Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!-Chapter 365: Goddess Hera Descends

Julian, Scarlett, Annabelle—hell, even some of the old monsters sitting in the grand hall—shivered where they stood. Fear wasn't just in the room anymore. It was stitched into the very air itself, heavy and suffocating. Because what they'd witnessed wasn't just some casual show of power. It was authority. Pure, absolute. The kind that didn't need to shout or flex to demand obedience. It simply existed... and you either bowed to it or you broke under it.

The terrifying part?

Everyone knew their turn might be next.

Noctavine still stood frozen, her crimson eyes wide, her mind still replaying the impossible sight of a fledgling being reforged into something even she, the Matriarch of the Dravens, could barely comprehend. It was like watching a mortal beast ascend into a myth in real time.

A snake being turned into a dragon while you watched helplessly.

Parker chuckled low under his breath, the sound curling through the throne hall like smoke. He looked almost amused, one hand lazily setting his goblet down on the armrest with a soft clink. His fingers flicked once, smooth and relaxed, but the gesture carried weight.

"Now, now," he murmured, and the moment he spoke, everyone knew—it was time.

He crooked two fingers.

"Robert," Parker said, voice casual, almost conversational. Yet every syllable vibrated with the kind of command that made even mountains want to kneel.

The Voidhowl Patriarch rose stiffly and walked forward, boots echoing off the marble. He knelt before the platform without hesitation. A big, prideful wolf brought low with no resistance at all.

"Julian. Annabelle," Parker added, his tone slicing cleaner than any blade.

There was a heartbeat of stillness—just a flash of hesitation—but then both the younger wolves moved too, dragging dread behind them like broken chains. They knelt beside Robert, heads bowed, bodies stiff with shame and fear.

Parker lounged on the throne like a king who had already decided their fate. One leg crossed over the other, arms resting against the carved blackwood like he had all the time in the world. His gaze was ice, flat and unimpressed.

Helena shifted at his side, like she wanted to step in, but he didn't even let her open her mouth. He shot her a look so sharp and effortless it might as well have been a blade across the throat.

"Wait your turn, since you're that eager," he said dryly. "I will grant your wish, dear Aunt!"

Helena, to her credit, caught herself immediately and dipped her head slightly, backing off with a smirk that said she knew better than to argue when he was in this mood.

This wasn't some polite council. This wasn't a political parade.

This was payback.

From the time Parker had been four years old—left behind by his parents, entrusted into the hands of the very Bloodline he had birthed from the Void itself—the Voidhowls had been tasked with raising him. Nurturing him. Preparing him.

Instead, they had broken him.

Humiliated him. ƒгeewebnovёl.com

Treated him like a mistake.

And now?

Now, they would pay the price.

Julian swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. Annabelle looked one second away from tears. Robert—Robert kept his head bowed, a wolf forced to acknowledge the hand that had built him... and could just as easily erase him.

Finally, Robert's voice broke the silence. Rough. Humble. Almost like gravel being crushed under a boot.

"My Prince," he rasped, not daring to lift his eyes. "We were wrong."

****

Far from the throne hall—far from the heavy silence and the iron weight of judgment—another corner of the world stirred under a different kind of tension.

Above a forgotten island, hidden under layers of spells and dimensional folds that even the most ancient sorcerers would weep to glimpse, the skies tore themselves apart.

There was no thunder.

No warning.

Just a crack in reality itself, silent and absolute.

And through that gash, she descended.

Goddess Hera.

Not the myth, not the storybook version with olive wreaths and flowing togas—no, this was the real thing. The living, breathing Queen of Olympus. The woman whose gaze had made gods flinch and mortals crumble into dust long before the first empires dared to write her name in stone.

She wore a tunic, yes—but it was nothing like the clumsy drapes mortals imagined when they dreamed of Olympus.

No, this was divinity tailored to sin.

Her body—perfected by eons of existence—was a masterwork of lethal grace and forbidden temptation. Every line of her figure seemed carved by desire itself: a narrow waist that could unmake kings, hips curved with the promise of ruin, and long, elegant legs that moved like they ruled the very concept of land.

The tunic clung to her like it worshiped her, shimmering white fabric stitched with threads of starlight, sliding against her skin in whispers too sacred for mortal ears. The hem kissed her thighs with each step, parting just enough to reveal smooth, golden flesh—untouched, untouchable—and hints of sculpted muscle built not from labor, but from pure, sacred dominance.

Her chest, where the fabric pulled taut with every breath, was no less merciful. A goddess's chest, framed in the flowing V of the tunic, left just enough exposed to drive even the purest mind to betrayal. Not vulgar. Not cheap.

Sacrilegious.

The kind of beauty you didn't touch without breaking the universe.

And yet for all that raw, devastating femininity, there was nothing soft about Hera.

The curves, the shine, the impossible allure—they were just weapons. Bait for those foolish enough to forget that her true nature wasn't woman.

It was Queen.

It was Judgement.

It was Wrath given form and perfect flesh.

The crown on her brow gleamed with a cruel, simple malice—an obsidian shard pressed into the skin of heaven itself. She didn't need gold or gemstones.

She was the wealth.

She was the weapon.

And in her hand?

A box.

Small. Vicious. Pulsing with the heartbeat of something that should never have been born. A dark aura pouring off it twisted the air into fractured bleeding mirrors, where light and shadow fought and died in flashes too fast to catch. Runes older than sin crawled along its surface, flickering violently, screaming in a language so ancient it could tear a mind apart just by hearing it.

It wasn't a gift.

It was a curse.