Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users-Chapter 302: Ravenhand

He moved with purpose, but there was no rush. Each file was placed into the folder one after the other, smooth and unhurried, like his mind was already somewhere else.

No panic, no doubt. Just control. Like he’d already seen the possibilities, measured them, and now he was setting the board in place before anyone else even realized a game had begun.

"This thing starts paying attention," he said quietly, "we won’t just be dealing with cults anymore."

He stepped around her. Didn’t brush past or glance over. Just moved—efficient, sharp.

The lights were still on, but the weight in the room made them feel dim.

"Shut everything down. Meeting logs. Surveillance tags. Power traces. I want this buried under a third-tier seal.

No backups. No reflections. Not a single flicker of it left in the normal systems."

"Yes, sir."

He paused at the door. His hand rested on the edge of the frame, the way you might stop before stepping out into wind you know is coming but haven’t felt yet.

Then, without turning all the way, he spoke again—calm, but not cold.

"Tell my sister about what happened and ask her if she is able to do any divination on this."

And with that, he left.

The air didn’t move, but somehow, it felt like something had been pulled out of the room. Like a door had closed somewhere deeper than the one behind him.

Ten minutes later, the order was already in motion.

There were no flashing lights, alarms, or notices sent to the outer layers. It all moved beneath the surface, cutting through private lines and deep channels that bypassed the inner council.

This wasn’t a reaction. This was a ritual. A response built into the architecture of the hidden world behind the Association’s polished face.

A black slate, dormant for years, flickered once inside a sealed sub-chamber buried under the Astralis compound.

It didn’t blink like a screen. It pulsed—like it had felt the touch of something it was made to respond to.

Three glyphs lit up.

Not names.

Not ranks.

Not even words.

They were symbols. Carved into protocol. Tied to oaths that no one spoke aloud.

Ravenhand.

No instructions were sent. There was no announcement. No verbal order.

But the signal had already been understood.

Somewhere beneath the central dome of the university, Arin Velcross stood from his seat in a small circular chamber with no exits except the one behind him.

He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t even look particularly alert. He just adjusted the buckles on his gloves and walked forward.

The gloves weren’t armor. They weren’t for protection. They were grounding tools. His power didn’t come from force—it came from contact. From stability. And right now, he needed both.

Behind him, Maeva Lorne appeared.

Not in a flash.

Not with a sound.

One moment, the room had been quiet. The next, she was simply there, walking as if she’d been waiting for the right second to step through a fold in the air no one else could see.

Her coat flowed behind her like a shadow given form, brushing the air with a kind of gentle finality that never quite touched anything around her.

She didn’t greet him.

Didn’t need to.

Her eyes stayed ahead, and she walked like the place already knew her name.

The third one was already inside.

Garan Leth.

Known to most only as Hush.

He stood with his back against the far wall, half his face hidden beneath the faint shimmer of an obscuration field that barely pulsed with power.

His eyes were half-lidded, like he was asleep standing up—but the moment they moved, so did he.

They didn’t speak.

There was no reason to.

The command had already been sent in a way that bypassed thought. Embedded orders. Protocols locked inside them from the moment they joined Ravenhand.

At the center of the chamber was a pedestal.

Arin reached for the seal first—a narrow strip of talisman cloth, half-glowing with layered containment runes.

Not mass-produced and not even duplicated. This was something made by hand. Bound by blood and meant to be used once.

Maeva retrieved the second, a smaller but heavier seal. It carried a glyph not meant for the target. It was meant for her god, the one watching through cracks and fragments.

Hush took nothing.

But when he stepped into the circle, the air around the room dropped, like something important had just been removed. Not energy. Not heat.

Attention.

They stepped together.

One movement.

And then they were gone.

No crack of sound. No distortion. Just absence.

Miles away, Pale Mirror sat alone in the quiet corner of a forgotten shrine. The cult had called it a resting zone, but she hadn’t rested. She hadn’t even closed her eyes. The glyph candles drifted above the altar, flickering just a little too slowly.

She felt watched.

Not in the way someone feels paranoid. Not suspicion.

She knew something was watching her.

The tension had started slowly, like a delay between the world and her body. Sound didn’t come when it should.

Light stretched out longer than it ought to. And then the feeling sank in—this wasn’t someone sneaking up on her.

This was someone already inside.

She stood, slow, cautious.

Took a step.

Then another.

The pressure fell.

Not like a hand pushing her down. It was quieter than that. Denser.

A figure stepped into view—not walking in. Not blinking in. Just... there.

Arin Velcross stood still.

And somehow that was worse than if he’d moved.

She felt her mind scramble for direction, but couldn’t focus. Couldn’t draw breath properly. Her lips moved, but the words stayed caught in her throat.

Maeva came into view behind him, her eyes calm, her seal lifted in both hands.

"Pale Mirror."

Her voice didn’t rise. Didn’t echo.

It simply existed.

"This is not your death. That is not why we came."

The seal shimmered. Then dimmed.

The message had been delivered.

"We are Ravenhand."

Pale Mirror stumbled, her knees giving out just slightly before she caught herself. She didn’t even feel fear. Not the kind she understood. This wasn’t about pain or punishment.

This was the fear of being measured and allowed to remain.

Maeva didn’t stop.