Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users-Chapter 281: Deacon
That mortal was more dangerous than the one who died, not because he was powerful, nor marked, nor prepared, but precisely because he wasn’t any of those things and yet still managed to touch something ancient and walk away breathing.
The god wanted to see him.
He wanted to understand how someone outside the fold, untouched by doctrine or ritual, had survived a brief contact with something meant to burn the soul clean.
Not immediately.
Not recklessly.
But soon.
The throne beneath him shifted without instruction, tilting gently to hold his form as though the cathedral itself remembered his shape better than time did.
It was not alive, not in the way mortals would define it, but it responded with the reverence of a thing that had only ever known how to serve.
And above that great unmoving throne, the outer realms turned faster now, not because of panic, nor warning, but because a being that had once forgotten how to think in moments was beginning to think again, one strand at a time.
As his awareness flowed outward, the deep things beneath his dominion began to stir—not the visible agents, not the priests who prayed in madness, not even the devoted zealots who spoke in languages that broke bone—but the old ones.
The original acolytes.
He had carved the pieces of thought, memory, and belief into the first temples when the stars were still soft.
They had been buried in murals, asleep behind stone eyes, tucked into the angles of forgotten sanctums, woven into the names etched on ruins no one remembered how to translate.
And now, they began to stir—not violently, not in unison, but like a ripple through still water, slow and inevitable.
A priest deep in a sunless cavern dropped mid-chant, not from exhaustion or disbelief, but from the sudden understanding that what he had worshipped in metaphor had just looked back.
Somewhere else, far across the black crust of a dying mountain, a girl with blackened teeth screamed—not in pain, but with a number that didn’t exist in any living tongue, and the sound cracked the stones around her as if reality itself winced.
In a different place, so deep and silent it had been forgotten even by echoes, a beast with ink-black skin and veins drawn like old calligraphy breathed out for the first time in decades.
It didn’t roar. It didn’t growl. It wept softly, and without shame.
They all felt it.
Not a return. Not yet.
Just... a shift.
The game had not started.
But the board, at last, was in motion.
The cathedral exhaled. Not air, but intention.
It was slow. Measured. Almost pleased.
The god didn’t move again.
Because he didn’t need to.
His attention alone had become a weight upon the world—and for now, that was all it would get.
Until someone, somewhere, pulled on the thread again.
And he chose to rise.
But even that long stillness wasn’t truly still, because then the silence shifted.
Not broken. Not disturbed. Just shaped—subtly, deliberately—by the pressure of intent.
Something changed in the cathedral’s seating. The walls stiffened. The structure’s breath paused.
And though no wind blew, the air leaned forward, anticipating a command not yet spoken.
The god turned—not all the way, not in form, but in focus.
A shadow extended from the base of the throne’s steps. It didn’t slither, didn’t crawl, didn’t even seem to move.
It simply appeared, as if the light had surrendered and left space for something heavier to step forward.
Then came the voice.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t booming. It didn’t need to be.
It was the kind of voice not made for ears, but for obedience.
"Deacon."
And that was enough. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎
At the base of the stairs, a figure appeared.
No footsteps. No arrival.
He was simply there.
One knee lowered. His head bowed. One fist was placed gently over the center of his chest, like a lock sealed by devotion.
His clothes were immaculate. Every seam is placed with precision. A formal black uniform that looked as if it had never known a wrinkle, worn not like cloth but like creed.
A long, weightless cloak trailed behind him, etched with moving patterns—runes that shimmered slightly even in stillness, language that didn’t behave.
Deacon.
Not a title.
A name.
One that didn’t echo in just one realm, but across many.
The god didn’t speak again.
He didn’t need to.
Deacon lifted his head—not enough to make eye contact, just enough to show that he was listening.
The god’s voice returned, softer now, like a breeze felt through bone. It carried no threat. But also, no warmth.
"The cult placed on Earth-139 has been extinguished."
Deacon didn’t flinch. He didn’t breathe.
"It died too soon," the god continued, the faintest edge of interest coloring the weight of the sentence. "It was meant to ferment. To grow unnoticed. To observe quietly."
Deacon’s reply was low, restrained, a knife wrapped in velvet.
"It should not have failed. That world has no sentient wards. Its Guardians are obsolete. The last surviving council doesn’t even track external threat levels."
"Exactly."
The god let the word linger, its echo heavier than the space it passed through.
He tilted, barely, a shift more felt than seen.
"There was interference."
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
"No beast was dispatched. No internal fracture occurred. No sacrifice loop collapsed. Someone outside the pattern touched it."
Deacon’s gaze sharpened slightly, not from surprise, but from recognition of what that implied.
"Are they marked?" he asked.
"No," the god said. "That’s what makes this interesting."
He leaned forward again. Not physically. Just in intention—the entire cathedral bowed with him.
"The staff was touched. Briefly. The one who died wasn’t the last to hold it. Someone else did. And they’re still alive."
Deacon paused. Thought. Calculated.
"If they’re unmarked... shall I erase them?"
"No," came the answer, firm but calm. Almost amused.
"Not yet."
Another shift. Another ripple.
"I want to see."
Deacon asked no further questions. "Observation protocol?"
"Correct," the god said. "Do not disturb. Do not make contact. Just watch."
Deacon moved. Not in steps, not with effort. Just a tilt of his hand.
