Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

The breeze moved gently through the leaves above. It carried a soft scent—like wild petals caught on the wind.

No one said anything right away.

Even the silence felt like part of the lesson.

Thalynae's voice came again—calm, steady, and firm.

"You're not here just to grow stronger. That's not enough. You're here to become immovable."

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.

"When the void stirs again—and it will—the elves can't falter."

She glanced briefly at the orb behind her. It still sat on the table, glowing faintly with the colors it had drawn from the girls.

"That's why I was assigned to guide you," she said. "Not because of status.

But because I know what it's like to carry a resonance that doesn't fit into this world."

Her eyes moved to Evelyn first.

"I see how much you hold back. How do you stay calm—not for yourself, but for others? You carry too much without showing it."

Then to Everly.

"You hide parts of yourself for her, out of love. But that love is starting to blur your own edges. It's not a weakness, but it can slow you down."

Finally, to Nyssara.

"And you—your blade stays sharp because it's easier than being still. You think stillness is vulnerability. But real strength doesn't always move."

The three girls didn't flinch.

But they stood a little straighter.

Not out of fear.

But because the truth in her words found something in them.

"I'm not here to demand obedience," Thalynae said. "I want alignment. Real alignment. That means trust—not just in me, but in each other."

She turned, stepping toward the edge of the garden path.

Then she paused.

Her voice dropped to a quieter tone. But it was no less certain.

"The world won't understand your power. Not right away."

She looked back once.

"And that's fine."

She nodded slowly.

"I'll shape you in silence. So that when the world does notice you… It's already too late to stop you."

And with that, she turned again and began walking toward the forest path.

Under the soft canopy, the three girls stood for a moment longer.

Still.

Grounded.

Then, one by one, they stepped into the light again.

There was no fear in their eyes.

Only focus.

And something quiet is building underneath it—

A sense of momentum.

A shift.

A beginning.

—

Elsewhere, Ethan sat across from his new mentor inside a chamber that didn't look like a classroom.

It was large, round, and quiet. The ceiling arched overhead like the inside of a dome, and curved walls softened the space with warm, ambient lighting.

There were no chairs arranged in rows, no combat targets, no elemental stations.

Only a simple table.

A smooth floor.

And floating diagrams—spinning slowly in the air like glass projections.

But they weren't showing cultivation patterns.

They weren't even focused on combat.

They showed Earth.

Old Earth. Before the meteor.

Before everything changed.

Behind his mentor, wide windows stretched across the far wall. But they weren't normal windows—they were one-way viewports looking far beyond the university.

Beyond the campus.

Beyond the city cluster.

You could see the curve of the world from here—just faintly—under a sky scattered with satellites and orbital relays, drifting like silent watchers.

Ardis, across from Ethan, was quiet at first.

Her hands were folded on the edge of the table. Between them sat a flat display pad, dark except for one pulsing icon.

She didn't rush.

And when she spoke, her voice didn't sound like a lecture.

It sounded like a conversation.

"Most mentors start with the basics—techniques, cultivation flow, energy drills."

She tapped the pad once.

A projection appeared in the air—Earth, as it had once looked—blue and green, full of cities and coastlines. Then, a black streak sliced across the sky.

The meteor.

The impact came next.

Cracks spidered across continents. Oceans boiled. Lights vanished.

"When the meteor hit, Earth didn't die," she said. "But it changed."

She swiped again.

The planet spun.

This time, the screen shifted to a star chart.

"We didn't just rebuild. We reached out."

She leaned back slightly.

"Quietly. Cautiously. And eventually… we moved beyond Earth."

Ethan said nothing.

But his eyes didn't leave the screen.

"This isn't common knowledge," she continued. "Most people think humanity's still recovering. That we're barely holding on."

She tapped again.

A new image appeared—an old data log. Grainy, flickering, partially corrupted.

"Captain Aegis Varn," she said. "First human to survive a deep-space rift transit. Seventeen years alone. No ship logs. No surviving crew."

She paused.

"Classified."

Another tap.

A still photo appeared next. A woman in a kinetic suit. Light armor. Calm face.

"Sera D'Arlan. She could manipulate kinetic fields with such precision that she could split an asteroid belt without touching it.

Sent to negotiate with a silicon-based race on the edge of the Kuiper Belt."

Ethan frowned slightly.

He'd never heard of either.

She looked at him knowingly.

"You haven't. That's the point."

"These were pioneers. Explorers. Protectors. People who should've been legends."

She waited a moment before continuing.

"But they weren't remembered. Not because they failed. But because they were erased."

Ethan's fingers curled slightly over the edge of the table.

"…Why?"

Her answer was quiet.

"Because humanity wasn't ready."

Another pause.

"And because of the curse."

That word landed heavier than the others.

Ethan didn't blink.

But something in his chest tightened.

"The first rift contact didn't just bring new knowledge. It brought something else."

She gestured to the projection.

It changed again.

This time, it showed psychic interference—like a static field etched into old scan records. Black loops. Warped signals. A lingering pulse that didn't belong to any known energy form.

"A psychic scar," she said. "Some call it a resonance lock. Others call it a wound."

"But we have another name for it."

Her eyes met his.

"The Restarter."

He felt it.

Not in his mind.

In his blood.

Like something he'd always known but never said out loud.

"The Restarter didn't break our world," she said. "It looped it. Over and over. Every time we reached the edge of a breakthrough… something shattered. A war. A collapse. A betrayal."

Ethan looked back toward the screen.

It made sense in a way that scared him.

"Some called it fate manipulation," she added. "But it wasn't fate. It was pressure. Constant backward drag. Like something was afraid of what we'd become."

She tapped again.