I Reincarnated as an Extra in a Reverse Harem World

The wind had grown chill.

Autumn had crept in unnoticed, brushing its fingertips across the land. The days no longer burned. The nights whispered with cool breath. A slow stillness had begun to settle over Velmora—not the silence of stagnation, but of change.

The kind that comes before winter.

The kind that comes before endings.

Alaric—now known to the kingdom as Cedric—had become something of a myth made real.

He no longer returned to the Crydias Estate as often as before. His footsteps had carved a new rhythm, one tied not to walls or halls, but to people.

He traveled daily—walking the spine of the cities, weaving through slums and noble districts alike, a presence both feared and revered.

He had become a saint of the people.

Not of the Church.

The Church refused to claim him. And he, in turn, had no interest in letting them.

He didn't carry doctrine.

He carried results.

And the people welcomed his every arrival with open hearts.

Today, his path had led him to Veldroth.

A quiet, mountainous place far from the capital's spires. Not a battlefield. Not a den of sin. But something simpler.

Here, he came to meet someone.

Lirael.

An old friend.

They met beneath a broad tree that still held green despite the shifting wind. Time passed slowly there. They talked like they had always known each other, like the world hadn't changed so violently since last they spoke.

He told her stories. Tales of his travels, his strange experiences in the capital—though he left out anything about his psychic persona. Some truths weren't ready to be shared.

Still, they laughed. Spoke in riddles and memories.

When the hour turned and the shadows stretched, he rose.

She didn't ask him to stay.

She didn't need to.

His next destination was more personal.

Branmere.

The village of his youth.

The place he had once called home for five long years. Where everything began.

Where the realization had first struck him—that this world was a novel. That his life was a story not entirely his own.

He hadn't planned to return. But something in his chest had pulled him back—quiet, steady.

A final visit.

And perhaps... a farewell.

He arrived unseen.

The village hadn't changed much. Winding paths. Stone wells. Children's laughter echoing against old walls. The people bustled about, unaware of the divine figure standing just beyond their perception.

And yet, to him, everything looked different.

Because he was different.

Only a few months had passed by mortal reckoning.

But it felt like years.

He had grown in ways unnatural—ways no one here would ever understand. His adventures, his battles, his awakenings… they belonged to a world far removed from this peaceful illusion.

Still, a nostalgic smile touched his lips.

He spotted familiar faces.

Master Helbert, still boasting his age-old strength with a loud laugh.

Father Joran, the orphanage head, helping a child tie their bootlaces beneath the shade.

And many others, their faces bright with life—unchanged.

He wanted to keep them that way.

Safe.

Untouched.

Unharmed.

So, without a word, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Divine energy stirred within him—soft and sacred, like a hymn without sound.

And with that power, he touched their memories.

Gently. Lovingly.

He wiped away every trace of himself from their minds.

Names, moments, glances—all dissolved like mist before dawn.

Not out of cruelty.

But out of protection.

If enemies ever came looking, there would be nothing here to find. No loose thread to pull. No soul to torture for information they no longer possessed.

They paused for a moment—suspended, like puppets caught in still air.

Then, life returned.

As if nothing had happened.

Laughter resumed. Steps continued. The village moved on, unaware that a piece of its heart had just vanished.

He glanced one last time toward the path leading to the hill.

But Elior wasn't there.

That absence made his smile linger a little longer.

Then he turned.

And disappeared.

*****

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

*****

Alaric's next destination lay far beyond stone and city—deep within the green heart of the world.

The Core Forest of Verdant Vail.

It welcomed him in silence.

This land, once majestic, still bore the scars of power. Craters marred its sacred soil. Trees lay shattered, roots exposed like ribs. It was a memory of a time when he had only just begun to grasp Divine Energy—raw, wild, and imprecise.

But that was no longer who he was.

Now, he understood the weave of the world.

He stepped forward, and with a single, fluid gesture of his hand, divine energy rippled outward like a wave of light upon water.

The broken craters trembled, then slowly filled. The uneven ground flattened as if being smoothed by unseen palms. Soil stitched itself together. And trees—tall, ancient, and green—began to rise once more, reborn from the earth in a gentle, luminous bloom.

Nature answered him without hesitation.

It had always belonged to the divine.

High above, curled in a circle of stone and golden moss, the golden serpent dragon stirred.

Lysaurel.

She had been sleeping. A long, dreamless rest.

But the forest's shift woke her.

One eye opened, slit-pupiled and ancient. Her head lifted, flicking side to side. She tasted the air with her tongue, scanning the surroundings.

But the source of the change remained unseen.

Until a voice—quiet and calm—echoed beside her ear.

"You did well. Now let me reward you."

Before she could move, before she could even raise her body in response, light enveloped her.

White divine light.

It descended like a blessing from heaven, threading into her scales, her bones, her soul. She let out a soft cry—not of pain, but of awe. Her massive form trembled once… then stilled.

She had no time to react.

Because she was already changing.

The Authority of Growth wrapped around her like a cocoon spun from grace itself. Within moments, her form began to shrink and shimmer. Her body curled inward, spiraling like molten gold.

And then she was gone.

In her place: an egg-shaped cocoon, glowing faintly with pulsing veins of white and gold.

Alaric stepped forward.

He placed a hand over the cocoon, just once. Then summoned a barrier of divine protection—dense, silent, undetectable. Nothing would pierce it. Not beast, not mage, not time itself.

He stood there for a moment longer.

Watching.

Making sure all was still.

Then, with a final glance—solemn and satisfied—he turned his back to the grove.

And flew away into the sky.

***

The days passed in quiet momentum.

After revitalizing the Verdant Vail, Alaric returned to his familiar rhythm—city to city, village to village. Helping. Healing. Guiding. Disappearing. Reappearing.

To the people, he had become a rhythm in their lives. A presence like the moon—sometimes visible, sometimes not, but always there.

And yet, within this single month, something profound had changed.

His abilities had ascended to a different tier entirely.

Teleportation, once a short-range miracle, now stretched across borders and mountains. His Divine Eye had sharpened—what was once a vague sense was now a precise instrument. He could see deeper into souls. Hear the heartbeat of hidden truths.

And now, he could imprint souls.

He hadn't created any new techniques—because he didn't need to. The arsenal he had already developed had grown with him. Every breath of divine energy was purer. Every pulse of power more absolute.

He was the technique.

***

The Information Network Initiative—the web of subtle dominion—was progressing swiftly.

Land deeds were finalized.

Construction across key cities neared completion. Spires bearing the Crydias crest now dotted the skyline, subtle but unmistakable. The family's name, once confined to merchant ledgers, had become a brand.

Even culture bowed to him.

He had handed several new recipes to the head chef of the Pavilion's main branch in the capital. Each one caused a storm.

And the most recent?

Soya sauce.

It was auctioned off for millions of gold coins.

The culinary world shook. Nobles competed like mad dogs to own a bottle. And the Pavilion's name blazed even brighter—no longer just a trading post, but a place of legend. A mark of refinement. Of influence. Of silent power.

Alaric had also moved entire families from the slums—those handpicked, trained, and tested—into other Pavilion branches across the kingdom. Their jobs were simple but critical:

Observe. Listen. Speak only what must be heard.

Information gathering. Rumor-spreading. Surveillance disguised as salvation.

With good pay. Fresh food. Clean clothes.

They were happy. And loyal.

The entire capital of Velmora, and soon the entire kingdom, would move under the constant watch of the Pavilion's eyes and ears.

Not by force.

But by invitation.

But amidst all of this rising influence, something far greater stirred within him.

His Divine Heart Core had reached its limit—not in strength, but in form.

It had arrived at a tearful—a point beyond which it could no longer grow passively. Not like before, when it would evolve on its own through exposure and breakthrough.

No.

This time, it required him.

Directly. Consciously. Entirely.

And this time, the stakes weren't his health or his mortality.

They were the world's.

If he attempted to evolve his Core while among people, the backlash—the divine surge—could tear reality in fragile places. Space might crack. Time might twist. The stars themselves might whisper.

So, he made the decision.

Seclusion.

Not out of weakness.

But out of necessity.

He spoke to the Pavilion heads. Informed the inner circle. The people were told that he would be gone for a time, but would return. They didn't panic. They trusted him.

How could they not?

He had already become their silent god.

And so, the day ended.

Not with a battle.

Not with a miracle.

But with a quiet declaration—and the first breath of something enormous preparing to descend.

The Saint of the People turned inward.

And the world held its breath.

-To Be Continued