The Incubus System Chapter 1210. You Don't Own Me
The Incubus System Chapter 1210. You Don't Own Me Clea’s PoV The room was freezing, but not from temperature. It was the kind of cold that s
The Incubus System Chapter 1210. You Don't Own Me
Clea’s PoV
The room was freezing, but not from temperature.
It was the kind of cold that seeped in through the spine when they knew they were somewhere they didn’t belong—somewhere no one wanted they to be.
Clea stood in the center of the Senatorial Chamber, surrounded by silent screens.
Dozens of them.
Thin, hovering panels stretched in a semi-circle around her, each flickering with a faint blue sheen. Behind them—nothing but shadows. Vague silhouettes. Featureless. Inhuman.
Even their voices weren’t real. Digitally altered. Masked. No identities. No names. Just power.
And it was the kind of power that didn’t ask for permission.
Didn’t care about laws.
Didn’t care about blood.
Didn’t care about people.
She was the chairwoman of the Demon Hunter Association.
And yet right now?
She felt like a bug in a jar.
They didn’t see her as an equal. They never had.
Just a tool. A piece.
A figurehead.
She clenched her fists, nails digging into her gloves.
She had power. Training. Rank.
But here?
Here she was just another voice they chose to ignore.
“I don’t get it,” she said finally, breaking the long silence. Her voice echoed in the sterile chamber, shaky but firm. “Larry is a demon hunter. He’s under my authority. And you—none of you—told me a damn thing about this operation.”
Silence. Then—
“If we told you,” came a distorted male voice, calm and smug, “you wouldn’t have given your permission.”
Clea’s jaw tensed.
“You’re right,” she snapped. “I wouldn’t. Because what you did was illegal. Barbaric.”
Another voice chimed in. This one female, colder than ice. “Larry Grandroar. This is very strange. On the surface, he’s a normal human. But his blood… there’s a match.”
Clea’s heart skipped.
“A match?”
“With Renart Strongheart’s lineage,” the voice clarified. “A 97.3% genetic compatibility.”
“That’s because—” Clea gritted her teeth. “Renart once donated his blood to Larry. Years ago. When Larry was seven. He was dying. Renart saved him. It’s recorded. You know this.”
“But the match remains,” the woman insisted. “That much divine blood changes a child’s framework. Alters how they react to stimuli. Including holy purification.”
“Larry isn’t suitable for the holy vaccine,” Clea said, slower this time. “You know that. It’s in his file.”
Another screen pulsed to life. A deep male voice spoke, sighing in faux weariness.
“Yes, yes, we’ve read the file. We also read the part where he’s listed as a loyal, effective operative. And we needed someone with data close to Ethan Strongheart’s profile.”
Clea’s breath hitched.
“You—” She looked up at the screens, disbelief and fury bleeding into her expression. “You used that as a reason to torture him?"
Before the next voice could even start, another senator cut in—male, older, voice crumbling through the modulator with a different tone. Hesitant. Human.
“…Yes. I agree with Clea.”
That made the room shift. Not literally, but she felt it. A flicker in the silence. Discomfort.
“We can’t just experiment on him randomly,” the senator continued. “He’s not some lab rat. He’s not a demon. He’s one of ours.”
Clea’s eyes widened slightly.
Someone agreed with her. It had to be one of the senators Ethan had already brainwashed.
But the moment was crushed under another voice—harsher, contemptuous.
“What’s wrong with you? You’ve been soft lately. Taking Clea’s side every time. Has that brat Nathan been getting to you, too?”
“I said what I meant,” the older senator bit back. “There have to be lines. This wasn’t war. This was torture.”
“Torture for progress,” someone else hissed. “We did it for humanity.”
“For what humanity?!” Clea barked again, louder this time. Her heart was racing now, fury choking her. “You’re turning us into the very monsters we swore to fight.”
And for a moment—just one moment—silence held the room in a strangling grip.
Silence again.
Her voice trembled. “You could’ve killed him.”
“And?” another voice said, uncaring. “Sacrifices are necessary. Always have been.”
Clea took a step back.
Her chest hurt.
Not physically.
Not from any injury.
But from the realization—no, the confirmation—that these people?
They weren’t guardians.
They weren’t leaders.
They were monsters in suits.
“You talk like this is chess,” she whispered. “Like Larry’s just another pawn. Like Ethan was just a failed experiment to you.”
Another senator chuckled. “He was a failed experiment. The holy serum didn’t work on him. That alone made him an anomaly. And anomalies, Chairwoman, are to be studied. Controlled. Or eliminated. Well, he isn’t dangerous though. Just a little weak bug.”
“I should’ve stopped this years ago,” Clea muttered.
“But you didn’t,” someone said smoothly. “Because deep down, you knew we were right.”
“No,” she said quietly. “I was naïve. I thought I could change things from the inside.”
“You still can,” one said. “Stand with us, Clea. We need a weapon. A controlled battle puppet. Better than you. Better than that Nathan. Better than anyone.”
Her stomach twisted.
Silence again.
Dead, sharp, heavy silence.
Clea took a long breath.
The lights above buzzed faintly.
The sterile scent of recycled air clung to her nose.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to punch every damn screen until they shattered.
She wanted to go to Larry and free him.
She wanted to run to Ethan—tell him everything, help him burn this place to the ground.
But she didn’t.
She just stood there.
Heart pounding.
Pain in her chest spreading like rot.
“I’m the Chairwoman,” she whispered. “And I don’t even know if I believe in this system anymore.”
A long pause.
Then a quiet reply.
“Then maybe it’s time for you to step aside.”
She laughed.
But there was no humor in it. Only grief.
“I should. I really should.”
And for the first time since this conversation started, she didn’t feel afraid.
Because she finally knew the answer to the question that had haunted her for months.
She didn’t belong here.
Not anymore.
The moment Ethan found out what they’d done to Larry—what they still planned to do to him—this whole operation would collapse.
And Clea?
She wouldn’t stop it.
She’d help.
From the inside. Or the outside.
Because she was done watching good people bleed while cowards hid behind shadows.
She turned to the door.
“I’m leaving.”
“You haven’t been dismissed,” someone snapped.
She didn’t even flinch.
“You don’t own me,” she said without looking back.