Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!

That's all they were. Different voices, same poison. Two sides of the same damn coin—powerful, cruel, and cold as the winter storm outside. Experience tales at My Virtual Library Empire

BLACKWOODS.

The boy blinked slowly, breath shaky and weak.

And somewhere deep inside, something colder than the attic air began to stir.

A strange warmth surged through him.

The cold vanished—snap, just like that. Parker's tiny, shivering body collapsed onto the floor, but not from pain. No, it was… warmth. Comfort. Like sinking into the softest blanket after a nightmare.

Unconsciousness wrapped him up like velvet. But he didn't hit the ground for long. Some unseen force—gentle yet firm—lifted him effortlessly, carrying him to the bed like a mother would with a sleeping child. The chill faded, replaced by a soft, cocooning embrace that swallowed every fear and worry whole.

And then he was carried in a new world he never knew possible... A dream!

In this world, he wasn't some shivering, forgotten kid in an attic. No—he was the Prince. Not just of a kingdom, not even a planet—everything. A ruthless, a cold sovereign Prince Of Existence itself. His every thought was law, every command gospel.

What were the chances?

He soared on the backs of dragons whose scales burned brighter than dying stars. Phoenixes screamed his name across galaxies. Angels—yeah, those celestial, pure beings—bathed him. Goddesses? They begged for his attention, falling to their knees just for a glance.

He ruled worlds upon worlds—infinite empires bent under his heel, and that feeling? Damn, it was right. No cold attic. No shivers. No pain. Just power. Endless, terrifying, beautiful power.

Not an orphan living under his aunt's roof, surrounded by a family who made sure every hour of his life was stitched with misery. No. Here? He was everything. Could be anything.

Just his servants alone weren't just anyone—they were the rulers of realms. Kings, queens, gods, and monsters alike would bow at his feet, commanding entire worlds beyond the tiny, broken one the boy knew now. Whole galaxies spun in their palms, and they answered to him—the cold, ruthless prince who didn't just rule existence…

He Owned It.

****

Run! Run! Run as fast as you can!

That voice in his head screamed like a broken alarm clock that wouldn't shut the hell up. His instincts fired on pure survival mode—like every cell in his body was begging him to move.

But seven-year-old Parker? Yeah, he stumbled. His foot caught on the edge of the pavement like it was out to get him, and bam—he hit the ground hard. Warm asphalt scraped his palms as he tried to crawl, but the shadows behind him were faster. Closer.

Laughter cut through the air—sharp and mean. "Look at him," one of the boys sneered, his voice thick with that classic bully venom. "The little crybaby thought he could run?"

"I am not a crybaby, assholes!" He muttered but they didn't even hear, his voice was lost in the loud manic laughs of his pursuers .

"Pathetic," another chuckled, stepping forward like some budget horror movie villain.

Parker didn't move. Didn't dare. Fear sank its claws in deep, wrapping around his chest like a vice. His body folded in on itself—knees tucked tight, arms over his head—a human shield made of nothing but bones and desperation.

He knew what was coming. Hell, he could feel it before it hit.

And then—bam!

The first kick slammed into his ribs like a freight train made of pure humiliation. Sharp, sudden, and mean, like the universe itself had decided to remind him just how powerless he really was.

His breath caught in his throat—a jagged gasp that didn't dare escape. The ache burned through his side, spreading like wildfire, but Parker didn't move. Didn't flinch.

Because flinching? That would've been a win for them.

"C'mon, freak—where's that tough guy act?" one of them sneered, voice dripping with that cheap, fake confidence only bullies wore like armor.

Another kick—this one straight to his back. Sharp, mean, like they were trying to crack him open and spill whatever was left inside.

Parker's breath hitched, but still—no tears. No sound. Just him, curled up like the world's smallest fortress.

"Oh, what's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or maybe you finally figured out you're just... nothing," another voice mocked, followed by the snickers of the pack.

Nothing.

That word stung worse than the fists. But Parker? He didn't flinch. Didn't react. "You don't get the satisfaction," he told himself, over and over, like some shitty mantra.

The punches kept coming, cruel and lazy, like they were bored with their own cruelty now. His body screamed for it to stop, but his mind? Ice cold.

He wouldn't break. Not for them. Not for anyone.

And as the shadows of those boys loomed over him—in the lead was the son of the very family that should've protected him—Parker stayed silent.

Because silence?

That was the only thing he still owned.

****

The first birthday without his parents should've meant something, right? A cake, maybe. A shitty balloon from the dollar store. Heck, even a half-hearted "happy birthday" would've been fine. But nah—life wasn't handing out gifts.

Especially not this life.

Not when the family made it crystal clear: You don't get to celebrate today.

Not on Annabelle's birthday.

Annabelle—the princess of the house. Golden child. Darling of the family. The kind of kid who could sneeze on a cake, and people would still cheer like she cured cancer.

Meanwhile, Parker sat there at the end of the table, a ghost in his own life, watching the candles flicker on her cake. His name wasn't mentioned. No slice handed to him. Just… nothing. Like he didn't even exist.

And damn, that hurt more than any punch ever could, at least for a kid he was then —

That night, with the weight of silence crushing him, Parker did the only thing that made sense.

He ran.

Sneaking out wasn't hard—when no one gave a shit about you, no one noticed when you disappeared. The cold bit into him as he sprinted through the quiet streets, lungs burning, shoes slapping against pavement.

And there it was.

Home.

The mansion stood there like a sleeping giant—silent, empty, but somehow… waiting. Mocking him with every dark window. Or maybe it was embracing him, whispering, "It's okay not to be okay. Being alone doesn't make you weak."

And that night, something strange stirred in the shadows—unseen, but impossible to ignore.