Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users-Chapter 282: Pale Mirror

The cathedral breathed again—not in how lungs filled or air moved, but in a deep, slow motion that pressed through the walls like a memory exhaling, like a pressure finally loosening after holding itself too long.

It wasn’t breathed in the way mortals understood. It was intentional; it was an ancient rhythm. It was the sound of something old and sacred relaxing back into place.

High above the throne, the suspended glass organs dimmed, their strange, liquid-like glow fading into themselves as if retreating to sleep.

The shifting light that had danced through the stained glass stopped pulsing.

The cathedral’s eyes, if they could be called that, blinked once—then again—before falling still, the afterimage lingering in the thick air like smoke that didn’t fade.

Deacon still knelt where he had appeared—his position unchanged, his silhouette sharp against the quiet gloom of the cathedral’s ribbed floor.

He didn’t fidget. Didn’t breathe loudly. Didn’t glance upward to see if the moment had passed.

He waited, as he always did—not just for silence, but for that subtle certainty that the god’s gaze had drawn away by design, not boredom.

Only once the air shifted slightly—less heavy now, less expectant—did the atmosphere around him begin to respond.

Beneath his sleeves, lines shimmered faintly. Sigils sewn into his uniform—not inked, not painted, but embedded thread by thread into the fabric itself—awoke with a quiet light.

They weren’t meant to be visible to normal eyes. They didn’t glow so much as become noticeable.

Patterns stitched in a language older than writing moved softly, responding to a signal that had no sound, only meaning.

Even the embroidery over his chest responded—rippling slightly like a mirror disturbed by thought, not motion.

"I’ll dispatch the Pale Mirror," Deacon said, barely above a whisper. His voice was perfectly modulated. Not stiff, but composed. Not cold, but so precise that it felt sharper than steel.

There was no need for theatrics.

The god, now unseen but undeniably still present, gave no visual signal. But something in the space—the pressure, the weight, the quiet acknowledgment—shifted again.

A nod. Not visible.

But known.

"Let her look," the god’s voice murmured from everywhere and nowhere, threading into the room like silk pulled through glass.

"And only look. If she is seen, she must vanish. If she is caught, she must die. This thread is not to be controlled. It must unravel on its own."

Deacon lowered his head farther, not in shame or submission, but with the reverence of someone who served not out of fear, but understanding.

There was no need to question a god who saw everything from above and below.

"Understood."

The cathedral inhaled once more—this time lighter. The structure eased, its bones relaxing. The thick breath that had held the place still for so long began to move again.

The soft hum returned to the walls, not loud but steady, like something ancient waking up and then deciding to doze once more.

The stained glass lit again, but faintly this time. Dim. Like the stars returning after a flash of lightning. The weight in the air lessened. It didn’t vanish. But it wasn’t dangerous.

Not yet.

And then, with a final whisper that barely curved around the cathedral’s vaults, the god’s voice returned.

"I want everything."

No thunder. No force. Just clarity.

"Thought patterns. Proximity fluctuations. Emotional drift. Every reaction this boy has. I want to know what he fears.

What makes him hesitate? How does he sleep? How does he think of death? Every detail. Every thread."

Deacon didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

"And if he doesn’t hesitate?" he asked.

The god didn’t reply with words. There was no need.

He raised his unseen hand again, and the thread hovering in the air pulsed. Once. Still faint. Still quiet. But undeniably alive.

It was enough.

The Pale Mirror would feel it. She wouldn’t need coordinates. Wouldn’t need a map. Just the signal. The echo. The pulse.

And with that, Deacon rose.

He didn’t get up.

He didn’t vanish.

He simply changed states—from presence to passage.

He became motionless.

And the cathedral let him go, as though it had thought of him and then released the thought like a sigh.

The corridor he stepped into wasn’t made of stone or metal or light. It wasn’t even made in the usual sense.

It was simply like a hallway remembered by something too old to recall its own shape. Its walls didn’t stand.

They hovered. And they curved when they wanted, not because of design, but because of mood.

Flesh-lanterns lined the sides.

They pulsed—not with flame, but with memory.

Each one held a fragment of a soul. Trapped. Bound. Not dead. Not alive. But aware. Not lights.

Not ornaments. They were witnesses—eyes that had forgotten how to blink, pretending to glow.

They turned as he passed.

They always did.

He walked beneath arches where statues stood in impossible forms—bodies twisted into shapes no anatomy could hold, mouths open in wordless praise, faces caught mid-revelation.

They weren’t sculptures. They were remains—the aftermath of a belief gone too deep.

Deacon didn’t look at them.

He had no reason to.

To pause would be to remember—and Deacon never remembered unless commanded.

He reached the chamber.

Not grand. Not wide. But infinite in feeling.

Dozens of mirrors floated in the space.

None touched the ground.

They were suspended by threads too thin to call chains, too exact to call vines.

Each one held a shimmer of a world—real-time, real vision, no recordings, no simulations, only truth reflected from far, far away.

He stepped toward one, the surface a soft sheen of blue and gray.

Earth-139.

His hand rose, flat against the glass. The moment his palm touched, the surface pulsed—not bright, just alive-a recognition.

"Pale Mirror," he said.

Silence.

Then a voice.

Female. Cold. Measured. Not cruel—but efficient. A voice trained to cut, not comfort.

"I see."

"You are to observe Earth-139," Deacon instructed. "Our god requires clarity. No interference. No noise. This is not a hunt."

A pause.

Then, "There is something on the move," she replied. "Faint presence. Adaptive. Possibly unaware. But someone we need to be understand."