politely hand them their soul in a paper bag.

Evelyn sat beside her, calm but humming with that ancient Nyxlith glow. The kind of silent power that didn't ask for acknowledgment—it commanded it just by existing. She didn't blink much. She didn't have to.

Atalanta was recovering still, but she was there, propped upright with Ere resting gently in her arms. Both looked a little roughed up but still divine, like warriors returning from a cinematic final boss fight.

Naomi and Elena sat further to the side, posture tight—hyper-aware that this wasn't just another ceremony. This was Parker's actual throne room. The place where kings were forged and gods showed up just to beg.

Annabelle? She sat near the edge. Trying to act calm. Totally failing. Her legs were crossed, but her heel bounced like it was trying to Morse code "I shouldn't be here" into the marble.

And then… there was Vivian.

Or rather—

The Second Sister.

Parker's second sister, to be exact.

Not the eldest. That crown belonged to their older sibling—The Eldest of Existence, who hadn't shown herself yet (thank the fucking stars, or this whole damn hall would've crumbled under the weight of her entrance).

Vivian sat on a throne just left of Parker's, a matching high-backed thing carved from obsidian and dreams. She lounged into it like she was on a lunch break.

One leg slung over the armrest, one elbow draped like she was watching a mildly interesting soap opera she already knew the ending to. Her fingers flipped through a glowing projection of something irrelevant—like cosmic Sudoku or someone's intercepted love letters.

She looked bored as hell.

And not in a fake, I'm-pretending-I-don't-care way.

Vivian was genuinely, existentially unimpressed.

Because while everyone else was locked in awe and hierarchy, Vivian? She was hierarchy. And her little brother sitting there in full Prince-mode with his dramatic goblet and pet Nyxavere?

Yeah. She'd seen it all before.

Many times

Before the multiverse reset itself.

Still, Parker didn't mind. He let her sit there. Let her own that throne like it was hers too.

Because it was.

After all—what kind of Prince didn't keep his terrifying, overpowered, older-than-fate sister nearby… just in case someone in the crowd forgot who the fuck he was?