Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System! - Chapter 359

Chapter 359: Origin Families Playlist of Origins and History 2
Helena opened her mouth again, but this time, her voice carried something older—something ceremonial.

“In the beginning,” she said slowly, “after the Prince was born into existence—before thrones, before wars, before even learning to greet his older siblings—the first thing he did… was not conquer. Not destroy. Not even build a world.”

Her hands opened slightly, as if revealing something sacred in air.

“He created.”

“And the first thing he created—was not land, nor sky. But attendants. Servants.”

A ripple passed through the young ones seated below. “Not out of pride. Not for vanity. But because he knew something that most forget even now—that power is not proven by domination… but also by what you can give order to.”

Her voice didn’t raise, but the weight of every syllable pressed into the room like gravity. “The first beings ever shaped by his will were bound not by chains—but by origin. That’s why when he speaks, your blood answers. That’s why when he moves, your instincts follow. You do not obey him because he commands you.”

“You obey him because you were written to.”

The words settled.

Some of the younger heirs looked visibly shaken. Others—awed. Naomi shifted slightly in her seat, lips parted as if she was finally seeing something she’d only ever suspected from the corner of her mind. Elena’s eyes narrowed, calculating, but there was no denying it. And Tessa… Tessa didn’t blink. She felt it. All of it from the descendants.

Helena stepped back into position beside the throne, folding her hands.

Parker leaned back on the throne, his fingers curling around the goblet. He took a slow sip, savoring the wine—and the looks on their faces even more.

The confusion. The awe. The dawning realization.

He couldn’t help but smirk around the rim of the glass.

‘Man,’ he thought lazily, ‘they’re only scratching the surface.’

His memories flickered—hazy, ancient things. Memories from a time so old it didn’t even have a name. In Earth years? He would’ve been around five by then when he first started creating.

Five years old… and already weaving servants out of the Void like a kid playing with crayons.

Yeah. Childhood hit different when you were the Original.

Helena, ever the poised blade beside his throne, turned next toward the Voidhowls. Her gaze sharpened slightly, not cruel—but slicing, deliberate. And when she spoke again, her voice slipped into a lower cadence, almost like she was telling a secret that the walls themselves weren’t worthy to hear.

She said, voice almost a purr against the heavy silence. “Since it seems a few of you have forgotten who you are… and where you came from I will tell you.”

She took a step closer to their side of the hall, boots silent on the polished marble. “Long ago—long before some worlds were yet to be worlds, before the stars had names—the Prince stood before the yawning mouth of the Void.”

Her words stretched the room thinner, like a string about to snap.

“And from that infinite blackness, he reached inside… and pulled the void out from which he made her.”

A low gasp ran through the younger Voidhowls, even if their elders stayed carved in stone. “A wolf,” Helena said. “But not just any beast. She was the First Voidhowl wolf known as Fenrir. The first Voidhowl. A creature not born from blood or mating or time—but willed into existence by his hand alone.”

She let the image hang.

“She did not breathe air. She breathed silence. She did not drink water. She drank fear. She was the beginning of your line… the mother of all Voidhowls.” Memories played in her mind, they were fresh as of she’d just seen them yesterday.

Helena remembered everything that happened those times.

Her gaze drifted briefly over the group, landing coolly on Annabelle, who flinched slightly—as if some ancient string of memory in her very marrow remembered.

“You are not wolves because nature made you like other wolves bloodlines” Helena said, voice dropping into something lethal and final. “You are a special kind of wolves because the Prince created the first Howl that split the Void.”

Parker smiled against the rim of his goblet.

‘Good girl,’ he thought toward Helena, swirling his wine idly. ‘Tell them. Remind them.’

And in the center of it all—where lineage and memory coiled tighter than fear—Annabelle Voidhowl lowered her eyes, trembling ever so slightly. Because somewhere deep inside her, in a place that didn’t have a name, she could feel it:

The Howl wasn’t something she learned.

It was something she owed.

Helena continued…

The next thing Parker had created wasn’t another beast. No, it was a tree.

Fenrir was a fighter, a protector, a creature born to tear existence apart if needed—but she wasn’t exactly someone who could handle the Prince’s daily needs. She was made for war, not for nurturing the breath of life.

So Parker, barely out of the cosmic crib in his original life, planted a sapling.

A simple one.

At first.

A seed so small it could’ve been mistaken for dust—and yet, imbued with the full breath of existence itself.

That sapling grew in the ‘Original Realm’ faster than logic should’ve allowed, ripping through the veils of time and causality, stretching higher, wider, vaster, until it towered like a living pillar between dimensions. It didn’t just graze the skies—it stabbed through them, turning heaven and earth into afterthoughts. In less than a hundred years—a blink in those primordial days—it became something so massive, so incomprehensibly colossal, that even gods would pause to name it.

They called it the Nyxlith World Tree.

And from its seeds—mere scraps, mere aftershocks of its power—came the first whisper of what the lesser worlds now called Yggdrasil.

Down below, gasps broke through the crowd like ripples through a stunned lake.

Naomi, bless her fantasy-nerd soul, nearly choked on air, eyes bulging like she’d just found out Santa Claus was real—and packing heat. Even Elena blinked like she had to reboot her brain three times. Tessa just narrowed her eyes with that calculating tilt of her head, already scheming five steps ahead like the little strategist she was.

The famous Yggdrasil from famous elf fantasies… they realized.

That tree they’d worshiped in myths, romanticized in novels, coded into games, turned into fucking coffee shop names?

That was just a seed.

A leftover.

A freaking side useless seed.

And the man casually swirling wine up there on the throne, like he was waiting for UberEats to drop off his cheeseburger?

Yeah. He created it.

Helena caught their collective freefall into awe, and her smile sharpened into something wicked and knowing. Like a cat letting the mice realize the trap five seconds too late. She shifted her focus, letting her eyes rest on the radiant Kingswell matriarch—Evelyn’s family—who was smiling so serenely it might as well have been a loaded weapon.

Helena’s voice floated across the hall, smooth and edged like silk hiding a poisoned blade. “And from the Nyxlith World Tree,” Helena said, “the Prince created the first-ever most pure High Elves.”

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.