Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users-Chapter 257: A New Order... Or Was It??

Whispers became requests, requests turned into contracts, and contracts, over time, evolved into law.

And from the ashes of those early rules, the first Academies began to rise.

They weren’t prestigious institutions. They didn’t appear in grand cities. They didn’t start with fanfare or even much trust.

Each was shaped by circumstance—harsh, bloody, and unrelenting. But they were consistent.

One taught with silence, another through suffering, and the third through unyielding pressure, until only the capable remained.

And then came Astralis.

Not the first, nor the most forgiving, but the one that endured every wave of collapse without ever being swept away.

The Hall of Presence didn’t break into applause or murmurs. No students turned to each other. No heads shook.

The air inside remained still, dense with reflection. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was intentional. Heavy. Settled.

The Dean didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t step away from the center of the platform. Her tone didn’t change.

She simply continued, like the story hadn’t paused at all. Because in truth, it hadn’t. The world outside had kept spinning. And so had the truth she carried.

"The guilds," she said quietly, "were the first attempt to organize power on a meaningful scale. Not just to wield it, but to manage it. And for a time... they succeeded."

She looked out across the Hall, eyes calm but alert.

"They weren’t born from nations. There were no parliaments or military councils backing them. They didn’t start with symbols, flags, or declarations."

They began the same way most things did after the Fall—through necessity.

A group survived. They protected a region. Others took notice. The name stuck. That was all it took.

"Some guilds were built on shared principles. Others on reputations. A few... on nothing more than brute strength."

And it worked—until it didn’t.

The Dean’s voice stayed measured.

"Territories became safer. Not because beasts were gone, but because patrols were consistent.

Shelters were fortified. Maps were updated. Beast migrations were tracked, logged, and passed on."

There were daily food drops.

Medical rounds.

Field repairs.

Even schooling began again in some areas.

For a while, people truly slept through the night. Some even laughed like the worst days had passed. There were still scars, but they weren’t bleeding anymore.

"But power," the Dean said, more softly now, "has a way to make you want to have more."

She paused—not to be dramatic, but because what came next didn’t deserve to be rushed.

"And when safety became currency, it didn’t take long for greed to follow."

Territorial disputes started creeping in. One guild controlled a lake. Another wanted it, not out of thirst, but out of strategy.

Whoever held the lake controlled the settlements that depended on it.

Sabotage followed, then ambushes. Then, open skirmishes broke out between humans who were supposed to be allies.

"Humanity," she said bluntly, "had survived monsters. Survived famine. Survived a broken sky and a poisoned sea."

She let the silence stretch.

"But they still couldn’t survive each other."

The dome lit up again. Another projection. This time it wasn’t grainy. It was clear enough to show pain.

Two groups. Similar clothing. Similar gear. But one side was shouting, the other was already bleeding.

Smoke poured across the screen. No beasts were present. Just humans—screaming across a burned field with weapons drawn.

A fight without a purpose.

A conflict no one could explain anymore.

"Internal wars tore through more ground than any beast ever managed," the Dean said.

"Because the damage done by betrayal... doesn’t heal the same way."

Entire guilds fractured from the inside.

Some split in two, taking loyalists and leaving ruins behind.

Others turned on their own, seizing food, cutting communication, and abandoning outposts that had once relied on them.

What had started as a fragile but rising civilization began to decay again. Quietly. Without spectacle.

"This time there was no second Fall," the Dean explained. "No global explosion. No meteor this time."

Just erosion.

The slow collapse of trust.

The breakdown of shared purpose.

Maps became meaningless.

Safe zones turned into battlegrounds.

Rescue teams stopped arriving—not because they failed, but because they stopped caring.

The lights dimmed slightly, and the screen transitioned once more.

This time it didn’t show people.

It showed eyes.

Dark, massive, clear.

"And then there were the beasts," she said, her voice tight, "who also changed with time."

For years, their behavior had been consistent, brutal, yes, but super chaotic, uncoordinated.

That stopped.

Suddenly, they moved in groups. First in pairs. Then in herds. And then, one day, a scout recorded something new.

Something impossible.

A creature not defined by size or mutation—but by presence.

The simulation stopped on a single image.

A colossal shape, partially blurred by the lens. Smoke curled around its form. The land beneath it was cracked open. But it wasn’t the body that caught attention.

It was the eyes.

Fixed. Knowing.

Alive in a way nothing else had been.

"They called it the Voidhowl Sovereign," the Dean said. "Not because of its roar, but because everything changed after its appearance."

The beast didn’t attack. It didn’t need to.

Because the moment it appeared, every Forbidden Zone began moving.

Creatures that had slept for decades stirred.

Species that hadn’t been seen before began appearing—closer to cities, near academies, around infrastructure.

Strategic.

Calculated.

Attacks began happening in patterns.

Tunnels collapsed in sync across multiple zones.

Flame-breathers swept through old settlements in spirals, not randomly but with precision—herding survivors into traps.

"It wasn’t war," she said. "It was correction."

The word lingered in the air like static.

"The beasts weren’t broken anomalies. They were the new standard. Humanity had spent too long pretending we still belonged at the top."

But even as everything around them spiraled—

The academies remained.

Not because they were strong.

Not because they were built better.

But because they were disconnected.

"They didn’t serve governments. They didn’t bow to cities. They didn’t answer to the guilds."

Academy leadership changed often. Philosophies clashed. Methods evolved.

Some taught with peace. Others with pain.

But none of them collapsed.

They endured.

Even as the world fractured again.

Even as cities fell and maps went dark.

The academies became the last consistent system left.

"They trained new power users. Preserved knowledge. Adapted techniques. Not to save the world—but to make sure someone would still know how to live in it."

The lights dimmed again.

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