Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users-Chapter 301: Interpreted as Pre-Rift Class — Entity Type: Untethered Void Signature.

The door closed behind the last person with a soft hiss, sealing the room in silence. Only the low hum of the overhead lights remained, along with the faint ticking of a display panel that still blinked in standby mode on the far wall.

Sera’s brother didn’t say anything.

He didn’t sit down, either.

He just stood there for a long moment with the tablet still resting in his hand, his thumb brushing the edge without much thought.

It wasn’t nerves. It was the weight of something heavy finally settling. Not on his shoulders—but in his blood.

The assistant stayed near the door, quiet, unmoving. She didn’t shift her stance or ask what came next.

She’d seen him like this a few times before, when a situation turned serious enough to pull him fully out of the public chain and into whatever lay behind the Association’s polished glass and committee smiles.

But tonight was different.

This time, he wasn’t angry or tense. He just looked... focused. In that unnerving way people did when they’d already made a decision and were only now walking toward the part where others had to catch up.

He let out a breath. Quiet. Measured.

Then turned—not toward the window, but to the opposite wall. The one that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.

Just smooth paneling, the kind that didn’t advertise anything, like it was trying to be invisible.

He walked up to it and pressed his palm flat against the center.

At first, nothing happened.

Then a single, low chime sounded—deep and steady. The base of the wall lit up, just slightly, enough to show a faint vertical line forming from top to bottom.

The seam cracked open, slow and deliberate. Not like a door. Not like a vault.

Like something older.

Something hidden on purpose.

Behind the wall was a narrow module—dull gray, unmarked except for a small oval-shaped depression beside it.

About the size of a thumbprint. The shimmer across its surface wasn’t high-tech polish.

It was an old—school security weave—layered and gritty, the kind they stopped using once satellite-based systems came into play.

He pressed his thumb into it.

This time, the sound was even quieter. But the wall responded.

A screen came alive—no floating hologram. No projection.

Just a panel built into the wall itself—embedded tech from decades ago, maybe more. This wasn’t something you accessed unless you already knew it existed.

He didn’t hesitate.

His fingers moved across the interface, slow but certain, like the layout hadn’t changed in years—and hadn’t needed to. It was muscle memory. He wasn’t reading anything. He was recalling.

He entered three characters. Not letters. Not numbers. Glyphs.

Shapes.

Symbols from a logic system that didn’t match modern structure—something passed down through blood, not training.

The wall shimmered.

A ripple passed across the surface.

Then the archive opened.

He shifted slightly so the assistant could see the display if she wanted to, though he didn’t expect her to step forward. This wasn’t a moment meant for conversation.

The archive wasn’t dramatic. There were no sounds or images. It was just line after line of entries, some blinking, most dim.

Most were flagged as obsolete, others as sealed, and a few were still redacted even inside the system.

He scrolled.

And then he stopped.

One line wasn’t like the others.

It blinked—not with urgency, but with instability. There was no file size. No origin tag. No dialect or author attached. Just one line translated loosely into modern code:

Interpreted as Pre-Rift Class — Entity Type: Untethered Void Signature.

No metadata. No timestamp. No context.

Just a glyph.

One strange, jagged symbol. Asymmetrical. Wrong in shape, like it had been drawn with hands that didn’t know symmetry or care for human eyes.

He tapped it.

The panel vibrated. Not in noise, but in pressure. A quiet hum rolled up through the wall and into the bones.

Then the screen shifted.

A file opened—not a document, but a collection of fractured data fragments: ancient energy scans, mimic codes, overlapping memory readings, all corrupted and layered so densely they didn’t make immediate sense, except for one thing.

A note.

Short.

Direct.

He read it out loud, not because she needed to hear it, but because he needed to say it.

"Subject not bound to this cycle. Memory corrupted. Reality schema misaligned. Behavior suggests non-recognition of updated metaphysical laws."

The assistant’s breath caught. "It... doesn’t know where it is?"

He didn’t answer. Not right away. His eyes stayed locked on the last few lines of the note.

"Potential threat not from intention, but from misunderstanding. Subject retains Pre-Fall orientation.

Treat with care. Eliminate only as a last resort. Education before force. Containment before contact."

He leaned back slightly.

Let the words sit there.

Then he closed the file.

The archive went dim, but the air didn’t ease. It felt like something had been let out—even if only slightly. Something unspoken, but very old.

The assistant stepped forward. Just a little.

"Sir... do you think this thing is human?"

He looked over at her, eyes narrowing not in judgment, but thought.

Then, simply: "Whatever it is, it’s moving like it doesn’t care who built this world. That means it doesn’t see sides. It doesn’t see factions. It doesn’t see us."

He swiped across the panel.

The wall began to close.

Seamless. Quiet. Erased.

He didn’t wait for it to finish before turning back toward the table.

He reached into his jacket, now slung loosely over one of the chairs, and pulled out a small matte-black device—barely larger than his palm. No logos. No interface.

He pressed a finger against one side.

It clicked open.

No lights. No sound.

But a link formed.

And he spoke into it, voice low and even.

"Authorization: Valcrest internal charter. Target classification—Pre-Rift anomaly. Requesting shadow-level protocol. Observation and preparation phase only. No direct contact. No public trace."

A pause.

Then a voice came through—flat, filtered, unmistakably inhuman in tone.

"Order received. Confirm point of origin?"

"Confirmed. Internal breach code aligned with archive glyph: Keth-Sigma."

"Directive acknowledged. Ghost unit pending deployment. Estimated readiness: three hours."

He closed the device with a soft snap and slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat.

His face didn’t change.

But the room felt tighter.

The assistant swallowed once. "You’re calling in the ghost division?"

He nodded slightly. "Only one group knows how to track something like this without disturbing it."

She hesitated. "And if it notices?"