Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!-Chapter 292: The Ashford Heir’s Arrival

The first thing people noticed wasn't the cars.

It was the sound.

A deep, guttural symphony of engines that didn't just announce an arrival—it declared one. The low, predatory growls of modified hypercars, the menacing hum of armored luxury SUVs, and the sharp, commanding sirens of police escorts created a goddamn orchestra of power.

Heads turned, conversations halted, and even the employees at Wilder Automotive Pavilion, who had seen some shit, had to step back. This wasn't just some billionaire's brat pulling up to flex—it was an event.

And then the convoy came into view.

Leading the pack were two Rimac Nevera electric hypercars, sleek and silent except for the futuristic whine of their acceleration. They were pure speed demons, custom-fitted with AI-driven security countermeasures. Behind them, a line of blacked-out Mercedes-Maybach G650 Landaulets rolled like tanks, each one a moving fortress carrying security personnel dressed in coordinated, navy-black tactical suits—Ashford Family insignias stitched so subtly into their lapels that only those who mattered would notice.

Then came the real power flex—two Ferrari KC23s with their butterfly doors and sleek, predatory curves, their customized titanium paint shifting under the Pavilion lights like liquid metal. Because why the fuck not?

And behind them, an absolute monster of a car: a one-of-one Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire Droptail, its deep crimson finish so rich it looked like spilled wine under moonlight.

And at the heart of it all, the car that mattered most—

A Koenigsegg, matte black with deep blood-red accents, rolling slow like it knew it was the main attraction. The sheer presence of the vehicle made the whole convoy look like an armored procession for royalty.

It was.

Because when you're the heir to one of the Big Five families, you don't just show up. You arrive.

The first people to move were the security team. Doors to the Maybachs clicked open in perfect sync, and eight bodyguards stepped out like they were rehearsing for a movie scene. Their movements were sharp, precise—trained professionals who weren't just here for the look.

One of them tapped a device on his wrist. A drone deployed, scanning the perimeter for any unexpected guests. Another two moved towards the Koenigsegg, their hands subtly resting near their concealed holsters.

The entire Pavilion went dead silent. No one dared to breathe too loud.

The Koenigsegg's door lifted.

Not flung open. Not rushed.

Calm. Controlled. Effortless.

Like the person inside wasn't just a young heir, but someone who had been born into this kind of power.

First—a polished black dress shoe hit the pavement. Nothing flashy, just clean. Understated. But anyone with a brain could tell they weren't just expensive—they were custom-made.

Then came the rest of him.

Tall. Effortlessly put-together. His black tailored suit had a subtle Ashford crest near the collar, barely visible unless you knew exactly what to look for. A silver watch glinted under the Pavilion's lights—a one-of-one Patek Philippe, because of course.

And his expression?

Unbothered. Controlled. Like the whole world could collapse in front of him, and he'd still adjust his cufflinks before giving a damn.

The moment he fully stepped out, one of the bodyguards spoke softly into an earpiece, giving some kind of clearance code.

The heir simply glanced around, eyes sharp—taking in the scene, reading the room, calculating everything.

Then, finally, he moved.

Slow. Measured. Not in a hurry—because when you're this important, the world waits for you. And just like that, he stepped into the Pavilion, his convoy of pure fucking power making it crystal clear:

An Ashford had arrived.

The Ashford heir didn't walk in alone. Oh no—he rolled in like a statement.

The convoy had already turned heads outside—several luxury SUVs in a tight, professional formation, blacked-out windows, and silent efficiency. No unnecessary revving. No flexing. Just pure power moving through the streets like it belonged there.

And now? Now the young heir had stepped into the Wilder Automotive Pavilion—territory of another one of the Big Five.

This wasn't his home turf, but his name carried enough weight that people moved different. Not bowing, not worshipping—but you bet your ass they were paying full attention.

His security team was a mix of professionals—half looking like they could bench press a Range Rover, the other half looking like they could kill you with a paperclip. They weren't in anyone's way, but they made it damn clear that getting close to the heir without permission wasn't an option.

One of them, a sharp-eyed woman with an earpiece, murmured into her mic.

"We're inside. Clear. Maintain exterior watch."

Another guy, sunglasses indoors like a true menace, side-eyed a valet that walked too close. The poor dude practically teleported in the opposite direction.

Meanwhile, a younger bodyguard—probably new—muttered under his breath,

"Damn. Even the air smells rich in here."

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The heir? He didn't even glance at them. He was too busy taking in the place, walking with a confidence that acknowledged power but didn't challenge it.

He knew the Wilders were just as big as his family. He wasn't here to flex—he was here to handle business—his 'own business.'

The receptionists stood, backs straight, offering professional but not overly eager smiles. The managers? Already heading over, but not rushing—that would be a bad look.

"Welcome, Mr. Ashford," the lead manager greeted, voice smooth. "We've prepared the lounge for you. Right this way."

No unnecessary chatter. No fake pleasantries. Just power recognizing power.

The heir nodded, giving a small, polite smile. Acknowledging respect without needing to ask for it.

Behind him, one of his guys leaned in slightly.

"We good? No weird vibes?"

The sharp-eyed woman nodded.

"All clear. Place is locked down. No surprises."

The heir just smirked. Good.

The doors to the private lounge opened, revealing a space designed for business, comfort, and control. Dark leather seating. A silent minibar. Soft lighting that made even casual conversations feel like negotiations.

He stepped inside, finally allowing himself to relax just a little.

His security spread out, two staying near the door, one casually standing by the windows, definitely pretending not to scope out exits.

Then, as if this whole operation wasn't serious as hell, the new guy exhaled and muttered,

"Goddamn, even their sofas look expensive as fuck."

The heir just chuckled, shaking his head. Welcome to the world of the Big Five.