Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users
Chapter 197: They Are Here

Chapter 197: They Are Here

He didn’t come back.

There was no scream. No shout. No sound at all.

Back in the clearing, the seconds ticked by. Then a minute. Someone looked around.

"Where’s Coren?" a voice asked, low and unsure.

Heads turned. No answer.

The deacon didn’t stop chanting. But his voice shifted. Just a bit. Slower. Lower. Like him, he had also felt the change.

The ground under the altar pulsed again.

One of the staves sparked—a small pop of light. The cultist holding it jerked slightly, surprised.

Then, in the far distance, birds exploded from the trees. Dozens, maybe hundreds of them, fleeing in all directions. Their wings flapped in panic, but nothing followed.

The forest returned to silence.

The cultists didn’t stop.

They couldn’t stop.

But now, many of them had begun glancing sideways.

More staff started humming.

The dirt at their feet cracked.

Still no sign of Coren.

And at the very back of the circle, the nervous young cultist looked into the trees.

He was sure now.

Something was watching.

He didn’t know what it was.

But he knew one thing for certain.

It had eyes.

Another minute passed.

Someone else stepped forward, a mid-rank member of the outer circle—one of the watchers.

He looked toward the tree line and then back at the rest of them, his face tight. "I’m going to check on him."

No one stopped him.

The chanting continued, but the rhythm had broken slightly, with small delays between syllables, soft cracks in timing.

No one dared stop completely, but no one could ignore the tension anymore.

The cultist disappeared into the trees.

His back faded between the trunks, then his shoulders, then his head.

The forest swallowed him.

The silence deepened.

Seconds passed.

Then thirty.

Then sixty.

Nothing.

Not a sound. Not a footstep. Not a bird. Not even wind.

Just silence.

Then it happened.

One of the outer cultists, a woman with dark eyes and a shaved scalp, jerked mid-chant. She stumbled.

The others turned.

She was already on the ground.

No scream. No warning. One moment, she was standing. The next, she was face-down in the dirt, limbs slack.

Someone rushed to her, dropping the chant entirely. Rolled her over.

Eyes wide open. Unblinking.

The neck snapped sideways.

Mouth slightly parted.

No blood. No marks.

Just gone.

"Deacon—!"

The older man at the center of the ritual didn’t turn. But his voice slowed again. The tempo dropped even more. His shoulders hunched a little.

As even he was a little stumped and did not know what to do, as he could not really stop this process, as that would risk his life, which he would never let happen.

"Do not break the chant," he said. "Not unless you want worse."

But it was already broken.

The rhythm had cracked.

The silence of the forest had changed.

Before, it was heavy. Pressing. Waiting.

Now it was sharp. Thin. Like it had teeth.

Two guards stepped forward, axes raised, eyes scanning the tree line. One made a slow circle, trying to get a sense of where the attack had come from.

They didn’t get far.

One took a step—and fell.

No cry. Just fell.

The other turned in time to see something blur past. It wasn’t a shape. It wasn’t a person. Just motion. Just speed.

He swung his axe wide in a panic.

But nothing was there.

He backed up, breathing hard, shoulders twitching. The axe trembled in his hands.

Then he jerked once—and dropped.

Same as the first.

Neck turned.

No blood.

No clue.

The cultists froze.

The chanting had fallen apart completely now.

The deacon kept going. Alone.

But even his voice had started to falter.

A few cultists moved closer to the altar, hoping to find safety in proximity. Others backed away, eyes darting toward the forest.

"What is it?" someone asked.

No one answered.

The nervous young cultist looked around again. His eyes were wide. He gripped his staff like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"They’re in the trees," he said. "They’re in the trees, and they’re watching us."

"Who?"

"I don’t know."

Then another cultist vanished.

Right in front of them.

He had just started to step toward the edge of the clearing when something pulled him back.

No sound.

No flash.

One step—and then gone.

Someone screamed.

Another cultist ran for the tree line opposite the attacks. She didn’t make it two steps before she fell. Chest down. Eyes staring. Staff rolling from her hand.

Two more dropped in quick succession. One tried to cast a spell. Another raised a defensive barrier.

Neither finished.

The forest shadows thickened. It wasn’t magic. Just dread.

From behind the trees, something moved again.

This time, more than one thing.

The nervous young cultist pointed, shaking. "I saw them. There. Between the trunks. They’re moving."

Another cultist followed his gaze.

Just enough light flickered past a branch to catch a glint—like a pair of eyes. Low to the ground. Then another flash. Higher up. Three, four, maybe more.

Fast.

Too fast.

No one saw their faces.

No one saw their forms.

Just glimmers.

Crimson glints. Like metal or moonlight on blades.

Then silence again.

Another death.

Another fall.

The deacon’s voice finally cracked.

He stopped chanting.

The ritual collapsed.

All at once, panic broke loose.

"Run!"

"Scatter!"

"Protect the slab!"

"Call the others!"

The clearing turned to chaos.

Cultists grabbed whatever they could—staves, blades, scrolls. They didn’t know where to run. Every tree could be hiding something. Every bush a shadow.

The air felt wrong now. Heavy and sharp at the same time.

It wasn’t a beast. It wasn’t even a monster.

Whatever had come... didn’t breathe like animals.

Didn’t kill like predators.

Didn’t move like humans.

They didn’t leave footprints. They didn’t leave sounds.

They didn’t miss.

The nervous young cultist fell to his knees, clutching his staff.

He saw one last flicker.

A shimmer between trunks.

Too tall. Too straight. A silhouette with no edges.

And two eyes.

Crimson.

Glowing faintly.

He opened his mouth to scream—

But nothing came out.