Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

"We must," she said, her voice quiet but unshaken. "This isn't about politics anymore. They touched our kin. And during the Year of Inheritance."

Elowen gave a single nod, not needing to add much more. "They touched one of ours."

Far from the forest roots and sacred trees, fire was already burning beyond the mists and hush of the living world.

It burned inside a place no map had ever marked, a place too old to exist on paper, and too sacred to speak of casually.

The hall stood in silence, vast and black, carved from obsidian that shimmered with thin rivers of gold.

Its walls didn't reflect the fire—they shaped it, stretched it, and made it dance like something alive.

There were no torches, no windows, just light flickering across dark stone like breath in the lungs of something ancient.

One figure stood at the center of that hall.

Barefoot. Unarmored. Wrapped in a robe of flowing red that slipped and curled with every small shift of their body.

Not heavy cloth, but something lighter—like mist, or heat, or wind pressed into fabric.

They weren't man.

They weren't woman.

They were something else entirely.

Divine.

And in the palm of their hand, a single spark floated above the skin—tiny, soft, but unmistakably alive.

Sera's spark.

The moment it flickered—just once, like a breath caught mid-sentence—the air around them cracked faintly, like glass thinking about breaking.

Then, one by one, others arrived.

No doors opened. No portals flared.

They just stepped into being.

The first voice was low and even. "Sera was threatened?"

Another answered, deeper, like a storm rolling beneath the horizon. "Not her. Not yet. But close enough."

The first speaker narrowed their gaze. "Then we strike."

A third voice came—older, steady, quiet but sharp like a blade that hadn't dulled in centuries. A hand reached out and rested on the speaker's shoulder.

"Not yet. We watch and understand for now, and if anyone does anything, then we move."

Even as they said it, their other hand had curled into a tight fist.

Because this wasn't just a threat.

Sera wasn't just another child blessed by Crescent.

She was the last piece of something they'd believed long gone. The last thread of an oath that still held weight, even when forgotten by those who had spoken it.

And now she was in the middle of something that felt far too much like a war they swore they would never let happen again.

So yes, the world might survive.

But the ones who started this—who thought they could ignite old fire without burning themselves—they wouldn't.

And somewhere else, in the places the world forgot how to see, the old ones stirred.

They didn't wake with fanfare.

Some just shifted slightly, like sleepers adjusting in their dreams.

Some turned their heads.

And some… simply opened their eyes.

The time for warnings had ended.

The lines were drawn. The pieces were placed.

And now, every god, every watcher, every silent remnant of what came before—all of them were watching again.

Not with curiosity.

But with purpose.

The kind of purpose that doesn't flinch when the sky starts to shift.

Because the world Ethan stood on had just stopped being quiet.

And it would not be quiet again for a very, very long time.

High up in the northern Crescent, where the sky always looked a little heavier and the buildings leaned in close as if trying to keep secrets from the stars, a message arrived.

It didn't come through any network.

No comms. No signal trail. No encryption protocol.

It just arrived.

A sealed case, small and unmarked, its surface black and smooth. The symbol etched into the lid wasn't one the average Crescent agent would recognize—but one woman, sitting in a quiet room above a nearly forgotten shrine-city, knew it the moment she saw it.

She was brewing tea when it appeared.

No sound announced it—no flicker of light or pulse of magic.

Just a faint shift in the air.

A whisper of pressure. The kind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise even when nothing's changed—except everything has.

She turned.

There it was.

Resting in the center of her meditation table.

Her fingers brushed the case once before she opened it.

Inside was a single memory strand. Sealed. Smooth. Nothing else.

No label. No sender.

But she already knew who had sent it.

She closed her eyes and let the strand connect.

The memories flowed through her like water down a path—clear, deliberate, nothing wasted. Faces. Coordinates. Names.

Threads of thought stitched together through Lilith's lens. Every detail sharper than the last.

And at the center of it all, something else.

A warning disguised as a report.

Someone, somewhere, was preparing for another descent.

She stood up. Quietly. Tea forgotten.

She crossed the room, opened a wall drawer, and pulled out a small silver token—a communicator keyed only to her rank.

She pressed it against the shrine wall.

It responded with three faint pulses.

Three names activated.

Then she stepped outside.

And within the hour, they arrived.

The first came through the drainage tunnels. He was tall and lanky, dressed like a delivery worker from the outer zones.

His mask covered most of his face, but the way he moved gave him away. He was fluid, confident, and unbothered.

Urban infiltration specialist. Born to move unnoticed through cities monitored to death.

The second dropped from a temple roof, her landing silent. The hum of energy wrapped around her like silk.

Her boots didn't make a sound. Her eyes were large and bright—glowing faintly, like they caught more than just light.

An empath. Battle-resonance reader. She could feel what people left behind after conflict—every flicker of anger, every breath of fear.

The last came out of a shadow that barely existed.

It wasn't deep. It wasn't dark.

But somehow, he stepped through it anyway.

He didn't say a word. Didn't give a name.

He just bowed slightly to the woman who had called them.

Void-touched. Curse-breaker. His kind didn't talk much—but when they moved, things didn't get back up.

They stood before her, quiet but ready.

The shrine behind her pulsed once with recognition.

"I've received command," she said. "We begin now."

No one questioned her.

They nodded once.

And then they moved.

The team split into three.

The first—through the sea.