Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users - Chapter 109

Chapter 109: Blessed Be The Path…. Blessed Be The Bloodline
Meanwhile, in a different part of the world, inside a dark room.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

Not the kind of silence that came from peace, but the kind that came from something ancient holding its breath.

The walls were made of stone, old and cracked, carved with symbols no one remembered how to write.

There were no windows. Just flickering torches stuck between skull-shaped sconces that gave off a pale, greenish-blue flame.

The floor was cold. Carved runes lined every edge. Faintly glowing. Humming.

In the center of the room stood a figure.

Bent. Thin.

A man—but barely.

His robes were black, old, and stitched together with strange thread. His skin looked like dried paper stretched too tight over a fragile frame, and his mouth was twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but it showed far too many teeth.

He stood there, holding a holophone in his bony hand.

And he was laughing.

Softly at first.

Then louder.

Then more.

A wheezing, gasping, half-mad laugh that echoed through the chamber and bounced off the walls like a wild animal had been let loose.

He tilted his head back, and with each burst of laughter, something dark and oily crawled through the edges of the runes on the floor.

Like the very shadows of the room were listening. Watching. Waiting.

Finally, the old man stopped.

He lowered the holophone.

His chest rose and fell slowly, as if even that much laughter had almost broken him.

Then he whispered to the shadows, to no one in particular—

“It’s done.”

His voice was raspy, sharp, and hollow—like wind scraping against glass.

“I baited him,” he said again, more to himself now. “Hook, line… and soul.”

He raised the holophone and looked at the list that had been automatically sent to Mr. Grayson.

Items.

Materials.

Names.

All of them were tied to rituals, keys, and rare elements that could be combined in only one way—forming a temporary teleportation gate.

One that would open a path to the cult’s true world, where he could get more of the cult members who could help him get the new holder.

The place where everything began.

The place where the first awakening occurred.

A long table sat at the far end of the room, covered in scrolls, burnt candles, and a massive parchment map of connected ritual sites across the continent.

But none of them mattered now.

Because the final key had been located.

The boy.

Ethan Nocturne.

The old man’s hand slowly reached toward a staff leaning beside him.

It was long and carved from blackened wood, etched with strange grooves and bound in silver rings that pulsed faintly.

And at the top was a scepter head shaped like a twisted eye.

Inside the eye sat a single crystal.

It didn’t shine like a gem.

It shimmered like it was alive.

The moment the old man touched it, the crystal glowed.

He closed his eyes.

And then he felt it.

The Vault had shifted.

It had opened once.

Then again.

And then…

It pulsed.

Something-no, someone—had entered.

Someone accepted it.

And more than that… someone recognized it.

The scepter trembled.

The eye at its head blinked once—just once—before returning to stillness.

The old man let out a breath.

“That’s him, the holder and someone who can become the next restarter.”

His voice cracked.

“The bloodline has appeared again, and this time, I am the only one who knows about this, so I can take care of it before others can even understand what is happening.”

He turned and walked slowly toward the back of the room, where two large guards—draped in heavy cloaks and iron masks—stood silently.

“Ready the lower temple,” he ordered.

The guards bowed their heads and turned, disappearing through the next set of stone doors without a sound.

He knew what had to be done now.

With the list he had sent to Grayson, the materials would begin to move. Items long banned by the association. Ritual pieces stored only in black markets and hidden vaults.

And Grayson, in his desperation, would do all the work.

He would gather every component, sign every document, and pay every price without even knowing what he was building.

And once the gate was completed?

Once the formation was activated?

They would step through.

The cult.

The priests.

The hunters.

And they would take the boy.

The old man walked slowly to a raised platform at the end of the chamber.

There, a circle of candles already burned, surrounding a stone pedestal with a bowl carved into the top.

He raised his hand and sliced his palm open without flinching. Dark blood fell into the bowl, bubbling on contact.

“Blessed be the path,” he muttered.

The shadows on the floor writhed again, curling like snakes through the runes.

“Blessed be the bloodline.”

He stared down into the bowl.

And in the blood, a shape formed.

A face.

A boy.

Dark hair. Calm eyes. Too calm.

Ethan Nocturne.

The restarted.

The body chosen by the bloodline that defied time itself.

The reason their god was silenced, sealed, and lost.

But now, with this vessel… with this power…

The cycle would begin again.

And this time?

The cult wouldn’t lose.

They wouldn’t allow the restarted to live as he pleased.

He would be taken.

Stripped.

Used.

His blood would be refined.

His soul would be broken.

And then, piece by piece, they would inject his power into the worthy.

Not for a throne.

Not for fame.

But for dominion over everything that was left by the previous holder.

The old man raised both hands now, staff in one, blood still dripping from the other.

And the chamber responded.

Dozens of smaller priests—pale, gaunt, and quiet—stepped into the candlelight from hidden doors in the walls.

None of them spoke.

None dared interrupt.

They simply knelt.

As the head priest of the Cult of the Restarted began to chant.

“The eye has opened once more.”

“The gate will be prepared.”

“The vessel is chosen.”

“The fall of the throne begins.”