Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users-Chapter 260: Why The Superpower Association Was Formed

It wasn’t a sigil. Not a crest or some flashy projection. Just a simple balance scale—plain, precise, and clean enough to stand on its own.

No embellishments, no hidden meaning, only what it was.

"A pact was made," the Dean began, her voice still as steady as it had been from the first moment she stepped onto the platform.

"Years ago, between the strongest factions, groups powerful enough to destroy cities if they wanted to, including the Domain Holders."

She finally turned fully toward the students, her expression unreadable, her stance relaxed but never careless.

The air in the amphitheater didn’t shift from her movement alone, but from something underneath the words she was about to say.

"There was one law," she said, "recognized not just by human society, but by monsters, by remnants of the old guilds, even by cults who barely listen to anything anymore."

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t dramatize the moment.

"Civilians," she said, "are not prey."

The silence that followed wasn’t hollow or theatrical. It felt... sacred, like something old had been spoken again, something everyone knew but rarely heard aloud.

The stillness that followed wasn’t about fear; it was about weight. As if every person in that room understood, in some part of themselves, that the line she’d drawn wasn’t symbolic.

It was enforced.

"Not everyone listens," she added, softer now. "And for those who break it..."

She left the sentence unfinished, and yet no one needed her to complete it. The implication was as loud as thunder, even if her words barely rose above a whisper.

Because there were consequences in this world that didn’t need announcements, there were watchers—some silent, some hidden.

Some were bound to oaths older than cities, who only acted when they had to, and when they did, someone disappeared, not in the dramatic, public sense. Just... gone.

The lights in the amphitheater didn’t brighten. The ambient sound didn’t return. The world didn’t resume with some reassuring hum. It stayed dim. Focused. Anchored.

Then, her eyes drifted—not to the students, but to the projection quietly hovering beside her. A new image flickered into existence. Not the balance scale this time.

Something less distinct. A jagged wheel, cracked down the center, its breaks branching outward like veins or fault lines after a quake.

It looked like it had been struck from within. Broken not by force, but by pressure.

She stared at it for a second longer than anyone expected. No one interrupted. Then, like the moment didn’t matter, she began walking again.

Her steps were calm, her posture loose, her pace slow, as if what she was about to say was no heavier than the rest—but everyone knew it was.

"When the guilds collapsed," she said, "they left behind more than ruined buildings and empty headquarters.

They left behind the worst parts of themselves—unchecked ambition, fractured alliances, and power wielded with no accountability."

The image changed again—now a rolling sequence of destruction: crumbling strongholds, flare-outs of unstable abilities, survivors scavenging from once-great command posts.

These weren’t random disasters. They were the results of power without structure.

"For a time," the Dean said, never breaking her rhythm, "the strongest ruled. Not because they were fit to lead, but because there was no one left to tell them otherwise."

Flashes of violent takeovers lit up the dome—men and women branding themselves as protectors while cities burned behind them, promises broken before they finished being spoken, banners rising and falling in the same week.

"Every city made its own rules. Every power user decided what justice looked like. And chaos didn’t come from outside the walls—it grew inside them."

No one spoke.

No one needed to.

Because some of the students had families who had lived through this.

Some had heard stories whispered in hushed tones by parents or guardians who had survived long enough to regret the cost.

The Dean kept moving, her tone never changing, but her words growing heavier.

"A pattern emerged," she continued. "Too many broken systems. Too many strong hands are making bad decisions.

Too many civilians dying—not from beasts or cults—but from the ones who had sworn to keep them safe."

Then the screen shifted again.

Ten crests appeared—faint now, like old wounds under gauze—sitting beneath a thin layer of digital stone.

"Eventually," she said, "some of the strongest Domain holders began to speak."

She didn’t list them like a roll call. She named them by weight.

"Nocturne. Zeylan. Ravengarde. Ignis Solari. The storm-walkers. The shadow users. The old firebinders. Even those who hadn’t spoken to one another in years."

"They all knew the same truth. They could defend a zone. But they couldn’t protect a species."

A new image formed—no more battlegrounds, no explosions—just a worn stone table surrounded by people with no guards, no titles, no symbols.

Only tired eyes and weather-worn armor.

"That was where the first council was formed," the Dean said. "No official name. No charter. Just the strongest in the world finally sitting down to listen—for once."

And from that, something else was born.

"The Superpower Association."

She said it plainly. No build-up. No inflection change.

And yet, the words landed like a verdict.

A new emblem appeared. A ring surrounding a reforged metal shard. Simple. Steady. Unshaken.

"Not built through politics. Not through royalty. Not through public demand. Just through shared failure—and the willingness to admit it."

Scenes flickered by quickly now—cities under repair, shelters being fortified, children laughing near stable power cores.

"The Association didn’t promise utopia," the Dean said. "But they brought balance. Inside their cities, order replaced panic.

Patrols resumed. Cults were hunted. Power incidents were addressed before they became disasters."

The footage showed it.

A beast breaching a wall, only to be sliced mid-charge by a shimmer of coordinated defense.

A cult ritual collapsing as uniformed figures flooded the area from hidden vectors.

A rogue power user restrained, not with force, but with speed and silence.

"This isn’t fear," she said at last, turning back toward the students. "This is structure. This is why the cities didn’t fall again."

The final image hung behind her—a gleaming badge. Balanced. Etched. The same symbol—ring around a reforged shard—but this time, softly glowing.

"This symbol," the Dean said, "is your future. Some of you will earn it. Others will face it."

And that was the line that held the room in place.

Not because it was harsh.

Because it was real.

No promise of safety.

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