Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users
Chapter 196: Something Is Wrong

Chapter 196: Something Is Wrong

Meanwhile, back in the forest near the old altar, it had always felt strange, even before the cultists arrived.

The trees were twisted here—some leaning just slightly too far to one side, others growing in shapes that didn’t quite match the rest of the forest.

Some trunks curled in on themselves, like they were reaching for something that was no longer there.

The branches arched overhead in jagged patterns, creating a canopy that let in too little light, even during the day.

And the ground was always a little too soft. Not muddy, not wet—just spongey, like it had never really dried out, even under direct sunlight.

Stepping on it felt like walking over something that had been buried a long time ago and hadn’t finished settling.

Today, it felt worse.

The white-robed figures stood in a wide circle around a raised stone slab in the middle of a clearing.

The slab was thick, rough, and cracked in places, but the runes carved into it were clear, though faded with age.

They were dried now, but the marks hinted they had once been written in something more... organic.

Some cultists held wooden staves carved with spirals and jagged symbols. Others had their hands clasped tightly or raised in slow, deliberate motions.

Their postures were trained, calm on the outside, though not all of them were calm within.

No one spoke loudly. They never did. The silence was part of the ritual. The power, they believed, answered only to whispers.

Their chants were soft, almost like a murmur, each voice joining the others in a slow and steady stream.

The language wasn’t something any of them really understood—it wasn’t one taught in books.

It was learned through repetition, memorized syllable by syllable, passed down from those who had spoken it before.

The sound wasn’t musical. Not even close. It was dry, flat, and strangely hollow. Yet, it echoed in the head, vibrating not in the ears, but somewhere behind the eyes.

It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t pleasant either. Just... wrong.

The deacon stood at the center, closest to the slab. He was older than the others, taller too, with shoulders that sagged from time but eyes that didn’t miss anything.

His robe was longer and darker at the hem, stained from years of dirt, ash, and maybe more. He held no staff—he didn’t need one.

His voice alone kept the rhythm. Deep, slow, unwavering. A low rumble that everyone else followed.

Around them, the forest didn’t stir.

No birds sang. No small animals rustled through the underbrush. The deeper parts of the forest had been silent for hours.

But now even the outer trees, the ones closest to normal roads and paths, felt still. It was the kind of silence that didn’t just settle over the place—it pressed down like a weight in the air.

One of the younger cultists, a boy barely old enough to grow facial hair, shifted where he stood.

He didn’t stop chanting, but his eyes darted to his left. He tried to focus on the ritual, but his mouth moved automatically now, like muscle memory.

A few moments later, the chanting stuttered.

Another cultist, this one older, with a shaved head and fidgeting hands, looked up at the thick canopy above them. His voice dropped low.

"It’s too quiet," he whispered, almost afraid to say it out loud.

His partner beside him didn’t respond right away. Just stared ahead, lips moving in tune with the others.

But the nervous man didn’t stop. "We haven’t seen any birds all day. And my staff—" He held it up slightly, fingers trembling. "It’s... humming."

His partner finally blinked and glanced at the staff. "It always hums. You just noticed because you’re nervous."

"No," the man said, softer now. "It’s not like before. It’s different now. Stronger. Like it’s warning me."

A third cultist, a few steps behind them, turned with an annoyed glare. "Shut it. We’re mid-chant. You know what the deacon does to people who mess up the rhythm, right?"

The young man closed his mouth, but his hands stayed tight around his staff. His knuckles were pale, and sweat had started to bead at his hairline.

He felt it.

Not just the hum in the wood. Something else. Like he was being watched. Not by another cultist. Not by an animal. Something else. Something he couldn’t point out. And it wasn’t curious, instead it was waiting.

But he couldn’t look around. Not now. Not when the ritual was in motion.

And the ritual kept going.

Time stretched. The chanting looped back to the beginning again, like a song with no end.

Then the ground beneath the altar began to thrum.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even forceful. Just a soft, steady beat—like a slow heartbeat, pulsing from under the stone.

Some cultists leaned into the feeling, eyes widening slightly, mistaking it for a sign of progress. Of success.

Others stiffened.

At the edge of the tree line, one of the guards—a man with a thick beard and a small axe on his belt—turned his head just a bit. He had seen something. Or thought he had.

The leaves on the far side had shifted, ever so slightly.

But there was no wind.

He didn’t call out. Just took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes. Looked again.

Nothing.

But then it happened again. A flicker between the trunks. Fast. Silent. Too fast to be a deer. Too graceful to be human.

His fingers curled around the handle of his axe. He didn’t panic. Just began walking toward the edge of the clearing, slow and steady.

He passed the nearest cultist, who gave him a small nod of recognition.

The guard didn’t return it.

He stepped past the trees.

The light dimmed instantly, the branches above blocking out the sky like curtains. The noise of the ritual faded behind him, not because he had gone far, but because sound didn’t carry out here.

It just... stopped.

He scanned the woods. Every tree. Every shadow.

Nothing moved.

He kept going. One step. Then another.

Reached a wide tree. Circled it.

Still nothing.

He waited. Listened.

Took another breath.

And then—

Nothing.