Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

The man in the chair leaned forward slightly, his voice low but clear, like he wasn't speaking to the room—but to the world.

"Let's stir the bones," he said. "And rattle the skin."

A map came alive across the projection floating in front of him. Red dots flickered into view, scattered across continents, oceans, and mountains.

One by one, they began to dim—not from failure, but from something else—something waking up.

Old commands. Ancient codes. Signals meant for people who had once lived normal lives—if you could call what they had normal.

Somewhere far underground, beneath a ruined city nobody remembered building, a woman jolted upright in the dark.

Her breathing hitched as her back arched and a glowing symbol burned its way to the surface of her skin.

She whispered something. A phrase. A prayer, maybe. But it wasn't in any language she consciously knew.

The man in the chair didn't smile.

His voice didn't rise but hardened like steel cooling in the air.

"I gave you silence," he said. "And you thought it was mercy."

Another red marker blinked out.

"Then let the noise return."

The map vanished as he closed his hand. The throne behind him didn't crumble. It didn't power down. It simply disappeared, like it had never been there in the first place.

He stood, not stretching or brushing himself off like someone coming out of rest. He just looked up—toward stars most people would never see—and the space around him folded in on itself.

Not with sound or bright flashes. It bent with something heavier. A kind of weight you couldn't see, but could feel in your chest, like gravity shifting direction.

He turned once, as if to check that everything was in place.

Then he was gone.

Not teleported.

Gone.

Because people like him didn't jump through portals, they bent the world until the world couldn't help but follow.

Even if it didn't want to.

—

Thousands of kilometers away, buried under layers of cracked ice and ancient stone, a single candle flickered to life on its own.

The flame danced without wind. The air in the massive chamber trembled faintly, like the earth itself was remembering something it had long tried to forget.

A voice whispered through the dark. Not loud. Not clear. Just there. Old words, worn down by time. The kind of prayer that no one living had spoken in generations.

The god was watching again.

And the cult, the one most believed had vanished with the Fall, had started to stir.

The underground cathedral was old—older than most maps and older than most memories. It had been built before the Fall and buried after.

Now it sat beneath the Antarctic shelf, wrapped in silence so complete even orbiting satellites skipped over it. Nothing on the surface hinted at what lay beneath.

But down here, nothing had really died.

Frost covered the tall walls. Huge metal pillars still stood upright, holding up a ceiling made of shattered stained glass and reinforced alloy.

What color remained in the broken pieces was mostly washed out, faded to pale blues and dusty greys.

The only light came from the fire pits—small, steady flames flickering in carved stone bowls.

And breath.

And movement.

At the center of the room, a long altar sat raised above the floor. A figure lay on top, motionless under robes as thin as paper.

His skin looked like polished bone, dry and cold, but something in the stillness told you he wasn't dead. Not yet.

All around him, four sealed chambers were embedded into the walls, half-frozen and half-forgotten. Each one held a perfectly preserved person, waiting.

The first to wake was a man.

He was thin, wiry, his skin pale from years in cryo-sleep. No shirt. Short hair. On his chest were nine slits—long, thin marks stitched closed like shut eyelids.

They weren't bleeding. But they pulsed. One after another. Like they were breathing beneath the skin.

His body jerked upright with a sharp gasp, like someone had dragged him out of water. His arms trembled, but his eyes were steady. And when he spoke, the voice that came out wasn't his.

"The Dreaming One has moved," it said.

Then a slow smile formed across his face.

"The time has come."

He didn't waste time checking on the others. Didn't even glance at them. He stepped down from the platform, bowed once toward the figure on the altar, and walked to the back of the room.

There, a console sat half-covered in chains—ancient bindings, wrapped tight and sealed with sigils.

He reached out. The chains uncoiled and fell away, not broken but… dismissed. As if they recognized him.

The console lit up with a soft glow, shedding layers of dust in the warmth of its old lights. It was an ugly thing—built from salvaged tech, parts of it military, parts of it clearly cult-made, all patched together into something only the awakened would know how to use.

He entered a code.

It still worked.

The screen blinked, bringing up a global map with familiar but long-forgotten symbols. Strange marks dotted the map's surface—places that didn't appear on normal sensors. Each one marked a sleeper node.

He selected five.

The console pulsed, then began transmitting the signal.

—

In a crater far to the north, hidden under a city built over ruins, a young woman collapsed in her bathroom.

Her body shook, and her spine arched. On her lower back, a jagged circle began to glow, lines cutting through it like lightning frozen in ink.

She didn't scream.

She didn't panic.

She just started laughing.

Then she stood up, opened a panel behind her closet, and pulled out a long, cloth-wrapped case bound with wax seals and twine.

She unwrapped it carefully.

Inside was a mask.

Smooth. Black. Thin, with almost no details except for the carvings around the edges—shapes that didn't seem to belong to any style or era.

She lifted it to her face.

And vanished.

Her presence didn't just become hidden. It vanished entirely like she'd stopped being part of the world.