Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users - Chapter 384

Chapter 384: Do You Remember The Last World We Invaded Together?

The silence of their pact lingered in the air like a heavy and sharp shadow that refused to leave, but it did not last forever.

The hall seemed alive, as if the walls of bone and stone had grown used to breathing with the weight of the two figures inside.

Every surface felt stretched thin with memory, as though the screams that had once filled this chamber were etched deep into the marrow of the walls, waiting to echo again if anyone dared to listen closely enough.

Valakar remained motionless upon his throne, his massive frame carved against the jagged spire of fused bone as if he were grown out of it.

The faint veins of corrupted red crawling through the throne pulsed slower now, steady, patient, the rhythm of a predator lying at rest with no need to chase when it already knew its prey would come.

Drosirael stood not far from him, near the base of the throne, and his cloak of shadows was restless in a way that reminded one of knives testing their edge.

The tendrils of living darkness slid against the floor, cutting thin grooves into the stone, and they never settled into stillness.

It felt less like two men standing together and more like two monuments left from another age, statues that stared at one another with quiet challenge, yet the air between them carried more tension than any blade drawn in war.

It was not new tension. It was the kind of weight that reached back so far into time that no mortal story could measure it.

Drosirael spoke first. His voice was calm, smooth, but beneath the surface, it had the edge of steel being sharpened, a voice that carried the promise of blood. “Do you remember,” he asked softly, “the last world we invaded together?”

The way he said it almost sounded like a fond memory, a tale told by a man thinking of some distant victory.

Yet the shadows coiling at his feet betrayed him, shivering with hunger as though they could taste the memory themselves.

Valakar’s eyes dimmed for a moment, the sickly glow inside them sinking low, and then they brightened faintly again as if answering the thought directly.

His reply came slow and deep, steady as stone cracking. “I remember. A world that thought itself untouchable.

Towers made of gold that caught the light of their sun, rivers that sang when they moved, mortals who believed their courage would shield them from anything that walked outside their sky.

They stood proud, too proud. They believed themselves untouchable.”

Drosirael tilted his head slightly, his mouth pulling into a faint, cruel curve. “And yet all it took was whispers.

Just whispers, Valakar. Nothing more than the promise of eternity, the lie of thrones that would never crumble. We never raised a hand, not at the start.

They did the work for us.” His laughter slipped out low and sharp, gliding across the chamber like blades scraping against old bone.

“Their kings sold the blood of their own children for trinkets of shadow. Their priests traded the last of their faith for visions I never intended to grant.

They begged for miracles, but what they got were cages. And the children…” His shadows suddenly shuddered, their edges clinking like thin blades striking each other, as if they savored the thought.

“Do you remember the cages, Valakar? Do you remember how their cries turned into prayers once we told them their tears were feeding the stars?”

Valakar did not laugh. He never laughed. Instead, his throne pulsed beneath him, a dull heartbeat that spread through the ground like a drum.

“I remember the forests burning,” he said slowly. His voice carried no emotion, only memory.

“I remember the pride of their armies as they marched to fight us, thinking themselves strong.

I remember when they realized their gods had already knelt before us, and that nothing they built had meaning anymore.”

His gaze lowered to the mortals who were kneeling at his feet, cultists trembling in their endless prayer, their bodies bent low.

For a moment, it was as if he saw through them into the past. “And I remember when the last of them begged for mercy, not realizing mercy has never been a part of our design.”

Drosirael’s shadows swelled outward as if pleased, like the memory itself fed them. “The survivors sang beautifully as the beasts feasted on them,” he said with cruel delight.

“Their songs still linger in my ears. Songs of despair travel further than any hymn of hope. Perhaps this Earth will sing the same way.

Perhaps louder still. That Director of theirs, the one who thinks himself so clever and unyielding, sounds like someone who might cry sweeter than the rest when the walls finally give way.”

Valakar’s eyes narrowed, the glow inside them sharp. “He is stubborn,” he admitted. “Too stubborn.

That makes him dangerous. He is not another fool screaming at shadows. He sees more than he should.

And because of that, I cannot allow him to plant seeds of strength where only rot should grow.”

Drosirael shifted, his cloak of shadows scraping the floor as he turned. Thin grooves opened beneath his steps, bleeding faint wisps of black smoke.

“Then tell me, Valakar, how many roots have you already left here? How many cults whisper your name in secret while these insects believe their walls protect them?”

The ancient throne pulsed, veins of dull red glowing brighter as though stirred awake by the question.

Valakar’s voice rolled through the chamber like a slow wave. “The roots were sown long ago. They never died.

They only slept, waiting for the moment to wake. Five great cults remain hidden, rooted deep in places their leaders never dare to search.

Three more lie scattered, smaller, but alive in the cracks of their cities. They think they’re gone, but they are not gone.

They wait. They grow in silence. They crawl through every fissure these mortals leave unsealed.”

Drosirael’s cloak spread wider, rippling like wings that cut the air itself. “Good. Then I will add my touch.

I will send disciples—not common ones, but my chosen blades, my children. Warriors who do not cut flesh alone but carve into the soul.

They will know how to harvest what lies beneath the skin. Let the mortals hide in their false games, in their trials and illusions of safety, even in their machines and their virtual worlds.

It makes no difference. A soul can be broken in any world.”

The cultists pressed against the floor shuddered, some choking on their chants as if the words themselves cut them.

But their fear only made the air heavier, thick with the stench of prayer twisted into despair.

Valakar inhaled slowly, his chest rising, his voice a rumble that vibrated through the ground.

“Then it begins. Their walls will not be torn down by strength. They will collapse beneath despair.

When their faith rots, when their own guardians spill doubt into their people, the harvest will come. And when it does, their screams will rise higher than their courage ever reached.”

Drosirael’s eyes gleamed faintly within his hood, sharp like cold fire. “Mortals always think strength is what destroys them.

But it is betrayal. Always betrayal. Let them believe their leaders are strong, let them think their gods watch over them, and then rip it all away.

When their gods stay silent and their walls do not hold, they turn on each other. They always do. Despair is the art, Valakar. Despair is the feast.”

The ancient god didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His silence was already an agreement. His throne pulsed harder now, the red veins crawling deeper into the bone spire as though the land itself fed on the thought of despair.

The cultists’ voices rose in broken rhythm, cracked and uneven, their fear twisting the syllables of their chants.

Still, they prayed because fear itself was a form of prayer in this hall, and their terror was more pleasing to their gods than faith ever was.

Drosirael began to move, walking slowly toward the far edge of the hall. His steps cut lines of black into the stone, each one smoking faintly.

The shadows ahead of him parted like curtains, opening into a wide balcony. From there, the view stretched out over the broken land beyond. Valakar did not rise from his throne, but his gaze followed.

The two gods stood together then, one seated, one standing, but both staring outward over a land that was nothing but ruin.

The sky above was bleeding black and red, clouds drifting like torn wounds that refused to close. Rivers of ash wound below them, sluggish, thick, like veins cut open across the world.

The ground groaned in the distance, splitting and healing again, cracks that seemed to remember every scar left by their feet long ago.

For a time, they stood in silence, the kind of silence that did not need words. Above them, faint stars tried to pierce through the haze, but even their light looked cold and far away.

Drosirael’s laugh finally cut through, low and sharp, carried into the air as if the clouds themselves recoiled from it.

“Let us see,” he said, his voice steady and cruel. Let us see if this Earth sings as beautifully as the others when they burned.”

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