Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!

The bedroom wasn't a room.

It was a sanctuary.

Carved from obsidian and starlight, draped in silks that had known galaxies before this one was born. The air smelled faintly of lotus, fire, and longing.

It welcomed them like it had been waiting all year.

The world sealed behind them with a sound like thunder swallowed by velvet. Inside, no walls existed—only silk-draped illusions. Sunlight spilled from a domed windows where constellations shifted with her breath. The bed stood in the center, massive, circular, draped in phoenix-feather quilts and obsidian-thread sheets.

Every corner of the chamber bore her mark: incense bowls shaped like talons, weapons forged in silence, mirrors that didn't reflect the body—only the soul.

Zhang Ruoyun stood at the foot of the bed, heart racing beneath silk robes that whispered against her skin. Parker stepped toward her slowly, his eyes never leaving hers—dark, unreadable, but burning with something primal and reverent.

Not just desire. Something heavier. Older.

He reached for the belt at her waist, tugging it free with a flick of his fingers. The robe loosened instantly, but he didn't open it—not yet. Instead, he let his fingers glide along the edges, his touch more a question than a command.

Her breath caught.

He leaned in, brushing his lips across her cheek, down to the hollow beneath her jaw, letting his mouth speak the words he hadn't said aloud. Her hands found his chest, the fabric of his shirt clutched in her fists like she was trying to ground herself—but he was already undoing the buttons, one by one, until her hands touched bare skin.

"Take it off," she whispered.

But he didn't. Not at once. Instead, he pushed the robe from her shoulders with excruciating care. It slipped down her body like spilled ink—silk pooling at her feet, revealing inch by inch of skin until she stood bare before him, her chest rising in slow, measured breaths. Her nipples hardened in the cool air, but it wasn't from the temperature.

It was the way he looked at her—like she was something he'd waited centuries to touch.

Then she moved. Her fingers reached up and slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, tugging it over his head. Her lips brushed his chest, trailing across the lines of his body, tasting him with reverence, devotion. Each kiss was slower than the last, as if trying to memorize his skin before she ever felt him inside her.

His pants followed. Her underwear. Every piece removed not in haste, but with ceremony. A ritual neither of them dared rush. Like their bodies were altars and tonight—tonight—they would burn every last prayer on them.

And when they were both finally bare, skin to skin, they didn't move right away.

They watched each other.

Breathing.

Wanting.

Remembering.

And then he kissed her again—not with the hunger of lust, but the aching gentleness of someone who had missed her in every past life and finally, finally, could hold her again.

Zhang Ruoyun's hair cascaded down her spine like a living veil of ink. She didn't speak. Didn't move. She let the silence build like a storm drawing breath. Her power hummed through the room—cold fire crawling up the walls, dancing across the air like it wanted to burn everything that wasn't him.

Parker laid her down slowly, reverently. The room dimmed on its own, shadows curling in the corners like they didn't want to intrude.

Zhang Ruoyun looked up at him, breath caught halfway between anticipation and surrender. She had seen stars die, had stared down the wrath of gods and the quiet weight of nothingness—but the way he looked at her now made even infinity feel fragile.

"I felt the shift. I heard it," she whispered trying to hide her anticipation. "In my marrow. Something cracked. Something screamed. You knew it would."

His smile faded. "I hoped it wouldn't."

"You hoped wrong." He didn't reply to her though.

He leaned down, not like a conqueror, but like a poet pressing his verse to parchment. His lips met hers—soft, unhurried. Not a kiss of fire, but one of divinity. She shivered as their mouths met again, his hands cradling her face like she was something sacred. Which, to him, she was.

Her fingers laced behind his neck, pulling him closer, and he deepened the kiss. Slow. Devouring. The kind of kiss that could rewrite scripture.

His lips moved to her jaw, then lower, tracing her neck with the patience of a man who could stop time and still never get enough. Her pulse danced against his mouth and she arched beneath him, breath growing thinner, her composure unraveling thread by thread.

He didn't rush. He didn't need to. His touch was a symphony, and she was the instrument that trembled with each note.

"Zhang darling~"

When he whispered her name against her collarbone, Zhang Ruoyun let out a quiet moan like a prayer slipping from trembling lips. Her nails dug lightly into his back—not out of pain, but out of disbelief. As though needing to anchor herself, to remember she was here, with him, and this wasn't just a dream woven by Balance itself.

And he kept going.

Tracing every inch of her like she was a map leading him home.

Breath by breath.

Kiss by kiss.

God and goddess, stripped of titles, wrapped in the truth of skin and soul.

"Make love to me, My Prince~"

"I missed you in every timeline," he murmured. "Even when I didn't know your when I will ever make love to you."

Her hand came up and gripped his wrist, hard. "Then prove it."

He didn't answer with words.

He kissed her like he was being punished for lifetimes. Like every memory of her in the dark corners of his soul had built to this—this return. This surrender. His hands moved down her spine with reverence and restraint, but hers were anything but gentle. She grabbed him, yanked him closer, pushed him onto the bed like she owned gravity itself.

And she did.

Because in that moment, Zhang Ruoyun became fire—not heat, not lust, but sacred flame, born in celestial balance and sharpened by betrayal. She moved over him like a verdict, like every second he spent away had to be atoned for with skin, sweat, and breathless confessions.

"Say it," he demanded, as her nails raked down his chest.

"I'm yours," she whimpered, voice breaking, his lips at her throat.

"Say it again."

"I'm yours."

"Louder."

"I belong to you, Prince Nyxlith."

She kissed him then—bit his lip, stole his breath, and he swallowed every protest she might've dared in their second love making. When their bodies finally gave in to rhythm, it wasn't gentle. It wasn't slow. It was violence made holy—a war between divinity and desire.

The room responded. Walls cracked under the weight of their locked auras. Lights burst into white flame. The constellations above flickered out, unable to bear witness. Her power, once restrained, now rippled into the world unchecked, searing the sheets, curving the air, branding him with every movement. He gripped her hips like she was slipping from reality, and she arched like the world was breaking under her.

"Even now," she gasped, nails digging into his shoulder, "you still carry the chaos."

"And you still carry the fire that can tame it," he rasped, before flipping her beneath him. "So burn me, Ruoyun. Burn me until you believe me."

She did.

And the palace, quiet as time, stayed silent. Because even it knew—

This was sacred.

This was war.

This was home.

Her hands slid, palms pressed to his chest. His heartbeat thudded against her skin, not fast, but deep. Certain. Like thunder in the roots of a mountain.

His mouth moved down—her jaw, her throat—kissing as if translating her into a language only he could speak. Her hands moved to his shoulders, then his back, nails grazing him gently as though mapping him into memory. Her breath hitched when he paused at her collarbone, whispered her name like a psalm—

"Zhang, darling…"

She trembled.

Not because she was afraid.

But because she wasn't.

She wasn't afraid to want him anymore.

She sank into the phoenix-feather quilts like they were always meant to cradle her surrender.

He hovered above her—not dominant, not submissive, but divine. Worshipping. And still, he didn't rush.

Each kiss to her skin was a confession.

Each breath between them was a vow.

Each movement, slow and deliberate, a carving of soul into flesh.

When his fingers traced the side of her thigh, she gasped—not from pleasure, but from the unbearable intimacy of being known. Fully. Without armor. Without balance.

He kissed her again, deeper now, slow and sinful. She moaned against his mouth, her body rising to meet his, aching to be written into him. And in that chamber of gods and ghosts, there was no Parker. No Prince of Existence. No Phoenix of Balance.

Only two souls, weightless, naked in the cradle of the cosmos.

And they moved together like galaxies colliding—chaos and grace wrapped in skin.

Until the world outside faded…

…and all that remained was them.