Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!-Chapter 415: Power of a Bearer!

With a casual flick of his fingers, he conjured bags from pure shadow, their surfaces rippling gently with darkness. He handed them calmly to the trembling tellers, his gaze steady and unbothered.

"Fill them. Everything," he ordered, voice smooth and emotionless.

Then, with his hands slid lazily into his pockets, he turned toward the panicked bank manager. His eyes dropped to the man's quivering shadow, and instantly it twisted, flickering like a flame caught in wind.

Dark hands erupted from beneath the manager's feet, gripping him firmly before dragging him helplessly across the polished marble floor.

Without breaking stride, the Street Rat or rather now, the Bearer of Shadows followed, shadows swirling around him as they made their way effortlessly toward the bank's most secured vault—the heart of all its secrets and treasures.

*

Outside, the sirens wailed—high-pitched cries of confusion and dread cutting through the morning air.

Police cruisers surged onto the scene, screeching to sharp, panicked stops. Officers spilled out in a rush, boots skidding on asphalt, weapons drawn but eyes wide in terrified confusion.

They froze immediately at the sight before them: a monstrous ocean of shadows had engulfed the entire city block, black waves rising and falling silently, impossibly, encasing the towering structure of the bank within an impenetrable, pulsating dome of pure darkness.

More cruisers arrived by the second, the gathering police force growing rapidly into a small army of confusion. Radios crackled desperately as panicked explanations poured in—no answers, only terrified guesses at something they couldn't even comprehend.

The shadowy barrier rippled gently, its edges shifting like smoke and liquid, exuding an otherworldly hum that made the officers' bones ache just looking at it.

A high-ranking officer, jaw clenched in stubborn bravery or perhaps ignorance, stepped forward cautiously. With a hesitant breath, he reached toward the shadowy dome, fingers trembling. The instant his fingertips brushed against the pulsating darkness, reality snapped violently.

His own shadow betrayed him instantly, tearing itself free from his feet in a single, ruthless second and merging seamlessly into the shadow ocean.

He had no time even to gasp; before his mind could process the betrayal, a spike forged from absolute darkness exploded outward from the shadow wall.

It pierced cleanly through his chest, skewering him in a blink, then retracted just as swiftly into the shadows.

His body crumpled lifelessly to the ground. All that remained was stunned, horrified silence as the remaining officers stared, frozen, realizing the nightmare they had stepped into. The shadows whispered silently, daring another soul to approach.

The street erupted into primal chaos. Gunfire roared to life, panicked and relentless, a storm of lead hurled desperately into the towering veil of darkness. Each bullet vanished instantly, consumed greedily as if reality itself had cracked open to swallow them whole.

A heartbeat later, a haunting, metallic rain echoed softly from within the shadows—spent rounds falling lifelessly to a floor unseen, mocking the futile assault with an almost musical cruelty.

Panic surged through the gathered crowd, igniting a wildfire of fear that spilled across sidewalks and through trembling hands. Smartphones burst out everywhere, capturing terrified screams, disbelieving eyes, and the nightmare unfolding.

Streams went live instantly, sending reality's fracture rippling across a stunned digital world, feeding it raw terror in real-time.

Suddenly, the air rippled violently, a seismic tremor crawling across skin, shivering spines, halting heartbeats.

From deep within the swirling abyss, darkness itself stretched upward, solidifying into a colossal, monstrous hand forged from liquid shadow and pure, distilled malice. It blotted the sun, plunging the block into artificial midnight, bending gravity and light around it as if the universe recoiled from its existence.

Officers staggered backward, shouts choking into silence, their faces masks of primal horror.

The massive shadow hand hung suspended above them for a single terrible breath—then crashed downward, an avalanche of divine ruin, unstoppable and absolute. Gravity warped violently as the massive construct hammered the earth, sending a shockwave rippling outward, cracking asphalt, shattering windows, folding police cruisers like crumpled paper.

The aftermath was immediate, merciless, visceral. Mangled steel twisted grotesquely around crushed bodies, blood blooming into crimson pools upon fractured pavement.

Those who couldn't flee fast enough vanished beneath the devastation, their lives extinguished in the blink of an eye.

From their motionless forms, shadows peeled away gently, as if relieved to abandon broken flesh, and flowed effortlessly into the monstrous hand, swelling it further with newly claimed power.

In mere seconds, order had collapsed, replaced by an echoing silence heavy with dread, punctuated only by distant cries and fading sirens—a vivid reminder of humanity's fragile illusion of control.

But reality hadn't even begun to bleed yet.

The dome pulsed once more, a deep, guttural thrum that made birds drop mid-flight and digital watches glitch. Cracks rippled across the asphalt as the shadows deepened, vibrating like bass from a god's heartbeat.

And then they started tearing out—clones.

Ripping themselves free of the mass like living nightmares desperate for air, the shadow clones peeled from the abyss with frantic, twitching motion, as though reality had tried to hold them back and miserably failed.

Each one that peeled from the black like living malice— their movements were jagged, twitching, wrong—like glitching ghosts forcing themselves into the flesh. Their forms sharpened mid-motion, humanoid only in outline, but carved from liquid hate and cosmic silence. And the moment they formed, they launched.

It wasn't running. It was erasure on feet.

They moved faster than bullets, faster than thought, streaking toward the street like divine punishment had been pressed into flesh.

The police line didn't hold—they didn't even register the threat in time. The first officers barely screamed before limbs flew, bodies twisted, weapons scattered like broken toys.

Blood hit the pavement in hot, artistic splashes. Some still tried to fight—because instinct is a bitch—but the bullets just spun midair and vanished, sucked into shadow, spat back as clinks of mockery from the floor within the dome.

And then came the dismemberment.

Clones slid under cars, flipped them casually with one hand, dragged screaming men through engine blocks like paper. One tackled an officer mid-run and didn't stop until they both smashed through a concrete wall—only one of them walked back out. Another clone ran straight through a news van, its body liquefying into shadow mid-dash, then re-forming behind it with a cameraman's head in hand.

Blood hit the pavement like abstract art, splash after splash of visceral modernism. Screams filled every frequency—digital, human, cosmic.

People ran. No one waited. No teams. No ranks. It became every soul for themselves.

Phones flew. Livestreams caught a few seconds of hell before going black—unless the streamers screamed too long. Then their followers got to watch the death up close.

Someone actually screamed, "Is this a government op?!"

Another yelled, "Bro this is CGI, right?" just before a shadow blade carved his spine out like a ribbon from his back.

And above it all, the dome pulsed again—stronger now, satiated, gorging itself on death and fear. The shadows expanded with every kill, every dismemberment, thickening like a storm that knew it was winning. This wasn't just slaughter.

It was worship.