Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

He reactivated the cryo-core buried deep beneath the stone platform, the kind of machine that hadn't made a sound in longer than anyone could remember.

A low hum started to rise—quiet at first, then a little steadier. Dust fell from the ceiling. The cold stone, untouched by warmth for generations, slowly started to breathe again.

And he wasn't alone.

They were coming.

Not from the cities above.

Not through gates or portals.

They came from below, from the ground itself.

Through tunnels carved long before the Fall—before the wars, before the systems, before anyone remembered what this place used to be.

Most had forgotten those tunnels even existed. But they hadn't. The ones who lived in the dark remembered.

They came one by one at first, then in groups. They were quiet and careful, not marching like soldiers but flowing like something older, something patient.

Priests in robes that looked more like soot than cloth, stained and wrapped so tightly they seemed part of the skin.

Warriors with eyes that glowed under their hoods—soft lights, like the embers of a long-dead fire that refused to go out.

Archivists are dragging old boxes and rust-covered machines behind them. And others—things that used to be people but no longer looked like it.

Some crawled. Some limped. Some moved like ghosts without sound or shadow.

They filled the old chamber, spreading out across the floor, climbing onto ledges, stepping between pillars like this place still meant something sacred to them.

When the room was full, the man at the center raised his hand.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Not because he ordered it.

But because they all felt it too, what had started watching them.

"The Dreaming One is awake," he said, his voice even, not loud, but clear enough to carry to the farthest wall.

"And silence has ended."

Behind him, one of the blue altar flames stretched upward, just for a second, like it had been holding its breath and finally let it go.

At the base of the altar, five figures knelt.

The agents.

None of them looked alike. Not in fact. Not in build. Not in anything people could name.

But none of them looked human either.

Their presence twisted the air around them. Bent it in ways that made the world seem unsure if it wanted them there. The space around them didn't break—but it came close.

They weren't born.

They were made.

Preserved.

Put away like knives in an old drawer, waiting for someone to remember they were still sharp.

"The Heir lives," the man said, turning to face the chamber. He didn't raise his voice, but his words felt heavier now, like they carried something more than just meaning.

"And the world has forgotten who it belongs to."

He didn't look at the crowd.

He looked at the cathedral, at the walls, the runes, and the quiet bones hidden in the stone.

"Let them pray to their systems. Let them cling to their cities. Let them pretend."

He smiled then. Not wide. Not joyful. Just… slowly.

A line stitched across his chest twitched.

Then shifted.

Then opened.

Just a little.

Just enough for those watching to remember what he kept beneath the skin.

"We don't need to win," he said, his voice barely above a whisper now. "We only need Him to keep watching."

Then he lowered his hand.

And the cult began to move.

Not to conquer.

Not to fight.

Not yet.

But to make sure the world remembered them.

Because their god was watching now.

And when He watched—

Nothing could stay hidden.

Far from Earth, out past the edge of known space—beyond where the satellites stopped transmitting, and the signal noise gave way to silence—a place drifted in the dark.

It wasn't a planet.

It wasn't a station.

It wasn't a ship, though it had parts that looked like all three.

It was just a place.

A throne-world. Quiet. Isolated. Hidden inside a fold of space where even stars hesitated to shine too brightly. Gravity didn't bind this place. It only existed here because something willed it to.

And He was there.

The Nameless God.

He stood where his throne used to be—not sitting, not resting. He hadn't sat in a long time. Not since the silence began. Not since He chose to let the others forget He existed.

But the silence was broken now.

So He watched.

He extended one hand—not in a gesture of power, not in anger or welcome.

Just a motion.

And space itself listened.

It bent.

Split.

Parted like fabric pulled loose at the seams.

And through the opening came another.

She didn't rush. She didn't flare with power or thunder. She didn't need to.

The goddess stepped forward, wrapped in living metal and drifting light—shades of silver and steel shifting around her body like breath.

Her face was calm. Timeless. Her eyes locked with His.

She didn't smile.

She didn't frown.

She simply stood still, the kind of stillness that held weight behind it.

"You call," she said, her voice like wind sliding over broken stone. "After all this time."

He didn't reply with stories or sentiment.

He spoke plainly.

"I need two of your Eyes."

She tilted her head slightly, enough for the light around her to dim.

"To watch?"

"Yes."

"To act?"

"If necessary."

Silence stretched between them.

But it wasn't tense. It was the kind of silence people used when they were making sure what they said next would matter.

"You want them to watch a world already claimed by the Cursebreaker?" she asked carefully.

"I want them to help me understand why I feel so deeply curious about this planet."

She thought about that.

And then asked, "What changed?"

He didn't hesitate.

"Something related to the restarter is on that planet."

Her expression didn't shift much—but something behind her eyes flickered.

"And?"

"A warning was sent," he said. "Not one made by any system in that world. Not something local. It came from someone else. Something else."

He paused.

"A mortal spoke with a voice that doesn't belong to mortals."

That was what made her go still.

"You're sure?" she asked quietly.

"I don't guess," he answered.

She stepped forward, now standing beside Him.