Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

They both sat down without saying much.

She reached for the teapot and poured quietly—no dramatic movements, no extra words. The steam rose slowly, curling in the air like it had nowhere else to go.

The tea wasn't anything fancy—it was just warm, clean, and a little earthy. No sweet aftertaste, no sharp bitterness. Just… simple.

Ethan took a sip. He let the warmth settle in his mouth and then down through his chest. His shoulders eased back without him realizing it.

He wasn't tired exactly, just—less sharp now. Like the tension that had been hiding in his chest finally started to melt away.

"I don't have time to go slow," he said, his voice barely more than a breath.

Ardis didn't say anything right away. She looked at him—not analyzing or picking him apart like some kind of teacher—but like she was seeing who he is.

"You remind me of someone," she said softly. Her tone had changed. Less stiff, less formal. A little quieter.

Ethan looked up, curious, but didn't push.

"Someone from a long time ago," she continued. "He didn't live long. But while he was here… he changed everything around him."

Ethan didn't ask who. She didn't offer more.

They just sat there for a while. The silence wasn't heavy or awkward. It felt like both of them needed this quiet before things started moving again.

Eventually, Ardis stood up and walked back toward the training grid. Ethan didn't move yet. He finished the last bit of his tea, feeling the warmth fade slowly from the cup and his fingertips.

Then he turned.

And saw it.

Still there on the floor, flickering faintly around the edges, was the illusion clone he had made.

It wasn't just some trick anymore. Not some passing thing made by instinct or raw panic. It was standing on its own now. Slightly unstable, yes—but it was holding.

It was the first time it felt real.

Usable.

Like a tool.

A weapon.

A piece of himself that could stand in the world without needing him to push it constantly.

He stared at it for a few seconds, then turned back toward Ardis.

Not a word passed between them.

But something had shifted.

Inside him.

"Soon," he thought, "I'll be able to do this without even thinking."

And when that happened—when his body and power moved together without needing effort—the battlefield wouldn't feel like a place to survive anymore.

It would feel like something he owned.

Seven weeks passed.

The memory of that illusion still stuck with him—not because it was impressive, but because it marked the first time he understood what this could become.

Now, Ethan stood at the center of a different room. This one was bigger. Brighter. But not harsh.

The lighting above was soft and natural, like late morning sun on a clear day. It didn't buzz. It didn't hum.

But the dome around him did.

It was faint—like a soft breath against the back of the neck. Layers of sensors, light fields, and subtle vibrations ran through the air.

Not enough to block anything. Just enough to make you aware that the space was alive.

He stepped forward without waiting.

A shimmer moved to his left. Just a flicker. Not even a full image.

But that flicker made your gut twist like something was about to happen.

Then, without any noise, an illusion appeared.

Just a shape.

Still, calm, facing away.

It gave off no threat.

No pressure.

And that's what made it dangerous.

Because right when you stopped paying attention—when your body relaxed—a second illusion formed.

Same shape. But a different posture. Chin up. Shoulders tight. A stare that didn't blink.

And suddenly the room didn't feel safe anymore.

It felt watched.

Like the kind of watched where someone already decided if you were worth keeping alive.

Ethan didn't say anything.

He didn't need to.

His illusions were talking for him now.

They weren't just about what you could see—they were about what you felt.

Fear, confidence, unease, and calm.

He could bend them all.

Ardis stood near the edge, arms crossed.

"You're not creating illusions anymore," she said. "You're speaking them."

He let the image dissolve.

"I didn't even think about how it looked this time," he said.

"You didn't have to. The way it felt was enough."

She stepped back, watching as the dome shifted. This time, the whole room warped slightly, and the light bent.

Shadows moved in the wrong direction. Corners curled where they shouldn't exist. It was like walking through a house of mirrors mixed with fog.

To most people, it would be impossible to move straight.

But Ethan walked slowly, almost lazily, like he was out for a stroll.

When the wall tried to make it seem like he had turned left, he didn't budge.

When the floor made it look like he was sinking, he stayed grounded.

Even his shadow played along—splitting from him when needed, moving ahead, tricking the sensors.

Ardis kept watching. He wasn't rushing, he wasn't fighting, he was moving like this place belonged to him.

And it was starting to.

No alerts had been triggered when he reached the far end. No false floors stepped on. No decoys missed.

The illusion grid dimmed.

The room faded back to stillness.

Ardis stepped beside him.

"You're starting to understand what it means to be dangerous," she said.

He stayed quiet.

"I'm not doing this to hurt people," he said after a while.

"But I will—if I have to."

She looked at him carefully.

"That line," she said, "between 'have to' and 'choose to'—it gets blurry."

He didn't argue. But he didn't agree either.

They moved to a bench near the wall.

Two glasses of water were already there.

No tea this time.

Just cold water.

Ethan held his glass for a second before drinking.

The silence between them felt lighter now. Not empty. Just settled.

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

"Back during the exam," he started. "When the cult attacked…"

Ardis didn't say anything.

"I couldn't protect everyone," he said. "Not fast enough."

She gave him a small nod.

"You did more than most could've."