Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users-Chapter 256: But This Is When The Humans Rebounded

They didn’t rebuild the world to make it glorious.

They did it to test, to pressure, to refine.

And for the first time in nearly a century, the cities stopped shrinking.

The shelters didn’t empty out because people starved or froze or died in the dark.

They emptied because, finally, people stepped outside again.

Not into paradise.

Not into safety.

But into a world that was still wild—still cruel—yet somehow... bearable. A place they could stand in without immediately being swallowed.

They didn’t stand tall, not yet, but they stood.

The simulation slowed. Its motion softened.

One last image emerged—not of towering structures, glowing domes, or high-tech universities—just a camp.

Two dozen people, maybe fewer.

Coats are patched at the elbows. Steam rising from a dented pot. A few faces gathered around it, lit faintly by the fire and the red-glowing sky beyond.

No guards, no visible weapons, no reinforced shelters.

Behind them, a massive beast skull had been turned into a kind of roof—cleaned, hollowed, balanced carefully with scavenged poles.

There were no walls around the camp, no barriers, nothing but that roof, the fire, and the people.

And laughter.

Not loud, not forced, just real.

The kind that meant, for once, they weren’t checking the tree line. They weren’t listening for breathing that didn’t belong.

Just sitting. Breathing. Eating. And quietly—tentatively—believing that tomorrow might come.

Then the screen dimmed. Not abruptly. Gently. Like it, too, knew it had said enough.

One word stayed behind, pulsing faintly at the center of the dome.

Astralis.

There was no fanfare. No swelling music. No follow-up lines. Just a faint shift in the Hall’s ambient light and a quiet that settled like snow.

Until the Dean took a step forward.

Just one.

She still hadn’t spoken.

She didn’t need to.

Not until behind her, on the fading screen, a final phrase appeared:

"But this is when the humans rebounded."

She stood still and waited for that phrase to fade entirely before letting her voice return, calm, even, and unchanged.

"The first century after the Fall," she said slowly, "was not glorious."

She walked forward now, not fast, not heavy—just deliberate. The kind of walk where every step was measured but never hesitant.

"It wasn’t called a golden age. It wasn’t a time of rebirth. It was survival—bare, bloodied, and scarred."

She stopped near the edge of the platform and let her eyes pass over the crowd. Not cold. Not warm. Just... human.

"We call it the Age of Scars."

The words landed. Not sharp. Not dramatic. But grounded. Like a fact carved into stone.

"It was the age of hiding," she continued. "Of hoarding, of burying food and light and hope beneath whatever dirt still felt safe."

Cities didn’t rise during that age. They dug. Deep. Below sea level. Below the rivers. Below is what remained of old subway lines.

"Not because it was strategic," the Dean said. "But because the sky didn’t belong to us anymore."

The sky, once filled with aircraft and satellites and stars, had become the territory of winged predators.

Beasts that didn’t hunt out of hunger but out of instinct—programmed by evolution or mutation to strike anything that moved too neatly or flew too predictably.

"They flew faster than jets. And they learned. They didn’t just follow—they watched. They listened. They waited."

The oceans didn’t stay silent either.

Creatures the size of submarines rose without warning. They breached ports without triggering a single alarm.

Entire islands vanished overnight. Shorelines were redrawn not by erosion, but by the dragging of scaled bodies through sand and city alike.

"The sea," she said simply, "was patient. And what lived in it... didn’t need to be seen to strike."

Cities tried to reroute their water systems. They laid pipelines through deeper tunnels, trying to keep their heat signatures low. But it didn’t matter.

"They didn’t need light to hunt. They felt vibrations. They followed warmth. They moved by sound and memory."

Entire metro lines turned into flooded nests. Sewer systems became breeding grounds. Survivors carved rooms into collapsed walls, never stepping in the same corridor twice.

"And still," she said, "some didn’t hide."

The Hall remained still.

The screen flickered once more—no color—just muted, grainy footage, like something saved from corrupted memory archives.

It showed mountains.

Narrow trails.

Thin, frozen air.

A group—ten, maybe twelve—moved along the ridge. They weren’t informed. They didn’t look tactical. But they carried themselves with something different.

Purpose.

"They were martial researchers," the Dean explained. "Descendants of soldiers. Of monks. Of survivalists who had passed down knowledge without tech—only breath, body, and discipline."

They were called The Ash Circle.

No hierarchy. No broadcast.

Just motion.

Their first recorded kill was a Tier 4 mountain wyrm.

No ranged weapons. No powered strikes. Just formation, rhythm, and raw, unrelenting resolve.

"They didn’t return with its head," the Dean said. "They returned with its hide. It’s spine. It’s poison. Its use."

And something changed.

Not overnight.

But real.

Other groups—some small, some just desperate—began testing the surface again, not with bravado. Just hope laced with fear.

Most failed.

A few didn’t.

Those few became known as the Reclamation Tribes.

More footage followed.

A mother teaching her children how to tell beast muscle from meat. A father boiling down psionic bone marrow into coating gel.

A child, maybe eight, pointing out monster tracks and listing scent profiles like nursery rhymes.

"They weren’t trying to rebuild cities," the Dean said. "They were trying to hold ground."

A frozen hill. A rooftop. A flooded corridor. That was enough, if they could hold it for one more night.

"And every win," she added, "drew attention."

Beasts started adjusting.

Some began mimicking humans. Some copied light. A few began mimicking thought—waiting, setting bait, herding.

"One tribe vanished completely. Not in a fight. Not in an attack. But because they were replaced. Identically."

No one breathed.

But the Dean kept going.

"They didn’t stop."

Markets began forming—not cities, not towns. Just hubs. Tent trading posts. Sparring rings drawn into dirt. Payment made in meat, bone, or tools.

Shelters started training powered users.

Not to fight. freёnovelkiss.com

To carry. To cleanse. To stabilize.

"They weren’t heroes," the Dean said. "Just useful."

And then came the Guilds.

At first, just groups of survivors with names others remembered. Not official. Not legal. But respected.

Follow current novels on freewe(b)novel.c(o)m