Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

Then he did something simple—but it worked.

He made a false step. Just a fake version of himself walking sideways, like a trick of the eye. Not a full copy or some perfect double.

More like a flash. An illusion that lasted just long enough to make someone second-guess what they saw. Then it disappeared.

Even the sound of it—the footsteps—landed at just the right moment. Like it had weight. Like it could've been real.

Ardis gave a small breath, almost like a sigh, but not tired. It was more like a quiet nod without using her head.

"Good," she said.

Ethan turned his head to look at her.

"That's not all of it, is it?" he asked.

She met his eyes, calm. "No," she replied. "But it's the beginning."

She took a few slow steps toward him. Not with urgency. Just steady, deliberate movement.

"You're not just learning how to trick people," she said. "This isn't about cheap illusions or playing little games.

It's about learning how to be so sure of your own truth—so deeply rooted in it—that the world itself starts to bend around that."

He looked down at his hands. Turned them over a little.

"Feels like I've already been doing that," he said, "without really knowing it."

She nodded once. Not surprised.

"Your mother probably hid it," she said. "Kept it quiet. Shielded the parts of you that might've drawn attention too early."

He didn't ask what kind of attention she meant.

He had a guess. A good one.

And besides, she spoke more softly now. A tone shift that said she wasn't just talking about training anymore.

"But now," she said, "you don't have to hold back."

The room didn't change dramatically. The lights were still low, the walls remained the same, and the projector remained off.

But something had changed.

Not loud. Not sharp.

Just… different.

More awake.

He looked at her again.

"Again?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

She gave a small nod.

And so they kept going.

The next hour passed without feeling like a formal lesson. No drills, no lectures, just motion and focus—over and over again, like water smoothing down stone.

Ardis took her place a few feet away, holding a slim remote in her hand. With a small click, the floor made a soft hum.

A section of it shifted, not loudly, just enough to reveal something new.

A grid pattern appeared across the ground—barely visible lines stretching out across a section of floor.

Each tile looked almost blank, but then they gave a soft little pulse—faint tones. Like a heartbeat you could hear if you stood still.

Ethan squinted slightly. "Pressure sensors?"

"Yes," she said. "Very sensitive. Even your breath will set them off if you're not careful."

He looked down more carefully. The floor was lined with tiny square panels, arranged like a hallway with no real end. There were no arrows, no path, and no instruction manual.

"Okay," he said slowly. "So what's the task?"

She looked at him like it was obvious.

"Walk across it," she said. "But while you're doing that, create a fake version of yourself sprinting left. At the same time, your real body needs to crouch and charge from the right."

He blinked. Gave her a look.

"You serious?"

She didn't blink. "Very."

"In real battle," she explained, "you don't get time. You don't get to stop and think. You'll need to move one direction, look like you're going another, and sound like you're standing still."

He gave a half-smile, like he wasn't sure whether to be impressed or annoyed.

But he rolled his shoulders and gave a quiet, "Alright."

She stepped back to give him space.

Ethan took a deep breath. Closed his eyes for a second. Centered himself.

The room was quiet. There were no clicks, no background music, no commands. It was just him and the space. There was still air, and the light was dim.

Then he stepped forward.

The panel under his foot stayed quiet. No buzz. No beep.

He took another step, slower this time, letting his weight fall more gently into his heel. At the same time, he focused on the left side of the room and imagined it.

He pictured a version of himself dashing across that side. Not a blur—but a real-looking sprint. Legs moving. Arms pumping. Head tilted in motion.

The illusion appeared just for a second.

Then it was gone.

He kept walking.

Another step. A shift in weight. Barely a breath passed.

Still, the floor said nothing.

But then his focus slipped.

The illusion flickered. It came out too early. The body shape curved inward when it should've moved straight.

He stopped moving.

Ardis said nothing.

He tried again.

This time, he lowered his body more before moving. He bent his knees. He let himself drop slower, quieter.

At the same time, he focused his mental energy on that illusion sprint—sharper this time, less shaky, more real.

A faint breath of wind followed the projection.

Closer.

Still didn't feel perfect.

He reset.

Tried again.

Got the image right—but his real foot landed too heavily.

A soft chime rang out.

A warning from the floor.

He muttered, "Again."

Then did it again.

And again.

And again.

One version after another.

Sometimes the image glitched—an arm swinging through the wall, or the light hitting it wrong.

Sometimes a shadow didn't match. Other times, he stepped too fast or too slow and triggered a sound.

But he didn't stop.

It wasn't frustrating. It was quiet. Steady. Like threading a needle with shaking hands.

Deliberate.

Methodical.

After seven tries, the illusion looked right. Sound, movement, and light all lined up.

By the twelfth try, none of his real steps made the floor react.

By the fifteenth try, something clicked.

The illusion wasn't just faked anymore—it was layered. Like one part of him was hiding under another.

He stepped off the grid, breathing a little deeper now.

He looked over.

Ardis stood there quietly, watching him.

Then she nodded.

"You're improving fast."

He moved to the side, where a low table had two cups ready. Light steam drifted off one's surface.