Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!-Chapter 363: The Original Blood Bond: The Law of Blood and Bone

Scarlett Draven bit her lip so hard it almost bled.

This scent—this blood—was a thousand times richer, thicker, and more intoxicating than anything she'd ever tasted, even compared to the weak drip she'd stolen from Parker before he had awakened. And that alone had been a hundred times sweeter than the best blood any human could offer. Her body screamed to move, to leap forward and devour the air around him, but before she could even twitch, a cold merciless grip tightened on her shoulder.

Lady Noctavine Vaelith Draven didn't even glance at her daughter.

With the sheer pressure of her will, she locked down every other Draven vampire in the room, freezing them in place like insects pinned under a celestial blade. Across the hall, the criminal vampire family—those pale imitations—fought like rats in a sinking ship, but Helena silenced them with a twitch of her finger, pressing them into the marble floor with a force that felt like gravity had tripled just for them.

In the center of the maelstrom, the small vampire girl shuddered violently.

Nyxavere tried to hold her, whispering soothing words—but bloodlust was a hurricane, and a child's soul was no match for it. With a desperate push, the girl broke free, staggering toward Parker, her little hands reaching blindly for him.

"Drink," he said, his voice low, but it wasn't a command.

It was permission.

A promise.

An unbreakable truth.

She had seized his bleeding palm and bit down with everything she had. The moment the first drop had touched her tongue, the air around them detonated silently.

The hall trembled at the edges, invisible ripples tearing through dimensions too fragile to contain the act.

Parker didn't move. His eyes softened slightly. He reached out and gently rested a hand on her head, steadying her trembling frame as she drank. He understood what was happening. Once a vampire was sired—once their very essence was bound to another's blood—there was no undoing it through mundane means.

Only he, or Lia, the first of the Dravens, could sever it. And this child… she wasn't just drinking. She was transforming.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she clung to him, gulping greedily while her memories returned. Her hair, once black as the forgotten nights, shimmered into silver threads that glowed faintly under the throne room lights. Her dull, murky red eyes sharpened into pure-cut rubies, and her skin paled to a luminous snowy white, so pure it seemed almost translucent.

The air itself thickened. Heavy. Holy.

Then, it happened.

Crimson runes—the old ones, the forbidden ones—flared to life across her tiny form, then shattered like glass breaking under divine decree. The girl convulsed once, her entire body locking up—and the false bindings, the unnatural chains that had stolen her will, snapped like dry twigs under the might of real blood.

The forced sire shattered.

Her blood rewrote itself.

Her soul reforged itself.

Where once there had been stolen loyalty and fake memories... now there was only truth. The truth of who she really was. The truth of whose blood now sang inside her veins.

The child screamed—and the sound wasn't pain.

It was liberation.

It was the roar of chains snapping against stone.

It was the sound of a prison collapsing, of the unbearable weight of silence finally shattering like cheap glass.

The marble floor beneath Parker's boots cracked outward in perfect spiderwebs, thin and deadly. Overhead, chandeliers swung dangerously, their lights flickering like stars caught in a black hole. Dust motes froze midair—suspended like even time itself refused to interrupt what was happening.

Across the throne hall, not a single creature dared to breathe.

Not the ancient monsters lounging on gilded seats.

Not the young bloodlines standing frozen in awe.

Not even the shadows dared to whisper.

Nyxavere leaned forward, sliding under Parker's arm, cradled the trembling girl against her small body. She whispered something sweet against the little vampire's silver-stained hair, nonsense words only family could understand.

The young girl sobbed helplessly, clinging to both Parker and Nyxavere, her tiny fingers digging into their clothes as her very existence twisted and realigned under cosmic forces older than time itself.

Parker exhaled slowly, steady as an ancient mountain, wrapping them both closer against his chest. His embrace wasn't soft—it was absolute. Protective. Final.

This girl wasn't a tool anymore.

Not a weapon.

Not a pawn.

She was family.

Blood of his blood.

Threaded directly into the beating heart of House Nyxlith itself.

Across the room, Parker caught the stunned, reverent stares painting the Origin Families' faces. Some looked humbled, their pride crumbling like dead leaves. Some looked terrified, the old monsters realizing they were prey now—not players.

They'd seen a now believed fully he was the creator of their bloodlines that made them different from other wolves, vampires, witches, elves, demons, devils and deamon and more.

And all of them, down to their marrow, understood:

This wasn't just history.

This was the start of a fucking new era.

Parker smirked—a slow, wicked grin curling across his mouth like a storm coming to break kingdoms apart.

History wouldn't just remember this night.

It would never forget it.

Not after this.

Not after he claimed one he would call his own.

And still, the transformation wasn't done.

The girl's body convulsed once more in his arms, her small fangs plunging deeper into Parker's palm. His blood—ancient, potent, more truth than fluid—flooded into her veins like a tidal wave.

Her black hair had shimmered under the flickering lights, strands bleaching to a radiant silver that caught the light like falling stars. Her crimson eyes had deepened, growing darker, richer, until they glowed like polished rubies dipped in night. Her skin had turned snow-pale, flawless, chilling to the touch yet thrumming with impossible vitality.

More and more crimson runes—old ones, forbidden ones—flared up across her small frame, racing over her skin before shattering into motes of light.

The girl gasped, a jagged, broken sound—and somewhere deep inside the marrow of the world, something shifted.

An aura of blood rose around her like a mist. A blood-red symbol—small, but burning with authority—formed on her forehead: a single blood droplet cradled by a dark crescent moon.

Noctavine Vaelith Draven stood slowly from her seat, her sharp, ancient eyes widening slightly.

She had seen many things in her endless life—wars, betrayals, miracles.

But this...

This was something new.

Something terrifying.

A new Draven had been born.

The girl, trembling, slowly pulled away from Parker's palm and—graceful even in her trembling—licked the wound closed.

The moment her tongue touched the blood, the wound sealed shut without even a scar left behind.

She looked up at him now.

Her ruby-red eyes gleaming with light.

Her new soul singing in resonance with his.

Parker smiled down at her—genuine, rare.

He brushed her silver hair back gently from her forehead and leaned close, his voice dropping low, full of undeniable finality.

"You're mine now," he said quietly, almost reverently. "Blood of my blood. Daughter of mine and my house."

He paused, savoring the weight of the moment. "From this day forward," Parker said, smiling wider, "you will be a

Nyxlith."

The name echoed through the throne room like a new star being born.

"And your new second princess!" He said to them all.

And across the hall, even the most ancient beings bowed their heads—because something greater than destiny had just been written.

It had been claimed.