I Reincarnated as an Extra in a Reverse Harem World

The past few weeks had been nothing short of cataclysmic.

Not outwardly, perhaps—not with thunder or spectacle. But within Alaric, the change was seismic. Tectonic. His once stagnant power, once brute and unfocused, had risen—not through raw increase, but through mastery. Through understanding.

Before, he could bend the space around his fist—distort it like smoke under pressure, just enough to make his strikes ripple unnaturally. Now?

Now he could teleport.

Yes. Teleport.

He had tried it for the first time two days ago, and to his own disbelief, he'd burst out laughing. Actually laughing. Then jumping. Then teleporting mid-jump just to feel the thrill again.

It was a dream come true—one he'd carried even in his past life. Back then, it had been a fantasy. Something cool. A trick for heroes in books and battle mages in hollow games.

But now? Now it was his.

And it felt powerful. No more climbing through windows like a cloaked rogue. No more bending divine power to cloud minds and slip past eyes. No more dramatic entrances.

He could simply appear. Or disappear. A mirage without warning.

And yes—he had already used it to scare the hell out of someone. It was satisfying.

The range was limited for now, but the precision was sharp. The technique itself, reliable. And with every attempt, his understanding of space—the invisible weave between all things—deepened. He began to sense folds in the world that weren't visible, seams waiting to be plucked.

And that wasn't all.

Other powers—those already within him—had begun to evolve. Refine. His Divine Heart Core, once volatile with untamed energy, had begun to crystallize. Each pulse of divine energy grew more refined, more potent. The expansion slowed, yes—but only because it was nearing something absolute. The very peak of what his current Tier could hold.

He could feel it. Every breath, every heartbeat—it sang of change. Quiet, steady, inevitable.

The real transformation had begun.

*****

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

*****

With each passing day, Alaric came to understand why Divine Energy was so utterly broken.

It wasn't just strong. It was transcendent.

He could do anything with it—reshape it, bend it, wield it without constraint. Compared to it, Mana felt crude. Shackled. Constricted by the very systems mortals devised to tame it.

To use Mana, one needed to elementalize it—choose an attribute, bind it to fire, water, earth, or air. Only then could it be made stable. Useful. But that process also limited it. Tethered it.

Divine Energy, on the other hand... it answered to will alone.

It didn't need an element. It was the element—any element. All elements. It moved as thought moved. Took shape as intent demanded. Where Mana had form, Divine Energy had essence. Fluid. Limitless. Alive.

Even non-attributed Mana, praised for its versatility, fell short. In raw power, it couldn't rival elementalized forms. And in potential?

It could never touch the realm of the Divine.

This—this was what made him different. Not just stronger. Other. Touched by something eternal.

And he knew who to thank.

The Goddess Elyssera.

The one who had seen him, chosen him, and handed him the very thread of the divine.

He bowed inwardly, not with words, but with purpose. With gratitude. He was given a second life, and with it, a power that defied the very structure of the world.

So he worked.

Harder than ever. Tirelessly. Relentlessly.

Not to glorify himself—but to rekindle the belief the people had lost. To revive the divine flame buried beneath centuries of ash and apathy.

And it was working.

Slowly, like dawn over a ruined city, faith was returning.

And he would make sure it never flickered again.

***

Alaric vanished from the bell tower.

In the next breath, he reappeared high in the sky.

No sound. No light. Just a ripple in space—and he was there, suspended far above the kingdom he was slowly mending.

The city stretched beneath him, vast and imperfect, yet slowly healing. The early morning mist still clung to the rooftops, curling through alleyways and rising from the river like soft steam. From up here, it looked almost peaceful. Almost whole.

Divine energy flowed gently around him, lifting him in silent defiance of gravity. He pulled his hood over his head again, and with it, shadows clung to him like a second skin—soft, solemn, weightless.

Then he moved.

Not with thunder. Not with spectacle. Just swift and silent flight, cutting through the wind like a prayer carried by purpose.

He flew toward the outer district, toward the part of the city where roofs sagged and walls cracked. Toward the slums.

In the name of Elyssera, the Goddess who gave him this power.

He landed without ceremony—no grand descent, no radiance of light. One blink, and he was simply there.

A presence.

The air shifted around him as he reappeared on a dusty street corner, near a well where children often played and elders sat in silence. The moment they saw him, voices rose. Familiar voices. Grateful voices.

"Lord Cedric!"

"It's him—it's really him!"

"Praise the Saint!"

They rushed toward him, surrounding him like moths drawn to the warmth of a forgotten sun. Some reached for his robe. Others fell to their knees. Their hunger was more than for food—it was for hope.

But Alaric did not rise to meet their worship.

He simply sat down. On a worn stone beside the well.

Calm.

Rooted.

Then he raised his hand—not with command, but with restraint.

"Please…"

He said, his voice soft, yet heavy enough to still the crowd.

"Don't praise me. Praise the one who made me into what I am."

There was silence.

As if the air itself had stopped to listen.

Then something shifted—visibly, deeply.

Their cheers died, not in disappointment, but in realization.

Their hearts trembled. Eyes once filled with reverence now softened into something deeper. The name of the Goddess—Elyssera—passed between their lips like a sacred breath.

Tears welled in the eyes of the old and young alike.

They hadn't forgotten Her. But in their suffering, they had buried Her beneath survival. Now, through him, they remembered. They felt Her again.

Not as a distant concept.

But as someone watching.

Someone who cared.

One elderly woman bowed low, whispering through cracked lips,

"Thank you, Lady Elyssera… for sending us this child of light."

Another man knelt beside her, pressing his forehead to the ground.

"And thank You for not abandoning us…"

It spread like wildfire—raw gratitude, trembling prayers, silent weeping.

Alaric said nothing more.

He simply sat there, a quiet sentinel of the divine, letting the praise flow where it belonged.

Not to him.

But to Her.

-To Be Continued