Chapter 240: A New Matriarchal World

2015 AD

The world had undergone a lot of changes since the divergence. The divergence, the Origin energy, had mutated and given more power to the women, making them the ultimate rulers of the realms.

The world as it was now, solely run on a matriarchal system, and previously, men had an aura, but after the divergence, they lost it.

Now they are nothing but ordinary, mundane beings.

Women thrived across every discipline, not because opportunity had suddenly appeared, but because the energetic substrate of reality itself now responded preferentially to them. Origin energy acted as an amplifier, stabilizer, and occasionally as intuition, subtle but measurable advantages that accumulated over time.

Men, meanwhile, lived increasingly conventional lives.

Some found relief in it.

A quieter existence, less existential expectation.

Others struggled with irrelevance, especially those raised before the Divergence. Cultural adjustment lagged behind biological reality.

It usually does.

Still, the world did not fracture.

It adapted.

History tends to favor whatever configuration sustains itself longest. In this case, that configuration was unmistakably matriarchal—not ideological, not imposed, simply aligned with how power now flowed through the species.

And once power flows a certain way long enough, it stops being questioned.

It just becomes normal.

*

*

Kharsen City

Kharsen had earned its Tier-One designation the hard way—through density, capital flow, and strategic relevance rather than mere population size.

The skyline reflected that philosophy. Towers were not built simply to impress; they were engineered around origin resonance, energy conservation, and defensive stability. Clean transport corridors replaced older congested roads, and vertical zoning allowed residential, commercial, and governance districts to coexist without constant friction. The result was a city that felt perpetually busy yet rarely overwhelmed.

The suburbs told a different story.

Beyond the core density, where the urban grid softened into landscaped expanses, lay the affluent residential belts.

The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Buchanan residence, casting abstract patterns across the polished marble floors of the kitchen.

Martha Buchanan stood at the center island, her reading glasses perched on her nose as she reviewed geological surveys spread across the white quartz countertop.

Steam rose from her coffee mug, untouched and cooling while she made notes in the margins of a topographical map.

The house sat on three acres of manicured land in the Silverwood Heights lane, fifteen miles north of Kharsen City.

It was a testament to Kate’s success, a sprawling two-story structure of glass, stone, and steel that somehow managed to feel both modern and timeless. The architecture followed the latest Vealdric design principles.

Through the windows, Martha could see their grounds stretching out toward a line of silver birch trees that marked the property boundary. The lawn was that perfect shade of emerald green that required constant maintenance, which their groundskeeper, a man named Tomas Werden, provided three times a week. Beyond the trees, she could just make out the tops of other estates, each one similarly grand, each one home to successful women who had climbed to the upper echelons of the society.

This was the world Kate had built for them. Martha appreciated it; truly she did, even if she spent most of her time dreaming of dusty excavation sites and sleeping in field tents.

“You haven’t touched your coffee.”

Martha looked up to find Kate standing in the doorway, already dressed for the office in a tailored charcoal suit that fit her tall, athletic frame perfectly. At forty-one, Kate Buchanan was striking rather than beautiful – sharp cheekbones, intense gray eyes, and dark hair cut in a precise bob that fell just to her shoulders. She wore minimal jewelry, just her wedding band and a small origin crystal pendant that hung at her throat, marking her as a registered channeler of moderate ability.

“I got distracted,” Martha admitted, gesturing at the maps.

“The survey data from Kreeshan Valley came through last night. Kate, look at this sediment pattern. These compression layers, they’re consistent with a catastrophic event, something that happened in a single day, maybe even a single hour.”

Kate crossed to the coffee maker. She poured herself a cup, added cream from the cooler, and then came to stand beside Martha, looking down at the maps with polite interest.

“The Rupture,” Kate said.

“That’s what you think caused it.”

“I know it did. The question is what caused the Rupture. The official histories say it was a natural disaster, a massive quake or volcanic event. But the evidence doesn’t support that. This—”Martha tapped the map—”this is too uniform, too controlled. It’s almost like something carved this valley into existence.”

Kate sipped her coffee, her expression thoughtful. She had heard variations of this theory many times over the fifteen years of their marriage.

Martha was brilliant, passionate, and utterly convinced that the official histories taught in every school across the seven Dominions were incomplete at best and deliberately falsified at worst.

“And you think you’ll find proof in this valley,” Kate said.

It wasn’t quite a question.

“I know I will. Kate, I need to go back. I know I just returned from the preliminary survey three weeks ago, but the team is ready, the permits are approved, and the weather window is perfect. If we wait until next season—”

“How long?” Kate interrupted gently.

Martha hesitated.

“Eight weeks. Maybe ten if we find something significant.”

Kate set down her coffee cup with deliberate care. Through the windows, the automated sprinkler system activated across the lawn, tiny arcs of water catching the morning light. The system ran on a timer controlled by sensors that could detect soil moisture levels and adjust watering accordingly.

“That’s a long time,” Kate said finally.

“I know. I’m sorry. But this could be important, Kate. Really important.”

Kate turned to look at her wife fully.

Martha was forty-three, with whitish blonde hair shot through with gray that she kept pulled back in a perpetual ponytail. Her face was tanned from years of fieldwork, with lines around her eyes from squinting in bright sunlight. She wore no makeup, kept her nails short and practical, and currently stood in worn jeans and a university sweatshirt despite the fact that they could afford any clothing she wanted.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep