Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users
Chapter 200: They Are Awoken!!

Chapter 200: They Are Awoken!!

The altar site was already quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that comes after a fight, where dust settles, people breathe again, and the air slowly fills back in with sound.

This was different. Still. Heavy. Like the air itself was holding its breath. Like something unseen was pressing down on everything, keeping even the wind from moving.

The ground was soaked. Mud and moss had turned dark from blood that had already started to thicken.

Some of it had run down in thin lines between roots and stones, sinking deep into the forest floor.

Other patches had dried in place, crusting over the old carvings along the edge of the cracked stone platform at the center of the clearing.

It wasn’t a battlefield, not really.

There were no scorch marks. No broken trees. No signs of wild chaos or explosions.

But bodies were everywhere.

Some slumped halfway over the roots of trees, limbs tangled and stiff. Others were sprawled on their backs, arms splayed out, faces frozen with wide, empty eyes staring up at the canopy.

Most wore simple white and red robes, marked with the signs of the cult. They were armed. They had gear. They had prepared.

But it hadn’t mattered.

They never even made it past the outer ring.

No wounds looked sloppy. No signs of panic. Just clean cuts—neat, fast, efficient.

Whatever had come for them... it didn’t give them time to scream.

Whoever had done this didn’t need brute force or flashy power. They didn’t tear through the camp with fire and fury. They just ended it.

Quick. Quiet.

And they were still here.

Five figures stood at the edge of the altar, arranged in a half-circle. All of them were dressed in dark crimson armor—light, sleek, and tightly fitted. It didn’t clank.

It didn’t shine. It moved with them like a second skin. Their faces were mostly hidden behind smooth, expressionless masks.

No glowing visors. No visible markings. Just blank, dark plates that didn’t show emotion and didn’t need to.

They didn’t talk.

They didn’t move much.

They were just... there. Present. Watching.

One of them was crouched beside the largest corpse, right near the center of the altar. The body was different from the rest.

The robe was richer, trimmed with gold thread. Chains hung from his shoulders. There were ceremonial tattoos drawn on the sleeves, maybe even burned into the fabric.

Deacon, maybe. Or whatever passed for a leader among the cult.

The crouching figure leaned in slowly, tilting her head slightly as she looked at him. She said nothing out loud.

Her lips moved once, maybe twice. A small phrase. Then she placed two fingers gently against his chest, right over the heart.

There was a tiny flicker of light—barely enough to see. It came from under her glove, pulsed once, and faded.

She stood.

The others didn’t react.

They didn’t look around or scan the treeline.

They didn’t search for survivors.

Because there weren’t any.

High above, one of the few remaining drones hovered silently. It was small, light enough to stay unnoticed if you weren’t paying attention.

Its camera zoomed slowly, adjusting focus as it tried to pick up any details it could.

It caught their shapes. The angles of their armor. The red tint on the tips of their blades. But it couldn’t pierce the masks. Couldn’t see their faces.

Except for one.

The tallest figure turned.

She wasn’t wearing a mask.

Long violet hair hung loose behind her, a few strands stuck to the side of her neck from the damp air.

Her skin was pale, smooth, marked only by a few faint traces of mist and movement. And her eyes—faintly glowing amethyst with soft crimson streaks near the pupils—looked directly at the drone.

She didn’t look surprised. She didn’t blink.

She just knew it was there.

She lifted her hand.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just calm and slow. Two fingers. A small motion.

The drone feed was cut.

Back in the control tent, the main screen went black.

No static. No warning.

Just gone.

The silence that followed was sharp, neither panicked nor confused. Just cold and absolute.

No one moved.

Even the soft background hum of mana-synced systems felt like it had dimmed.

Someone exhaled a little too loudly. It sounded like a shout in that space.

A technician leaned forward slightly and whispered, "We lost the last drone."

Another officer, seated nearby, turned toward Vice Director Hannick. "Should we send a replacement?"

"No."

That was all he said. His voice was calm, quiet, and final.

The screen stayed black.

Nobody filled it with guesses or orders. Nobody reached out to reboot or refresh.

Because deep down, they all knew: whatever had happened out there had passed the point of surveillance. There was nothing left to monitor.

The altar site wasn’t on any critical list. It wasn’t one of the priority points for the best riot. It wasn’t even marked as highly active. Just another spot in the outer perimeter.

But now...

Now, everyone in the tent understood that something bigger had been lurking underneath that false calm. Whatever ritual the cult was preparing, it had been stopped.

Not paused. Not disrupted.

Wiped out.

And not by them.

Not by elite field agents or guild specialists.

Not by licensed exorcists or military enforcers.

It was them.

The Silent Crescent.

The name didn’t need explaining. Everyone in that room had heard it. Stories. Whispers. Most never believed them. Or didn’t want to.

But they all knew the reputation.

And they knew one more thing:

The Silent Crescent didn’t leave witnesses.

Still, Hannick didn’t move. He stared at the black screen like he was listening for something.

Then a voice buzzed softly from one of the smaller comm panels on the side wall.

It was cracked. Raspy. Not from a main unit. Not from any of the drones. It came from one of the buried deep-sensor relays—devices designed only to trigger in the event of underground seismic shifts.

The voice said three words.

"...They are awoken."

No unit ID. No location tag.

Just the words.

Then the panel shut down.

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