Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users - Chapter 385

Chapter 385: Then The Feast Begins

Valakar’s voice came after a long silence. It was low and heavy, carrying through the air and sinking into the stone beneath their feet.

It didn’t just shake the chamber; it moved through the marrow of the cultists crouched on the floor, as if his words had weight enough to bend their very bones.

“They will sing,” he said. “And their song will not end until the last spark of their fire has been smothered into ash.”

The words hung there, sharp and final, and then Drosirael’s laughter carried over it, cruel and thin.

Together, the sound rolled across the hall, like two storms clashing above a ruined world. The cultists flattened themselves against the floor, hoping the stone might swallow them whole.

Their voices cracked with the effort of prayer, but their trembling bodies betrayed them; it was not faith but terror that kept them down there, and even their prayers sounded like fear trying to crawl out of their throats.

The two gods stood side by side above that sea of broken voices.

Not as allies, not as friends, but as forces that had learned to tolerate each other because the world had always been too small to contain them apart.

The stars above bled faintly through the cracks of the hall, but even their light seemed duller under the weight of that laughter.

When the noise died, it did not feel like peace. It felt like the echo of something sharp still lingering in the lungs, as though the chamber had swallowed what had been said and was not yet finished digesting it.

The walls glowed faintly with the red veins running through them, and the bone of Valakar’s throne lit up brighter now, bleeding color out onto the stone around it like rivers of dim fire.

Valakar didn’t move from the throne, but his stillness carried weight, like an animal that rested only because it knew it could kill whenever it pleased.

Beside him, Drosirael shifted only slightly. His cloak of shadows twisted tighter, curling around his frame like a nest of blades breathing in and out.

Each scrape of those shadowed edges against the floor whispered across the chamber like knives drawn slowly.

The ground began to stir at the center of the hall. The layer of ash that had settled there cracked and shifted, as if something beneath it wanted to crawl free.

Out of the broken surface, a map slowly bled into being. It wasn’t painted or drawn. It rose like smoke, twisting itself into shape, threaded with streaks of blood-colored light, stitched together from screams and prayers that had no right to exist.

The likeness of Earth spread before them, though it was a warped Earth, not one any mortal would recognize.

Its cities pulsed like faint lights, but their glow was not warmth or life. They flickered as if each one was lit from within by the whispers of cults long buried.

The map was alive in its own way, veins of old devotion twitching faintly like roots under the surface, showing that the seeds once planted were still there, waiting.

The chained cultists began to shudder harder as the map came alive. Their prayers grew ragged, the rhythm falling apart as their bodies jerked against their restraints.

The veins of red that ran through the illusion pulsed in time with their movements, each convulsion feeding more light into the vision.

One by one, their flesh began to smoke. Thin threads of heat rose from their arms, their lips, and their eyes until it looked as though every word they tried to say was burning them from the inside out.

Neither Valakar nor Drosirael looked their way. To them, it was a natural part of worship, the expected cost of speaking with gods.

Valakar leaned forward slightly, his massive frame casting a darker shadow across the map. His voice came out steady, slow, and deep.

“Patience,” he said. “Patience is what binds this to certainty. Let them keep their illusions of safety. Let them believe in their schools and their walls and their games of order.

Let them think their lives are steady. That is when the roots strike deepest. Mortals do not fall because of strength, Drosirael.

They fall because of comfort. Comfort blinds them until the knife is already in their chest.”

Drosirael’s cloak hissed with the restless sound of shifting blades, his voice cutting sharper, quicker.

“Comfort is weakness, yes. But weakness is best when it is torn open suddenly. Strike them now, while their skies are still bleeding, while confusion claws at their eyes.

They stumble when they are lost. They cling harder to false hope than, and that is when their flesh is softest.

Wait too long, and someone will remind them how to stand, and then the cut will not go so clean.”

The map shimmered faintly, showing more than cities.

Thin black lines began to appear between the glowing points, pulsing faintly with light, showing the hidden threads that tied those lives together—roads, supply routes, teleport gates, veins of survival stretching across the world.

Valakar extended one long finger, sharp as a spike of bone, and drew it across one of the lines. Ash spread in its wake, smothering the glow beneath his touch.

“Not the capitals,” he said firmly. “Not yet. If their great cities fall first, their leaders will panic. And desperation breeds courage.

Courage is dangerous. No—we choke the veins. We strike the places that feed them. Their supply halls.

Their nodes of travel. Their training grounds. The spaces that let them move, eat, and breathe as one. Cut that, and they will collapse before we even strike their hearts.”

Drosirael’s lips twisted faintly, shadows hissing in approval. “Strangling before bleeding,” he said. “You savor collapse as if it were wine. Very well. Show me which vein first.”

Valakar’s throne creaked faintly as he leaned closer to the map. “The eastern node,” he rumbled. The glowing point pulsed brighter beneath his finger.

“It feeds half a continent. When that root rots, the rest will wither. Then we break the southern lines where their armies gather.

No food. No soldiers. No gates. Nothing but silence. The rest will follow.”

As he spoke, the chained cultists began to scream outright. Their skin cracked like wood left too long to burn, splitting open in jagged lines.

But instead of blood, black smoke poured from the wounds, rising in thin streams and curling down into the map as though their very bodies were ink being drained into the vision.

The air grew thick with the stench of burning flesh and prayers torn apart.

The two gods did not flinch.

Drosirael’s eyes sharpened as he watched the map drink in the pain. His voice came calm, cruel, and edged with delight.

“And when their cries rise unanswered, when their gods give them no reply, they will turn on each other. They always do.

It is betrayal, Valakar. Not strength, not battle, that ends them. Betrayal rots the deepest. Let them think their leaders are strong, their faith unbroken, and then let us strip it away.

They will tear each other apart before we even lift our hands.”

Valakar gave no reply. He didn’t need to. His silence was agreement enough. The veins of his throne flared brighter now, pulsing harder, as if the bone itself fed on the thought of despair.

The map glowed hotter, drinking in the smoke of the dying cultists until the entire image trembled faintly with too much energy.

From the far end of the hall, the sound of footsteps began to echo. Slow, deliberate, heavier than the shuffle of cultists or the scrape of shadows. Both gods turned their eyes toward the sound.

A figure emerged out of the haze. His skin was pale, almost translucent under the glow of the veins.

His robes hung in torn pieces, clinging to his gaunt frame. His head was bowed, but faint traces of Mirror’s residue still clung to him, broken shards of reflection crawling across his shoulders like a shattered memory.

He walked forward without hesitation until the weight of their gaze pressed him down. Then he dropped to his knees and lowered his forehead to the floor.

His voice trembled, but there was a steadiness in it, a determination that made the words clear.

“My lords. Every piece you hid has been awakened. The cults have aligned. The disciples are ready. With a word, the world will bleed.”

The air in the hall grew colder. Drosirael’s shadows rose higher, curling with sharp whispers like knives eager to cut.

The throne beneath Valakar pulsed in hungry rhythm, the veins racing bright through the bone.

For the first time, both gods shared the faintest shift of expression. Not smiles, not warmth, but the simple reflection of hunger satisfied.

Valakar’s answer rumbled low, filling the chamber like the start of an earthquake. “Then the feast begins.”

Drosirael’s laughter cut across it, sharp and cruel, echoing into the skies until even the stars beyond the bleeding clouds seemed to dim in reply.

And in that hall of bone and shadow, the trap closed.

Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!

Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.

Creation is hard, cheer me up!

Like it ? Add to library！