I Reincarnated as an Extra in a Reverse Harem World

Days passed in quiet upheaval.

Alaric, beneath the veil of Cedric, moved as a shadow cloaked in golden light. His name had taken root in the wind—not just in the capital, but in every city surrounding it. They all knew him now.

The man who healed the sick with a single touch.

The man who cleansed corrupted lands.

The man who made the Goddess weep miracles.

No noble announcement had been made. No trumpet was blown. But the people did not need those. The world shifted beneath their feet and Cedric had become a name they whispered with trembling hope.

He moved from city to city like a traveling sermon, a living parable.

Markets slowed when he passed. Children followed behind him barefoot, offering flowers and stones. Mothers clutched his robe with prayers. Old men dropped to their knees without knowing why.

And through it all, Alaric's expression remained still, gentle, and watchful.

He listened.

He healed.

He never stayed long.

Wherever he stepped, faith returned—not to the Church, but to the Goddess herself, as if Alaric's presence bypassed the clergy entirely, letting people remember the divinity they once felt as children.

But not everyone was pleased.

Whispers moved like roaches through alley walls. The official Church had grown strangely quiet after the incident.

Word of what happened in the Caerywn Cathedral never reached the public. The High Priest, Theron, returned to his duties with robotic obedience.

He smiled too much.

He spoke too little.

And when asked about Cedric, he offered nothing but a hollow praise, his eyes flickering with something broken.

The paladins noticed.

The bishops whispered.

But none dared ask.

Meanwhile, in the upper echelons of the city's nobility, something else stirred. Eric's influence was now undeniable. Every city he visited saw a spike in order. Crime dipped. Poverty shrank. The Church's authority wavered.

And as if the land itself recognized him—divine energy began to thrum underfoot. Old roots stirred. Forgotten shrines reignited. Lost relics awakened in dusty temple vaults.

This was no mere humanitarian effort.

Something greater was taking shape.

And through it all, Alaric, beneath the name of Cedric, said nothing.

He simply kept walking—arms outstretched, cloak glowing white beneath the sun.

***

The Marbled Chamber of Caerywn, gilded with old banners and older ambition, was unusually crowded this evening. The Noble Council had been summoned under the guise of routine internal matters—but none of them were naïve.

The name on every tongue, unspoken yet thundering, was Cedric.

At the head of the room sat Lord Elavon Mircallen, the oldest seated member and current voice of neutrality. He hadn't spoken a word since the meeting began—only stared into the long table's polished obsidian, as if hoping it would scry the future for him.

Beside him, nobles from a dozen houses murmured in low tones:

House Vinterel, House Saelwyn, House Cartemire, and House Lorian among them.

Some wore expressions of calculation. Others, barely veiled concern.

"—He's become too visible,"

Said Lady Rhesya Cartemire, her fingers tapping her goblet of crimson wine.

"A man like him should not be able to influence a city, let alone several, without a formal title."

"He has no titles, and yet he walks like a saint,"

Muttered Lord Valric Saelwyn, voice dry as old parchment.

"We've all seen the reports. Miracles. Healings. Dozens of markets stabilized. Three criminal cartels dismantled without bloodshed. And not a shred of coin spent."

Another noble scoffed.

"A myth. Half of it's exaggeration."

"And the other half?"

Snapped Duke Almar Vinterel, the youngest in the room and the first to lean forward.

"I've sent men to trail him. Not one returned with a real answer. They all came back… changed. As if they'd seen the sky crack open."

"He's not just healing beggars,"

Lady Rhesya added sharply.

"He's undermining us. Our holdings, our influence, even the Church itself is bending around him."

"But the Church hasn't moved,"

Said Lord Saelwyn.

"High Priest said nothing in his monthly report. Surely, if this Cedric were a threat—"

"He is a threat,"

Lord Vinterel cut in, voice like iron.

"And that damn silence is the proof. The Church is scared. They can't admit it."

Lady Rhesya leaned in, her voice now a whisper.

"We need to act."

"Carefully,"

Murmured another.

But Duke Vinterel shook his head.

"No. Not carefully. Boldly."

A stillness followed.

Boldly.

It wasn't just a word—it was a call for blood. For assassination, perhaps. For schemes they wouldn't speak of in daylight.

The oldest among them, Lord Mircallen, finally raised his hand.

His voice was quiet but heavy.

"Be very certain of what you provoke, children. This 'Cedric'… is not a man you can put in a cage. I've lived long enough to know a shadow when I see one—and I tell you, what walks beneath that hood is not mortal in the way you think."

The room held its breath.

"Then what do you propose?"

Asked Duke Vinterel.

Mircallen stared at the flame of the council's central brazier, its reflection flickering in his ancient eyes.

"I propose we observe. We wait."

But that silence—the kind where thoughts run like blades—already said enough.

Not all would wait.

And somewhere in the capital, men and gold were already moving. Quietly. Recklessly. Toward the one man who had never spoken of war… but would not walk away from it either.

"I'm telling you, if we wait, it'll be too late."

Duke Almar Vinterel's voice carried sharper now, no longer the whisper of caution, but the hard edge of resolve.

"Five days. That's the window. No more."

Several nodded in grim agreement. Even Lady Rhesya Cartemire, who rarely risked direct moves, finally added,

"We strike fast. Silent and absolute. Before the people start calling him something more than a man."

Lord Valric Saelwyn frowned but didn't object. His silence spoke consent.

A plan was forming—veiled words, hidden hands, hired ghosts in the dark. Gold would buy steel, and steel would test the divine.

"Then it's decided,"

Vinterel said.

"We move within five days."

They stood.

One by one, cloaks were fastened. Chairs creaked. Boots tapped softly over marble as the nobles began to leave the chamber. Their breath had eased, their duty done. The Marbled Chamber would return to its silence.

Until—

"Where are you all going?"

The voice was neither loud nor harsh.

It simply was.

It didn't echo, yet it filled every corner of the room like a forgotten memory returned. Their blood chilled. Every noble froze mid-step. The very air tensed as if the walls themselves had gone still in reverence.

They turned.

And there—on the highest seat of authority, the Warden's Chair, which hadn't been occupied in decades—sat a hooded figure.

Tattered robes.

Veiled face.

A golden-white glow faintly undulating beneath the shadow.

And though they couldn't see his eyes, they felt them.

Every lie, every cruel intention—naked, bare, seen.

"The party is just starting."

The figure leaned slightly forward, one elbow resting lazily on the armrest, tone amused.

"So… let's have a chat, shall we?"

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Duke Vinterel's throat twitched, but no sound came out. Even the air felt heavier now—thick with something other.

A presence.

Divine?

No. Worse.

Intentional.

Lady Rhesya took an unconscious step back.

Mircallen's old eyes were wide, but not with surprise. With understanding. He had suspected. But this… this confirmed too much.

The brazier in the center of the chamber had gone cold.

No wind. No sound. No flame.

Just that presence—smiling in the shadow.

Cedric.

No.

Alaric.

*****

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

*****

The silence stretched, thick as oil. No one moved—not out of courtesy, but survival.

Then, finally, Duke Vinterel cleared his throat.

He stepped forward, trying to steady his voice.

"…You must be Lord Cedric. Or perhaps, something more?"

The hooded figure offered no reply. No confirmation. Just that same lazy posture, elbow on the armrest, golden-white glow seething beneath the veil.

Vinterel forced a smile.

"Well then, let's not act like this is an ambush. You clearly came here to talk. So—let us talk. Like men of vision."

"Vision?"

Alaric's voice was calm. Quiet enough to be missed, but not one word was.

"I've seen visions. Yours, however…"

His hood tilted slightly, as though inspecting something far behind Vinterel's eyes.

"…are remarkably shallow."

The duke's lips tightened.

Another noble—Baron Narellos, rotund and red-faced—stepped in with a chuckle laced in threat.

"You know, Lord Cedric, this is a dangerous way to make friends."

He looked around, clearly playing to the others.

"Storming into secured rooms, sitting where no one dares sit, making nobles nervous. It's not the kind of thing a long-lived man does."

The implication didn't float in the air—it crashed.

But Alaric didn't flinch.

Instead, he raised a single finger. Not towards Narellos, but to the door.

Click.

The door locked itself.

Everyone heard it.

The air dropped by several degrees.

"I'm not here to make friends,"

Alaric said, voice soft—terrifying in its softness.

"I'm here to see how many of you are willing to stay alive."

Lord Saelwyn stepped back, visibly tense. He was the only one who hadn't spoken since the beginning, and his silence had not gone unnoticed.

Alaric's veiled gaze drifted to him.

"You're smart. You haven't said a word."

A long pause.

"You'll live longer than the others, if you keep it that way."

Saelwyn bowed slightly—not out of submission, but acknowledgment. He understood. There were powers beyond politics. And the man before him was not part of the game—they were all standing on his board now.

Vinterel, stubborn, spoke again.

"You know this won't end well for you. The royal family, the High Temple, the guilds—"

Alaric raised his hand again.

And Vinterel's voice… just stopped.

Not silenced. Just gone.

No sound came out of his mouth. He clutched his throat in shock.

"I didn't ask for predictions,"

Alaric said.

He looked around the room now. Slowly. Carefully.

"I came to offer you the only choice that matters: live wisely… or die sincerely."

They felt it then—not the threat, but the truth.

He wasn't bluffing.

He didn't care for politics.

He could be here—or not—at will.

He could have killed them in their sleep, and they'd have thanked him in the morning for a blessed dream.

This was not a negotiation.

This was a warning.

And still… fear blinded some.

Even now, as they stood before the unknown, their pride whispered lies into their ears. He's bluffing. He can't take us all. He's mortal. Just stronger.

They were wrong.

But Saelwyn knew.

He felt it—the shape of something dreadful blooming in the shadow of this moment.

This wasn't just the turning of political tides.

This was the beginning of a spiral.

An arc no one had planned.

Not the nobles.

Not the crown.

Not even this veiled specter sitting before them.

And somehow, that frightened Saelwyn more than anything.

Because if a being of that magnitude didn't know where this path would lead...

Then what hope did the rest of them have?

***

One of the barons—broad-shouldered, face red with pride and power fever—scoffed aloud.

"So what if we don't?"

The words had barely left his mouth.

CRKCHK—

A wet, crunching sound snapped through the chamber like lightning cracking bone.

The baron froze mid-breath, lifted off the floor by a force unseen. His limbs twisted grotesquely, not broken but wrung, like a soaked cloth being twisted by unseen hands. Shoulders spun one way. Knees the other. Ankles spiraled in sick, deliberate arcs.

A low grinding followed, sickly and slow.

"KRRRKRK—"

He opened his mouth to scream.

And did.

But it didn't stop.

He kept screaming as his limbs bent in impossible directions—again and again, healing just enough to be twisted anew. Veins ruptured. Blood rained down. It pooled beneath him like a sacred offering.

He screamed louder.

Yet it wasn't enough.

Everyone stood frozen. Pale. Breathless.

Then the Duke—the most powerful among them and was now able to speak—stepped forward with a burst of fury and fear.

"STOP THIS!"

He bellowed, pointing a trembling finger at Alaric.

"Do you think you'll get away with this?!"

A pinprick of golden light gleamed from Alaric's seated form.

SHHHK—

Blood burst from the Duke's fingertip. He howled in agony, clutching his hand as if it had been pierced from the inside out. That won't have made the Duke scream. He faced far worse pain. But when the light entered his flesh, in devolved all the flesh, nerves and bones except for his skin.

The pain was immense. People can now see clearly what had happened. There was no flesh inside the Dukes hand.

All eyes turned toward the veiled figure seated upon the high chair—robe tattered, face veiled in soft shadow, hands still calmly resting on his lap. He hadn't moved. Not once.

But death had.

And now, every noble in the room was shaking.

Their breaths shallowed. Their hearts pounded like war drums beneath silk shirts.

This man—this thing—hadn't come to make offers.

He came to deliver judgment.

And they had triggered it.

Even the bravest among them, who once thought power could stand against mystery, now understood—

There were no negotiations.

Only the illusion of mercy.

And that illusion was shattering.

***

But even that grotesque display of power—the twisted limbs, the blood-slicked silence—was not enough.

One young noble stepped forward.

A swordsman.

Barely twenty.

His posture was flawless. His aura—sharp and righteous. His pride—untouchable. A talent nurtured by generations of wealth and arrogance, burning with the belief that nobility was not just a title but divine entitlement.

He moved like a shadow streaking through sunlight.

"You cannot do this to us, you commoner wretch!"

He bellowed, eyes wild with fury, veins lit with pride.

"We are nobles! Born to rule! I'll show you what it means to underestimate the nobles!"

No one could stop him. Not the duke. Not the guards. Not fear itself.

He lunged, sword gleaming with mana, blade drawing a perfect arc toward Alaric's unmoving figure.

But before the edge could even kiss the air before him—

SHHHHHHH—

The sword dissolved.

No flash.

No bang.

No resistance.

Just... gone.

And so was the boy.

No scream.

No agony.

No final cry.

His body vanished like sand blown from the palm of a silent god. Dust scattered and fell to the marble floor.

Only his noble sigil remained—tatters of embroidered silk, gently drifting through the air.

Alaric hadn't moved. Not a flicker of his robe. Not a twitch of a finger. The shadow on his face remained soft, calm... even bored.

But now?

Now, dominance was absolute.

The nobles stared in mute horror, every thread of resistance cut by the windless disappearance of one of their own.

Not a single one of them would speak out again.

Because they understood.

They never had a chance.

They never stood a chance.

They were not equals at this table.

They were not guests.

They were not rulers.

They were prey—

—and the game had already ended before it even began.

What remained... was only obedience or oblivion.

And that knowledge?

It came too late.

Paid for in bloodless dust.

Alaric reappeared in the bell tower.

This had become a routine now. He liked the view from here. The wind struck his face exactly how he wanted—perfect. Not too strong, not too slow. Just perfect.

He thought back to what he had done. There wasn't a trace of remorse in him. Not even a flicker. Those men were among the staunchest supporters of the Velmora family—powerful, influential, entrenched in rot.

He had once planned to kill every corrupt noble after the Velmora family's fall. But letting them remain in place, leeching off the people like ticks in velvet, felt wrong.

So he changed course.

Why not use them? Break them in a way that made them useful.

It served Caldrith and his rebel forces as well. A few days earlier, Alaric had met with Caldrith in secret. Together, they had swayed nearly all of the neutral nobles. Only a stubborn few held out, claiming they wanted no part in the conflict. They just wanted peace.

Alaric let them be. The Andean people had chosen to live quietly, untouched by the currents of blood and rebellion. He respected that. Told Caldrith to leave them alone.

Now it was time to move the plan forward.

Auralyne's secret force would take form. Hidden. Subtle. Ruthless.

The Rebel faction nobles had already started organizing in the shadows. Alaric simply helped accelerate the collapse. By turning the strongest Duke among the Velmora loyalists into a rebel, he had struck a devastating blow to the old regime.

It was crude. Assertive. He didn't care.

They weren't good men. Not one of them.

They were steeped in sin—decades of cruelty, greed, and blood spilled upon the innocent. Alaric had to restrain himself from wiping them all out.

But monsters had their uses.

So, for now, he let them live.

But when they served their purpose, they would disappear. Just like that noble swordsman.

-To Be Continued