Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

The next projection showed Earth from orbit.

But this wasn't ancient history.

This was now.

The planet turned slowly, its surface calm but scarred. Deep, sprawling regions—dark and cracked—etched across the land like wounds that had yet to heal.

Forbidden Zones. They pulsed faintly, visible even from this height, a quiet reminder that the damage of the past hadn't faded.

In contrast, pockets of green still clung to the surface, seas still shimmered blue under sunlight, and clouds drifted gently, indifferent to the turmoil below.

Above the surface, rings of satellites blinked, tracing thin silver lines in perfect arcs. Further out, artificial structures hovered in partial completion—orbital rings, stations, construction crawlers inching forward.

They looked fragile from a distance. Like humanity was still trying to rebuild something it couldn't quite name.

Still trying to reach upward.

Still trying to move again.

Ardis watched it all without speaking for a few seconds.

Then:

"A few years ago," she said quietly, "the thread was cut."

Her gaze wasn't on the projection anymore.

It was on him.

"No one knows by whom. Or what. But the lock was broken."

She folded her arms—not out of formality, but comfort. This wasn't a performance. She wasn't delivering a speech.

She was simply saying something that had been waiting to be said for too long.

"And now…" her voice didn't rise. But it firmed.

"We rise again."

She didn't add weight to her words—but they had weight anyway.

"You're part of that rise."

Ethan didn't move.

Not right away.

But inside, his thoughts were running fast, like rivers unlocking behind a dam. Details. Feelings.

Patterns he'd never noticed until now were starting to align. And somewhere deeper, past the noise of thought, something was responding to her words.

Like they had reached a part of him that was already awake—just quiet.

"You're not here to learn how to fight," she continued. "That will come."

She began walking slowly toward the large viewport at the far end of the room.

"But more important than that… is why you fight. And what you carry with you."

She stopped at the glass and placed her fingers lightly on it.

"You need to understand where we came from. What we were forced to forget. What was buried—intentionally."

She glanced sideways, still facing the turning Earth.

"And what we might become if we're not stopped again."

Behind her, the planet continued to spin—quiet, unaware, exposed.

Ethan sat still, his eyes following the horizon curve.

From here, Earth looked distant.

Almost peaceful.

But not silent.

Not anymore.

It felt like something had awakened in it. Like it had taken a breath, it hadn't drawn in centuries.

He felt it stir in his chest, too. Subtle. Slow.

"She's right," he thought.

"The world really did change."

Ardis turned back.

Her face didn't shift. Her expression was still composed. But there was something new behind her eyes—quiet steadiness. Not cold, not harsh. Just sure.

"Before the Fall. Before the powers. Before the beasts and the satellites… There was something else."

She tapped the pad on the desk again.

The projection changed.

Now it was a galactic map.

Dozens of stars spread across the space like pinpricks of light. Colored trails curved between them—pathways of old exploration. Some glowed softly. Others were faint. Broken. Lost.

She pointed to one of the trails. A thin red arc stretched between two small systems.

"This," she said, "was one of the old rift-paths."

She zoomed in. The map folded inward, focusing on a small chain of markers—ship pings, faint traces.

"Even after the meteor. Even with the curse weighing down on us, we still moved."

The pulses flickered slowly.

"Quietly. Without records. But we went."

Her finger hovered over one of the dimmest blips on the map.

"This one was never reported. No logs. No return. No recovery teams."

She turned toward him.

"No survivors."

Ethan narrowed his eyes slightly. The pulse blinked one last time before disappearing from the display.

"That wasn't the only one," she said.

She walked along the curved edge of the room, her voice flowing steadily.

"Other races noticed. They watched. Most didn't interfere."

She looked back at him.

"But they were paying attention. Especially when they realized something."

She paused.

"That humanity doesn't stop."

Ethan finally spoke. His voice was quiet, but certain.

"…Our ability to keep going."

She nodded.

"That's what frightened them. Not your strength. Not your tech. Not your weapons."

She tapped her chest lightly.

"Your momentum."

He stayed quiet, but she saw the change in his posture.

"You were the only race that learned through pain. Every failure made you faster. Every loss made you sharper."

Her voice didn't carry judgment—only truth.

"And when the first rift opened… everything changed."

The screen changed again—back to that twisted field of static resonance.

That scar.

"The Restarter didn't just appear on Earth. It spread. Quietly. It warped everything."

She tapped another point on the display.

"This—" her finger circled a cluster of systems, "—is the Veiled Quadrant. This is where the curse first manifested."

Ethan frowned.

"What was it?"

She looked at him, calm.

"A drag."

She didn't explain at first.

Just let the word land.

Then she said:

"Every time a human-led civilization reached the edge—when it was about to unify, to shift into something greater—something collapsed. Not from outside. From within."

He absorbed that.

"So it wasn't just fate?"

"No," she said. "That's the lie we were allowed to believe. That humanity naturally destroys itself. That history repeats because it must."

She walked back to the table and leaned on it lightly.

"But that's not true."

"It was engineered?"

"No one knows how deep it goes. But it wasn't natural. It was pressure. Applied exactly when needed."

She looked him in the eye.

"The kind of pressure that makes you question your instinct. That turns instinct into hesitation."

He processed that.

Then, finally, he asked: "So what changed?"

She straightened a little as she answered. "That's the question no one can answer."

She gestured again to the map.

"Roughly five years ago… the curse just stopped. Like it hit the end of its pattern."

"No signs?"

"Nothing. No warnings. No peaks. It just… vanished."

Ethan leaned back slightly.

"And the theories?"

"There are many," she said. "Some believe in ancient bloodlines. Others believe in a hidden contract—fulfilled by someone long dead."