Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users - Chapter 175

Chapter 175: The Literary Part Of The College Exam Begins 2
Ethan found his room. Checked the tag. Confirmed his name. Then entered.

The classroom was almost full.

Desks were spaced evenly, and a small privacy panel was on each one. Pencils. Sheets. Nothing else.

He took his seat. Set down his bag. Sat back in the chair.

The room was quiet but not silent. A few whispers carried through the space. Some students were already hunched over their desks, reading the pre-exam sheet again and again, even though it hadn’t changed.

Others leaned back like it was just another day. A few stared at nothing, eyes unfocused, minds somewhere else.

Most looked tense—not panicked—just… held in place, like their thoughts were circling too fast to show on their faces.

Ethan scanned the room without being obvious.

There were about thirty other students. A few familiar faces. Some from past academies. Some from practice drills. Some he didn’t recognize at all.

A boy three seats to his right kept tapping the corner of his desk. Not loudly, but just enough to be noticed if you were listening.

Two rows down, a girl had her eyes closed. Her hands were folded on her lap, and her mouth moved slightly, as if repeating something under her breath.

At the far end of the row, a tall student with white-streaked hair kept glancing toward the door. Not nervous. Just waiting for something. Maybe a teacher. Maybe someone else.

Ethan didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

The atmosphere was already thick with its own rhythm.

He adjusted his chair slightly, just enough to ease the tension in his shoulders. Then he opened his bag, took out the ID packet, and set it on the corner of the desk.

The packet contained his information, a few backup sheets, and a spare graphite stylus if needed. It was nothing fancy—just essentials.

More students trickled in. The clock on the wall showed twenty minutes until start.

The room’s lighting was soft but consistent. There were no shadows, and there was no flickering.

The walls were a pale blue with light gray trim, the kind used in modern testing centers across the city.

The glass panel near the front of the room displayed a countdown in muted white numbers: 19:22… 19:21… 19:20…

Each second seemed to move slower than it should have.

Behind Ethan, someone coughed once and then quickly stopped. Another student exhaled loudly, like trying to shake off the nerves. It didn’t work. The room just swallowed the sound.

No one talked anymore.

Then the door opened again.

The room didn’t turn, but everyone noticed.

Mr. Halden stepped in.

He wore a plain black suit, no tie, and a deep-blue collar pin that marked him as a senior examiner.

His beard was trimmed short. His eyes were sharp but calm. He didn’t smile. He never did.

He closed the door behind him and walked straight to the front without saying a word. Once there, he placed a small device on the panel beside the main display. It chimed once.

Then he looked up.

His voice, when he spoke, was clear and quiet—but it filled the room without effort.

“You all know why you’re here.”

No one answered.

“This is not a combat test. This is not a power ranking assessment. This is not about how many beasts you’ve faced in the simulation drills or what and how powerful your superpowers are.”

He paused.

“This test is about clarity. About structure. About understanding how the world works underneath the surface.”

A few students straightened their posture slightly.

“Some of you will write pages. Others might only need a few paragraphs. That doesn’t matter. What matters is what you see, and how well you show it.”

He stepped back once, letting the weight of his words settle.

“There are no rewrites. There is no second attempt. You will have two hours. That is enough.”

The screen on the wall reset to 2:00:00 and turned a soft green.

Mr. Halden continued, “At the center of each desk, you’ll find a small pressure pad. When you’re ready, tap it once.

The projection will appear. Your prompt will be personalized. No two are the same.”

He looked around once.

“Begin when you’re ready. And write like you mean it.”

Then he walked over to the wall and leaned back, arms crossed. He wouldn’t be watching them individually. He would be watching the whole room.

For a few seconds, no one moved.

Then, one by one, students tapped the pads on their desks.

Small hums filled the air as the projection screens activated—thin, clear sheets of light that floated just above the surface, showing glowing text and a digital clock counting down in the corner.

Ethan stared at his desk for a second longer.

Then he tapped the center pad.

A soft pulse of warmth ran through his palm, and then the projection appeared.

It hovered quietly before him, thin white text on a transparent panel. The prompt adjusted to his eye level automatically. No need to tilt his head.

He read it once.

Then again.

“Following the Crescent Trade Alliance collapse in Year 129, Class-A beast migration patterns along the borderlands shifted within six weeks.

Cities that once thrived fell silent, while others rose. The balance of trade, defense, and governance changed almost overnight.

You are an advisor to the Strategic Committee. In 800 words or fewer, provide your analysis of what triggered the collapse, and propose a preventative strategy to avoid the same pattern repeating in the coming decade.

Cite historical precedents and power dynamics where relevant.”

Ethan blinked once.

It was direct. But layered.

This wasn’t about guessing causes. It was about peeling back the surface to see which pressure points led to that moment—and what those same points looked like now.

He glanced at the clock.

1:59:43.

Then picked up the pencil.

He didn’t rush.

His hand moved slowly at first, just a few lines. But as his thoughts settled, the words came more easily.

Not flashy or complex.

Just clear.

He didn’t try to sound like an expert. He didn’t bring up old names or complicated theories.

He just wrote what he saw—how power didn’t collapse in one moment, but shifted slowly, piece by piece, until everything fell into place.