Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users - Chapter 147

Chapter 147: The King Of The Nest
Meanwhile, deep in the heart of the cave, where sunlight had never reached and even sound seemed to die before bouncing back, a faint glow flickered across the walls of webbed stone.

This wasn’t just a massive cave filled with spider monsters.

It was an entire nest.

The walls weren’t made of rock alone anymore. They were layered in silk—thick, old, hardened strands packed over the years into curved shapes that had become part of the cavern itself.

Dust, bone, dried blood—all mixed together with the sheen of spider web to create a place that felt less like it was built and more like it had grown.

At the very center of the nest sat a throne.

It wasn’t crafted.

It was roughly made by the monsters.

From the bones of beasts—some massive, some small. Many were mutated, shaped by magic and darkness over generations.

Some looked like they had shattered from the inside out, others bent unnaturally as if crushed mid-motion.

The throne wasn’t meant for display.

It was meant to prove a point.

And at its top sat a figure.

Humanoid, but not truly.

He looked like a man who’d lost a fight with his own evolution.

Eight eyes blinked out of sync, never moving together.

Eight long, thin legs, jointed like scythes, extended from his back in two rows of four, curling and stretching as if ready to strike at any moment.

They didn’t twitch. They didn’t shake. They just hung there, still, sharp, and waiting.

His torso was lean and wiry, skin pale like ash and pulled too tight over bone.

From the neck up, he almost looked human—at first.

But the illusion didn’t last.

His features stopped short at the mouth, where the familiar gave way to something alien. There were no lips. No jawline. No chin.

Only mandibles.

Jagged, clicking, restless.

A tangled cluster of sharpened bone and twitching claws, always moving, always ready. It looked less like a mouth and more like something that had evolved only to consume.

And yet, he wasn’t moving.

Not in the usual sense.

He sat perfectly still—silent, rigid—but it wasn’t the stillness of rest. It wasn’t peace.

It was focused.

Every one of his eight mismatched eyes was locked onto a single strand of web, suspended a few inches to the left of his throne.

It pulsed faintly.

Not with light.

But with information.

One beat at a time.

Like a living thread carrying the echo of distant footsteps straight into his bones.

Each pulse carried information. A signal. A message. The cave was wired with hundreds of such threads. This one led to the upper nests.

And what message did it carry?

Intrusion.

Two teams of bipeds had entered from opposite ends of the tunnel hours ago.

Well-armed.

Precise.

Professional.

Not wanderers.

Not prey.

And that changed everything.

The Spider Lord leaned forward, resting one clawed hand on his knee. His mandibles clicked once. Not loud. Not threatening. Just thoughtful.

He didn’t know how these soldiers found the cave.

This core had never been breached.

There were no records of any surface dwellers entering this deep before.

His ancestors—his tribe—had evolved in this place over thousands of years. They’d lived through floods, burials, collapses, and even tremors that shook the stone from above.

But never this.

Never people.

Never soldiers with eyes like these.

The two scouts had already given him feedback about this, not in body, but through the thread.

Their minds had fed the web with memory—images, sounds, and impressions passed directly to him—the encounter, the exposure, the reaction.

He’d seen what they’d seen.

The flash of lights.

The pattern of movement.

The slow, careful advance.

But it was the leaders who caught his attention.

Two figures.

One had white braided hair, military-grade armor, and eyes that didn’t move unless they needed to.

The other was calm, dark-haired, and had a cool posture. His body language said nothing, but his aura screamed danger.

These weren’t platinum-rank creatures like him.

They were worse.

He could feel it.

In the way they didn’t flinch.

Didn’t speak unless needed.

Didn’t aim their weapons wildly.

They just advanced, watching, calculating.

Like him.

He sat back on the throne.

Even the bones beneath him seemed to creak in warning.

He wasn’t weak.

Far from it.

His strength was at full Platinum. He had reached it after consuming hundreds of challengers—mutant beasts, corrupted mana creatures, and wandering predators from deeper tunnels.

But he had never seen these new creatures, not until now.

He was one of only two Platinum-rank beings in this nest.

The other?

His father.

The Old One.

Now a broken shadow of what he used to be—still alive, buried somewhere deeper in the nest.

His breath was labored, his limbs cracked and unmoving, but his presence could still be felt in the webs.

And that presence said only one thing:

Survive.

The Spider Lord clicked again and raised one clawed hand to touch a thicker web line stretching down from the cave ceiling.

The moment his skin brushed it, dozens of other strands lit up.

Faintly glowing.

Like nerves flaring across a nervous system.

His children stirred.

Drones.

Scouts.

Even hatchlings who hadn’t yet molted their first skin.

They twitched.

Shifted.

Listened.

But he didn’t order them forward.

Not yet.

He wasn’t ready for war.

Not against this.

Instead, he told the scouts to lead the soldiers deeper.

To observe.

To test.

To herd.

Not like prey.

But like guests.

Dangerous guests.

If he attacked now, he might kill a few. But he’d lose most of his children.

The nest would burn.

And if those leaders survived?

He’d die.

But if he was careful?

If he measured the soldiers’ discipline?

Their fear?

Their reactions?

Maybe he’d find a crack.

A moment of weakness.

And if not?

Well…

He had one advantage.

Numbers.

Thousands of spiders lined these walls.

Some were his children.

Some were the spawn of other queens, now bred into obedience.

And when he gave the signal?

They’d come from above to deal with this new intruder like they did in the past.