Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

The storm wasn't approaching.

It had already begun, and it was spreading in ways that no mortal eye could yet measure.

Far from the steel walls of the Director's office, in a place where light itself seemed unwilling to wander, there was another kind of silence.

It wasn't something like the silence of calm, nor was it the silence of peace.

It was the kind that followed after too much screaming, after throats had ripped themselves raw until they could no longer hold sound, leaving behind nothing but the hollow reminder that something had once lived there.

Here sat the ancient evil god, an old presence that even memory struggled to hold him. His throne wasn't carved by human hands, nor did worshippers raise it.

It was a jagged spire of bone, fused together from long-forgotten creatures that no human tongue had ever learned to name.

The throne pulsed faintly with its own heartbeat, thick veins of corrupted light crawling through it like blood, feeding into the figure seated upon it.

It was hard to tell if the throne had been built for him or if he had grown out of it, because the two seemed bound together, inseparable, as though the throne itself was his flesh.

The air around him bent beneath the weight of his aura. The skies bled black, streaked with sickly red, bleeding light down the way, wounds leaked blood that would never close.

Rivers no longer carried water; they had long ago turned to ash, sluggish and gray, moving like liquid bone through cracks in the land.

Forests hadn't survived here in centuries. In their place, endless fields of spiked bone and crooked stone cracked apart and healed again, splitting and reforming in a cycle of eternal decay.

At his feet, dozens of cultists knelt low to the ground, their bodies pressed almost flat against the ash, their faces hidden as they chanted.

Their voices rose and fell in broken rhythm, syllables that weren't born of human language but were burned into their tongues by years of worship and madness.

They didn't even understand the words they spoke anymore; understanding wasn't required. The sounds themselves carried power, and the air thickened with every round of chanting.

The prayers turned into smoke, a dark haze that curled upward, seeking the throne, until it was drawn into the god's body like breath.

He inhaled slowly, as though savoring it, his chest rising and falling with deliberate patience.

What they offered wasn't life, wasn't strength—it was rot, it was ruin, it was everything that mortals feared and he craved.

He didn't smile. Gods like him didn't smile. His hunger wasn't the kind that needed expression.

But the dull glow in his eyes sharpened faintly as he swallowed the smoke, a small flicker of satisfaction that never lasted for long.

The silence broke not with sound but with absence. At the far end of the hall, the air didn't tear—it simply stopped existing.

Reality peeled itself back like thin paper stripped away from stone, leaving behind a gap that no mortal eye should have been able to see. From that gap stepped another figure.

This one wasn't like the worshippers crawling on the ground. He was taller, lean, sharp, his body clothed not in fabric but in shadows.

They draped across him like living blades, overlapping, shifting constantly as though they were alive, tasting the air for blood.

He looked almost human at first glance, but everything about him was bent, wrong in ways that were difficult to name, like every angle of his body had been cut just slightly against logic.

His aura wasn't madness like Valakar's; it wasn't chaos. It was hunger—cruel, patient, endless hunger that radiated from him like heat radiated from a fire.

The cultists closest to the tear collapsed before they even had time to scream. Their voices cut off mid-chant, and the smoke of their prayers unraveled, breaking apart and being devoured by the void he had walked through.

The god on the throne didn't move. He simply turned his head, slow and deliberate, his glowing eyes watching the shadowed one step into the hall.

"Valakar," the figure said, his voice sharp and harsh, every syllable carrying the scrape of knives against stone.

"Drosirael," the ancient god replied, the name dragging across the room like chains pulled free of the earth.

It wasn't a greeting. It wasn't warmth. It was recognition, and recognition was enough. They had been allies before, though allies wasn't quite the right word.

They were forces that had worked together when it suited them, tied not by trust or loyalty but by the memory of blood shared long ago.

Drosirael walked forward, each step leaving thin cuts in the stone floor as the blades of shadow around him scraped against it.

The cultists trembled harder, their voices cracking as their chants stumbled, some choking on their own prayers.

He didn't look at them. He didn't need to. His eyes stayed locked on Valakar, sharp and steady, pressing into the space between them with a weight like a spear.

"It is so suprising to see you so excited," Drosirael said after a long pause. "After so many years of silence. Why?"

The throne pulsed under Valakar, the veins of bone lighting faint red for a moment before dimming again.

His voice rolled out low, deep, steady. "Because the insects climb again. The humans, cursed to crawl forever, have found footing where there should be none.

They rise, Drosirael. They rise against the curse I bled into their bones."

Drosirael laughed. The sound wasn't wild or broken—it was cold, precise, cruel. His laughter was the sound of a knife drawn across skin, controlled enough to bleed without killing.

"Humans. Always clawing at scraps, thinking themselves clever for reaching an inch higher than before.

They call it courage. I call it a delay. What do you fear? That they might scratch high enough to see your throne?"

Valakar's gaze didn't shift. His words stayed flat, heavy. "They have protectors now—mortals who dare to stand tall. One of them has already spoken to me. He dares to raise his voice against my silence."

That seemed to amuse Drosirael even more. His cloak of shadows rippled, and the blades hissed faintly, as if sharing his laughter.

"A mortal with a voice sharp enough to reach you? That is bold. Or very foolish. Both please me."

"They should not please you," Valakar said. His voice was low, calm, but it carried iron. "They carry weight they should not.

Karma binds us from touching them directly. But mortals… mortals are pawns we may shape. Yours and mine both. It is a game we played before. We can play it again."

The shadows curling around Drosirael stilled for a moment, drawing closer to his body as he tilted his head. "And what do you offer?"

"Harvest," Valakar replied. "I break their ground. I curse their roots so that they rot before they grow.

You scatter your blades among them, send your faithful, the ones who still whisper your name in the cracks of the earth.

Together, we will hollow them out from the inside. And when the harvest comes, we share the feast."

For the first time, the corner of Drosirael's lips shifted faintly, the closest thing he had to a smile. "Share? You, Valakar, who once called even ash too precious to divide?"

"Do not mistake patience for weakness," Valakar said, his tone sharper. "The harvest will be plentiful. Enough for us both."

The silence stretched between them then, heavy enough that even the cultists seemed afraid to breathe.

One of them, trembling too much to stay still, made the mistake of lifting his head. Just a small movement. Just enough to catch Drosirael's eye.

Drosirael didn't raise his hand. He didn't chant. He only flicked his fingers, and the mortal's body ruptured like rotten fruit.

Blood didn't spray—it bloomed, unfolding into black flowers that writhed as they opened. Their petals dripped red, then crumbled into ash that scattered across the floor.

The other cultists screamed, their prayers falling apart, their voices breaking into raw terror.

Drosirael tilted his head back and laughed again, sharper this time, as if their fear itself was music. "They sing well," he murmured, almost to himself. "Your toys always do."

Valakar didn't flinch. He had watched cruelty too many times to be moved by it. "Will you lend your hand, or not?"

Drosirael's laughter died slowly. The shadows pressed closer around him, curling against his body like they were eager to cut something apart.

His voice came soft, thoughtful. "Yes. A small hand. A test, perhaps. A rehearsal of what we once did to worlds without number."

Valakar inclined his head, just once. "Then the pieces move."

The cultists collapsed forward, pressing their faces into the ash, their screams breaking into desperate prayers once again. Smoke rose from their lips, feeding the god on the throne as the chamber pulsed with red light.

Two gods stood in silence. Not allies. Not friends. Just two forces bound by old blood and new hunger.

And outside their hall, beyond the rivers of ash and the skies that bled without end, the first tremors of their pact were already spilling into the world.

The storm the Director had seen on his map was not the beginning. It was only the shadow.

The real beginning was here, on a throne of bone and shadows, where two gods had decided how much of humanity would burn.