Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users-Chapter 234: When Did You Start Working For The Cult?

She turned her head toward the other screen, the one already tracking movement in the city’s central underworld.

She made no verbal command or any kind of gesture.

The system shifted on its own.

The image of Isabella appeared.

Isabella didn’t sneak in.

She was already seated.

A velvet-backed chair, legs crossed, one hand resting casually against a worn poker table deep inside the Vale District’s old syndicate hall.

The place wasn’t built for comfort. The ceiling was low, the walls stained from years of smoke and the soft flicker of outdated crystal lamps.

Their glow had a yellow tint, like tired eyes that had seen too much and no longer cared.

It didn’t bother her.

She had arrived hours earlier, before the guards even started checking rosters.

No fake identity. No illusions. Just enough confidence to look like someone who belonged.

And no one had questioned her.

All the while, the syndicate heads thought they owned this room.

Isabella had been the first to arrive.

She was waiting in their seat.

One of the guards noticed her when the outer hallway lights flickered.

He didn’t question it. Not right away.

She wore the right kind of dress—simple, tight at the waist, with a slit that hinted at mobility without drawing attention.

Her violet hair was pinned up. A drink sat in front of her. Untouched.

She looked like someone the bosses invited.

That was the first mistake.

They didn’t know their real guests had been delayed.

The second mistake was assuming she had come alone.

She hadn’t.

But the others weren’t outside.

They were already inside.

Seated.

Standing.

Blending into the dozen or so staff and foot soldiers who had arrived ahead of schedule to prep the room.

Her personal assassin army.

Not hired or borrowed.

They were handpicked.

Most of them didn’t even know who they were really working for or who the women in front of them were.

Some had been lied to.

Some were paid too well to care.

It didn’t matter because for Isabella, none of these people behind her mattered, as these were just cannon fodder that she raised for missions like these.

Each of them wore the same thing beneath their coats—thin, flesh-colored triggers sewn into the fabric. Easy to miss. Easy to activate.

They’d all received the same quiet command earlier that morning.

"When I speak, freeze. When I ask the question, move."

That was it.

No one had asked why.

And now, sitting at the table, Isabella didn’t need to say anything else.

The door opened.

Six men walked in. All older. All smug. The kind of smiles that belonged to people who thought they couldn’t die.

They saw her sitting there and laughed.

"She early?" one asked.

"Or desperate," another said.

Their laughter was tired. Ugly. But it filled the room.

Isabella didn’t look at them.

Not yet.

She let them circle the table. Pull out chairs. Pour drinks.

One of them walked up behind her, leaned close, whispered something no one else could hear.

She didn’t flinch.

Just reached forward, picked up her cards, and looked at them for the first time.

No one else noticed the signal.

A single finger tapping once against the card’s corner.

Then she looked up.

"You know," she said, finally speaking. "It’s impressive. Really."

One of the bosses raised an eyebrow.

"That you managed to build all this under our noses."

Another snorted. "Your mother losing her touch?"

Isabella smiled. But it wasn’t the kind that reached her eyes.

"Not quite."

She placed the cards down, face-up.

Four queens and a joker.

"Tell me something," she said casually. "When did you start working for the cult?"

The table fell silent.

Not because of her words.

But because one of the lieutenants near the back had started choking.

He clutched at his collar. Pulled off his tie. Then collapsed.

A second man next to him reached down to help.

Isabella stood.

And in a motion too fast for the eye to follow, she walked over, grabbed the second man’s face, and pulled.

His skin peeled off—not bloody. Not torn.

An illusion.

A glamor weave.

The man underneath was younger. Not the person they thought he was.

A traitor.

Two more around the edges started to back away.

One tried to draw a weapon.

The weapon jammed.

Another tried to reach for a silent trigger beneath the table.

It didn’t respond.

Because the table had already been severed from the network.

That was the third mistake.

They let Isabella touch the room.

She turned back toward the bosses, dusting her hands lightly on her dress like she had just brushed off some lint.

"So," she said softly. "That makes six."

One of the bosses finally stood.

"What is this?"

She looked at him.

And said nothing.

Instead, she tilted her head.

And whispered something.

None of them heard it.

But the room responded.

The men at the table turned on each other.

They did not look confused, nor were they in panic.

They were like puppets.

One grabbed a knife and slammed it into the man beside him.

Another tore his own shirt, revealing a sigil that hadn’t been there moments ago, and activated it.

A woman near the bar dropped her drink and let out a single scream before stabbing herself in the throat.

And all around them, the fake loyalty they thought they had built unraveled.

The scream didn’t last long.

Because Isabella moved.

She was not loud.

She didn’t even draw her weapon.

She flicked her wrist, and a thin shadow peeled away from her back.

It wasn’t clothing.

It was part of her.

A technique only she used. A silent veil that could split thought from reality.

She moved through the room without touching the floor.

Each step redirected pressure into the walls, making it sound like she was still near the table.

She passed behind one man as he ran toward the exit.

He didn’t make it two steps.

Something black and thin wrapped around his throat and yanked him backward, snapping his spine before he hit the ground.

Two more followed.

One froze mid-sprint, blood leaking from his ears.

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