Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

"Your god stepped where he wasn't supposed to. A sealed world got touched. And something older than memory stirred because of it."

Maeva's voice didn't rise or push. It just filled the air, calm and certain. She took another step, not rushed, not cautious. Just firm.

"This isn't a warning. Not from us, anyway. It's from the ones above us."

She stopped a few paces away from Pale Mirror, her eyes unreadable.

"Tell your god—if he keeps acting like a wild thing from the First Rift, others will notice. And when they do, they don't show up to talk."

She let that sit.

"They come to erase."

Arin raised the seal he held. The strip of cloth didn't spark or shine. It just moved, slow and certain, as it drifted down and touched Pale Mirror's cloak.

It slid into the fabric without resistance. No light, no pain.

But it was there now.

And it would stay.

Hush stepped forward, silent as breath.

He didn't touch her skin. Didn't need to.

His fingers hovered in front of her chest, like he was pressing into something invisible.

The space around her changed.

Something folded and bent inward.

Pale Mirror flinched, but there was no pain—just a soft and strange sound that only she could hear—like something deep inside her had just been shut off.

Then came the silence.

It wasn't the quiet of a room. It was the kind of silence that came when a network died. When links collapsed and paths went dark.

Gate access—gone.

Escape routes—cut.

She was still standing and still breathing.

But she wasn't connected to anything anymore.

And just like that, the three of them turned.

No more words.

No threat left behind.

They didn't vanish in a flash or dissolve into smoke.

They simply weren't there anymore.

Withdrawn. Like a tide pulling back after showing just a glimpse of what waited beneath.

Pale Mirror dropped to her knees, not because of damage, but because she understood.

They could've killed her.

They didn't.

And that meant more than any pain ever could.

Far across the network, hidden inside Astralis's deepest layer of command, a small signal blinked once.

Ravenhand: Contact complete. Seal active. Pathways shut.

The Director stood alone in the control room. The coat on his shoulders hadn't shifted. His eyes read the message once.

He didn't smile.

Didn't speak for a long time.

Then, under his breath, low, more to the room than himself: Keep us going by reading on MV_LEM_PYR.

"Let the god think. If he still wants war…"

He didn't finish.

Didn't need to.

The lights faded out one by one, and the silence that followed didn't feel like rest.

It felt like waiting.

A different kind of waiting.

The kind that comes right before the world changes again.

—

Meanwhile, the sky above the Nocturne mansion burned softly with the last touch of sun.

Amber streaks stretched across deep lilac clouds. The air was still—too still, like the wind had decided not to interfere.

Lilith stood alone on the high balcony, arms relaxed at her sides, her silver-white hair draped over one shoulder. It didn't flutter.

She didn't move.

Not when the ripple came.

A scroll, black-feathered and silent, floated toward her palm. It didn't force its way in. It paused near her fingers, waiting like it knew better than to touch her without permission.

Lilith looked down.

Then, slowly, she reached out.

One tap was all it took. The scroll unraveled itself.

One line.

One symbol.

That was all it had.

And that was enough.

Valcrest had acted.

Ravenhand had moved.

The girl had been marked.

Lilith didn't react. Her face stayed calm, lips relaxed, expression unreadable.

The scroll faded into ash on its own, as if its job was done.

Lilith stayed there a moment longer, watching the clouds change color. Then she turned and walked inside.

Her steps were slow, soft. Her slippers didn't echo on the polished floor, but the halls still felt her presence. The wards responded gently, humming in time with her passage.

The walls were lined with old portraits—memories from lives no longer discussed. Lovers, enemies, the dead. Some too old to name, others too painful to forget.

She paused in front of one.

A young boy.

Sharp eyes. Dark hair.

Not Ethan.

Valcrest.

Her gaze lingered on it. Then she kept walking.

She didn't bother to mask herself when she reached her private study. No concealment field. No layered charm. Just her, fully present.

The door clicked shut behind her with a soft breath of sound.

She slid the ring from her finger.

For a brief moment, her presence filled the room like breath returning to lungs, filled with a strong and unmistakable aura that made her presence impossible to ignore.

She didn't sigh. Didn't stretch. She just stood still, letting the space remember her weight.

Then she moved to the far shelf, twisted the mana-lock on a hidden panel, and pulled out a thin shard.

Gray. Dusty. Old.

She slotted it into a small basin.

It activated without fuss.

An image rose.

A boy's voice played first, full of guilt:

"I could've done something, right? If I'd just gotten there earlier—"

Then her own voice, low and even, not cruel, but honest.

"Maybe. Or maybe you'd be dead. You weren't late, Valcrest. You just weren't ready."

She remembered how much he'd hated that.

The way his eyes flashed, the way he clenched his fists. Back then, those words hurt him more than anything.

But now?

Now they made sense to him.

Because now, he was ready.

And it had cost him something to get there.

Lilith shut the memory down and turned back to her desk.

There was no fury left in Valcrest. No fire.

That was what worried her.

He had grown up feeding that anger. Holding it and shaping it.

And then Lilith—and her daughters—had taken it from him.

They ended the cult before he could.

So now, all he had left was the cold part.

Precision.

He didn't hit the girl.

He went after the god.

And unlike most… Valcrest didn't aim to hurt.

He aimed to finish.