Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users
Chapter 198: Who-Who Are You???

Chapter 198: Who-Who Are You???

The forest had gone quiet again. The kind of quiet that didn’t just settle—it pushed. Like the air itself was pressing down on their skin, thick with tension and something older.

Something that didn’t belong in the world they knew.

Most of the cultists had stopped chanting. A few kept mouthing the words in desperation, as if pretending the ritual was still active might protect them.

But the silence had weight now. It wasn’t empty—it was full of something. And they all felt it.

The remaining guards circled up around the slab, weapons drawn, staves glowing faintly. Some held scrolls in shaking hands, eyes scanning the tree line.

They tried to keep their backs to each other, but there weren’t enough of them anymore. There were too many shadows.

The deacon stood near the altar, one hand resting on the runes as he muttered to himself. The stone was pulsing. Faintly at first, but now stronger.

The old lines of power etched into its surface should’ve responded by now. He whispered activation phrases, tried old chants, tried pouring his own energy into the slab—but it wouldn’t open.

The core was sealed and or blocked. Or worse... rejecting them.

He didn’t show fear. Not yet. But his jaw clenched tighter. His shoulders hunched more.

Behind him, one of the cultists began to panic. She backed away, stumbling over a root.

"I’m not dying here—I’m not—!"

She turned to run toward the south edge of the clearing.

She made it three steps.

Then she dropped.

Not hard. Not with a scream. Just gone.

A small flick of movement behind her, and she was on the ground, eyes empty, chest still.

The clearing went still again.

That’s when they stepped out.

Not from the shadows. Not from the trees.

They didn’t appear like magic or descend from above.

They just walked forward.

One after another.

Figures in black and deep crimson. Graceful. Silent.

Their armor wasn’t bulky—it was sleek. Layered with quiet metal and woven fabrics that didn’t catch the light. Elegant. Precise.

Each one wore a featureless mask that covered the upper half of their face, smooth and pale, marked only by a faint crescent symbol just above the brow.

They moved as one.

No shouting. No commands.

Just formation.

One turned to the left flank. Another stepped to the right—two more stayed in the center.

The cultists froze.

Not a single word came from the masked group.

They didn’t need to speak.

One cultist tried to cast a shield.

His hands glowed for half a second.

Then he staggered backward, a small red dot on his forehead. His eyes flickered.

Then he fell.

No blade seen.

No shot heard.

Just done.

A second cultist screamed and swung his staff wide, firing off a blast of raw force into the trees.

Nothing.

He turned—and a masked figure was already in front of him.

A flash of metal.

Then he dropped.

Still no blood. Just fast, efficient strikes.

Another tried to run. He didn’t even make it past the first row of trees. A flicker of shadow passed through the air. His body stopped moving mid-step. Then dropped.

The remaining cultists started to break.

Some yelled. Some threw their weapons down. Others tried to form new circles, to chant again. Anything.

But it was too late.

They weren’t fighting beasts.

They weren’t fighting men.

They were being erased.

The masked assassins moved through them like they were wading through water.

Smooth.

Controlled.

Perfect.

They didn’t chase. They didn’t rush.

Each step was measured. Each strike is clean.

The nervous young cultist from before was on the ground now, hands covering his mouth, eyes wide. He didn’t know whether to run or pretend to be dead.

He looked up just in time to see one of the masked women walking past a fallen guard. She didn’t stop. Didn’t glance down. Just stepped over the body and moved on to the next target.

Then came the last figure.

She walked slower than the others.

Not hesitant.

Just deliberate.

Her armor was the same shade—black and crimson—but more refined. The patterns along her chest plate shimmered faintly with enchantment lines.

The boots she wore didn’t make a sound, even over twigs and stones.

Her hair was long, deep violet, tied behind her in a ribbon that swayed gently as she moved.

Her eyes glowed faintly under the low light, an unnatural amethyst streaked with crimson.

She didn’t wear a mask.

She didn’t need one.

She didn’t speak, either.

Didn’t need that, either.

She stepped onto a rock near the edge of the altar and slowly raised a slim silver device—barely the size of her palm.

She tapped once.

A small holographic screen blinked to life.

A connection tone sounded—just a soft chime.

The rest of the forest didn’t matter anymore.

Cultists were still falling.

One tried to beg.

Another tried to offer information.

Neither lasted long enough to finish their sentences.

The deacon, still near the altar, finally raised both hands and shouted a single word—an old incantation that should’ve triggered the slab’s emergency ward.

Nothing happened.

The slab’s runes flickered once.

Then cracked.

A deep fracture ran down the side of the altar.

Small at first.

Then wider.

Then another crack, this time across the top.

The deacon’s eyes widened.

"No," he said. "No, no, this wasn’t supposed to—"

The violet-haired woman looked at him.

She didn’t frown. She didn’t smile.

She just watched.

One of the cultists spotted her. " Who-who are you?"

The woman didn’t answer.

But one of the other assassins did.

Not allowed.

The word echoed in their minds.

Cold. Clean. Sharp.

"You were warned."

Then another cultist dropped.

And another.

The nervous young one stayed frozen in place, still breathing, still alive.

But he didn’t feel alive.

Not really.

The air had changed again.

The silence wasn’t silence anymore.

It was an order.

The kind that didn’t accept questions.

The kind that only left bodies behind.

As the last rays of light faded through the trees, the clearing emptied.

Not because the attackers left.

But because there was no one left to attack.

And still, the altar cracked.

And the woman stood there, watching.

Waiting.

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