Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

He looked at her more carefully this time.

"But what do you think?"

She met his eyes without any hesitation.

"I think it was someone."

She didn't rush it. Let the words settle a second longer.

"Someone who was locked away, too, someone is tied to the first contact, someone whose existence alone broke the cycle."

He didn't answer.

But his body did.

His pulse changed. Shoulders are slightly tenser now. Breathing more measured.

She noticed it all.

No smirk. No smile.

But her voice lowered a little.

"I don't think the curse faded," she said. "I think it was cut."

Then she walked back to her seat and sat down like nothing had changed.

"But even now… not everyone's happy about it."

Ethan frowned, voice quiet.

"…Why wouldn't they be?"

She didn't pause.

"Because some of them liked the leash."

The words weren't loud.

But the energy in the room shifted.

The air changed—not colder or heavier. Just more still. Like something was listening.

Behind her, the projection flickered again. Earth continued to spin outside the viewport, slowly, quietly, as if pretending it wasn't paying attention.

Ethan stared at the planet.

After a few seconds, still not looking at her, he asked:

"Then why does it still feel like something's watching?"

Ardis didn't blink.

"Because it is."

She tapped the pad one more time.

The projection disappeared.

The screen turned dark.

Only the faint hum of the equipment remained.

The lesson should've been over.

But it wasn't.

Not really.

Something about it had just started sinking in. Not facts. Not data. Something deeper. Like the truth was still crawling into the bones.

Neither of them spoke.

And they didn't need to.

The quiet wasn't awkward. It stretched out naturally, like the space between words that were still forming.

Eventually, Ardis stood.

No sudden moves. No dramatic pause.

She simply walked over to the side wall and dimmed the lights. Then she adjusted a small panel beside her.

A soft, low pulse spread through the room—hard to see, but Ethan could feel it immediately.

The air wasn't the same anymore.

Then she said:

"This next part's not about knowledge."

Ethan looked over, curious.

"It's about you."

He didn't speak, but his posture straightened slightly. He was listening.

She tapped another setting on the panel. The faint hum in the walls shifted into something deeper.

It wasn't sound, not exactly. It was more like pressure—a low, steady resonance that vibrated just beneath the skin.

"Close your eyes."

He did.

And almost instantly, the sensation deepened.

It wasn't physical. But it was real.

Something brushed against his awareness. It was not touching him—just sitting on top of him. It was not invading—more like nudging him, guiding him to pay attention.

"Illusion," she said gently, "isn't fantasy."

Her footsteps moved slowly around the room.

"It's not about faking something out of nothing. Not really. It's not about lying in the way people think."

She circled behind him, voice even.

"It's editing. Shaping perception. First theirs. Then yours."

She stopped moving.

"In battle, people lose perception first. That's what makes illusion users fragile. If you can't control the field, you die early."

She paused.

"But if you learn to control it—if you master it—then you disappear. You become unreadable. Untouchable."

He didn't speak. Just listened.

Then the resonance shifted again—reacting to his breath, his heartbeat, his stillness.

"I'm going to teach you how to split your power."

He exhaled quietly.

"Into what?"

"Two layers," she said. "First one's passive. Always on. You don't activate it. It's just there. A quiet pressure that bends how others read you."

She took a few slow steps.

"Stand still… and people will feel like you're about to move. Take a step forward, and they'll second-guess what they saw.

You won't fool high-level sensors or perfect instincts. But you'll wear down regular people. You'll confuse them."

She stopped near him again.

"It also makes it harder for you to lie to. When they can't read you clearly, their own perception gets unstable. Their tells start slipping through."

He nodded slightly but kept his eyes shut.

"And the second?"

"That one's active," she said. "It creates echoes—false visuals. Off-position sounds. But it doesn't run on mana or power alone."

She stepped in front of him again.

"It runs on clarity."

He opened his eyes, confused.

"Clarity?"

She crouched slightly so she was at his eye level.

"If your mind's a mess—if your emotions are loud, your focus scattered—then your illusion flickers. It glitches. It breaks."

He thought about it.

That… actually explained a lot.

"All this time," she said, "you weren't failing because you lacked talent. You were failing because your power needs clean input. You've been trying to shoot through dirty glass."

It made more sense than anything else he'd been told.

"Try it," she said.

He blinked. "Try what?"

"Start with the passive layer. Don't force anything. Just relax. Imagine letting the room get the wrong idea about you."

He frowned, but didn't argue.

He let out a breath.

Tried to let go of expectation. Tried to think back to moments when people gave him space without reason. Teachers are pausing mid-sentence.

Classmates stepped aside when he walked past, maybe he had always been using something.

He just hadn't known it.

He didn't push.

He just allowed it to happen.

Let the air mistake him.

Let the hum in the room sync with his breath.

And then—

Ardis blinked.

She tilted her head slightly, as if something had shifted that even she hadn't expected.

He hadn't moved.

But now, there were two impressions radiating from him.

One calm. One unreadable.

She studied him quietly for a few more seconds.

Then gave a small, approving nod.

"That's the passive."

He opened his eyes again.

"I didn't do anything."

"You didn't have to," she said. "It's already in you. It always was."

He stood a little straighter now. Aware of how his presence moved the air.

"Now the active one," she said.

He focused again.

This time, he pictured his voice—not coming from his mouth, but echoing from the far side of the room.

He exhaled—

And a second later, a perfect copy of his voice spoke from the corner.

It didn't sound fake. Just misplaced.

Ardis turned slightly. Her attention went straight to the wrong spot.