The Incubus System Chapter 887. Angel Creation Project III

The Incubus System Chapter 887. Angel Creation Project III

The crew gathered around, their lists and medical gadgets in hand, engaging in a hushed conversation that I could only partially tune into. They threw around medical terms like heart rate, and blood sugar, discussing my imaginary health results.

"His health test looks normal," one of them murmured, glancing at the fabricated data on their list.

"Heart rate steady, not a blip there," added another, tapping a pen against the clipboard.

A third person chimed in, "Blood sugar test shows stable levels. Seems pretty standard."

Their conversation veered into the surreal, as they spoke about my fake health stats as if I were a normal human being.

"And look at this," one of them said, pointing to the list, "the results are eerily similar to Renart's."

"That's interesting," another replied, squinting at the data.

"Yeah, if the vaccine worked for him, it should work for this one too. Seems like a match."

With that, the decision seemed made. They concluded their imaginary health chat and strolled away.

A wave of relief washed over me as the faux health discussion came to an end. 'Now what?' I pondered, caught between two options: keep up the unconscious charade or finally unveil my not-so-dramatic awakening.

With boredom gnawing at me like a relentless pest, I opted for the grand reveal. A subtle dance of fingers and a slow tilt of the head – my silent announcement that consciousness had decided to grace me with its presence. With the finesse of an amateur performer, I opened my eyes gradually, blinking away the remnants of the faux unconsciousness in a well-timed display of confusion.

The world came into focus, and I found myself sitting up abruptly as if a shock was running through my system as though awakening from a bizarre dream. My eyes darted around the room, registering the unfamiliar surroundings, and a look of genuine bewilderment etched across my face.

The room exuded an unsettling sterility, as if every surface had been meticulously scrubbed of any hint of life. Cold, clinical white dominated, from the spotless walls to the gleaming floor. In the center, a lone examination table stood, its metallic sheen reflecting the harsh artificial lighting overhead.

Adjacent to me, an imposing mirror stretched from floor to ceiling, its presence both curious and disconcerting. It seemed to hold secrets, reflecting an eerily pristine version of the surreal surroundings.

The room's silence shattered as a voice echoed from behind the imposing glass.

"Welcome, Ethan," the voice resonated as if the glass itself whispered my name. The male voice carried a leader quality, a hum of magic that threaded the air with a delicate weave. My senses tingled as I discerned the faint, non-magical essence emanating from the unseen figures behind the reflective barrier. In other words, they were mere humans, not demon hunters.

“Please don’t panic.” The request followed. But instead, I took quicker breaths, just to show them how panicky I was. With a cautious step, I descended from the medic bed, my eyes fixed on the mysterious mirror.

With feigned trepidation, I finally stood before the mirror. My inquiry spilled out – "Who are you? And what do you want from me?"

"We're from the demon hunter organization," they declared, their voices carrying a rehearsed edge that hinted at a well-practiced script. "We're not here to harm you."

But their words, no matter how soothingly delivered, only fueled the flames of my feigned fear. "Why am I here?" I demanded, my voice laced with a tremor that mimicked genuine panic. "What agenda do you demon hunters have?" I pressed on, escalating my performance to a crescendo of anxiety.

"We brought you here to explain a few things, especially about your late father," they confessed.

My faux ignorance met their claim with wide-eyed disbelief. "My late father?" I queried, baiting them to unravel the story they wished to spin.

"He was the best former demon hunter before his death," they declared. "His death wasn't an accident – the demons killed him."

Pretending to shock and feigned ignorance, etched across my face. I staggered, a convincing act of shock and weakness playing out with every unsteady step. The room blurred momentarily as I swayed, almost teetering on the edge of a well-executed collapse.

"Is that true?" I stammered, injecting vulnerability into my tone, my eyes wide with feigned disbelief.

The air hung heavy with suspense as the unseen figures behind the glass affirmed the harrowing truth. "Yes," they replied.

My act reached its zenith – a calculated display of shock, weakness, and staggered vulnerability. I displayed how I fought to steady myself, palms clammy, heart pounding, as if the revelation had sapped the strength from my limbs. Larry might be the king of theatrics, but in that moment, I held my own.

The unseen figures behind the glass launched into a narration of my late father's heroic legacy, each word laden with the weight of dramatic nostalgia. "Your father," they began, their voices taking on a somber tone, "was a legend among demon hunters. His service was unparalleled, and his acts were nothing short of heroic."

They spoke of his valor in the face of demonic hordes, weaving tales of battles fought and won. The room resonated with the echoes of their words, painting a vivid picture of my father's sacrifices for the cause. Each pause carried a hint of loss, as if recounting tales of a fallen comrade.

"And then came the day of his ultimate sacrifice," they continued, their voices dropping to a mournful whisper. "Alone, he faced a horde of demons, a solitary warrior against the darkness." The pause lingered, a moment of collective mourning for the fallen hero.

I could sense the theatrics, their voices meticulously crafted to evoke emotion While they played their parts convincingly, I saw through the charade. Their tales of heroism and tragedy were a ploy, a theatrical performance designed to manipulate my emotions. Behind the façade of mourning friends lay a sinister agenda – my willingness to accept the vaccine and become their puppet. It disgusted me.

Still, I nodded solemnly, feigning emotion, allowing their words to wash over me. This was a dance of deception, and I played my part – a son mourning a father's tragic fate, oblivious to the strings they attempted to weave around me. Beneath the surface, my mind strategized, knowing that the acceptance of their narrative would bring me one step closer to breaking the angelic seal that bound me.