Deep within the heart of the Witherwood, Inner Forest of Verdant Veil where sunlight barely pierced the ancient canopy, chaos reigned.
A burst of crimson fire erupted from the trees.
FWOOOM!
The explosion threw branches skyward in splinters. A monstrous reptilian screeched—until it was engulfed whole.
From the left, shadows slithered like ink spilled across moonlight.
SHRRRRTCH—
Lances of darkness burst from the underbrush, impaling three beasts mid-charge. Their howls died in choked silence.
"Cellione!"
Serineth called, emerging from the misty black. Her green hair was wild, leaves tangled in it, and her blue eyes burned with excitement.
"That last one was mine!"
Cellione flipped her hair back, embers trailing behind her like a comet's tail.
"I didn't see your name on it,"
She grinned, sweat-slick and exhilarated. Her fire flickered from her palms like a living heartbeat.
"Tch."
Serineth raised a finger, and the shadows curled tighter around her legs, flowing up to her arms like gloves.
"Then don't complain if I tag the next five."
WHSSH—
BOOOM!
SHAAAH!
The forest shook as spell after spell detonated. They moved like predators—Serineth gliding between trees, her shadow-blades carving paths through beast after beast.
Cellione followed the destruction with flame-laced laughter, flinging fireballs that burst midair like suns.
A month had passed since they'd broken through to the [3rd-Circle].
A month of waking before dawn, bruising limbs and ego alike, pushing past exhaustion, honing what they'd been gifted.
Alaric had bought them spells—refined, high-quality, dangerous things. Some had lain dormant in the treasury until now, sealed in golden cases beneath divine runes.
They had not wasted them.
And now, the forest was smeared in magic. Shadow clung to every bark. Fire danced on every branch.
They were hunters. And this was their proving ground.
***
Far above, standing atop a ridge of blackened stone, Alaric watched. His golden hair stirred gently in the smoke-laced wind, eyes unreadable.
Aurevia stood beside him, silent, poised, hands folded in front of her. Her crimson gaze followed the chaos below.
"They're doing better,"
She said softly. Her tone held no surprise—only approval.
Alaric gave a slight nod.
"They've learned to breathe with their magic. Let it carry them."
Below, Kelevani spun midair, hurling a disc of flame so fast it shrieked.
SHINGGG—KRAKOOM!
Serineth leapt from a rock, a beast trailing her. She twisted mid-leap, shadows following her like wings. With a flick, they exploded behind her in a black burst.
FWUUM—SPLRCH!
They landed back to back, breathing heavily, but grinning.
Cellione: "Six to four."
Serineth: "In your dreams."
And for a heartbeat, the destruction felt like joy.
Then—silence.
A strange hush fell. Even the wind held its breath.
A shadow fell over the girls—cast not by sun or cloud, but by a figure descending from above.
WHOOOOSH—
Alaric descended slowly, golden coat fluttering, feet landing amidst scorched earth. The soil crunched under his boots—charred, broken.
He said nothing at first.
He merely raised his hand.
A pulse.
THRMMM—
A dome of soft white light spread from him in a slow wave, pulsing outward in every direction.
Where it passed—fire vanished.
Ash turned to loam.
Shadow melted.
And in its place—
Flowers.
Blossoms.
Fresh trees, newborn and bright green, reached skyward like arms freed from chains.
The air turned cool. Light shimmered across the ground like dawn mist.
Serineth blinked. Her shadows, once hungry and sharp, had vanished.
Cellione turned a slow circle, watching the forest resurrect itself.
"This is…"
She whispered.
Alaric opened his eyes, and in them danced threads of white flame, slow and serene.
"It's not healing,"
He said.
"It's more than that."
He had discovered it only fifteen days prior—when the girls had first laid waste to another part of the woods, and he had tried to repair it. The mana within him had stirred, but not for restoration.
It grew.
Trees did not return to their former state. They were reborn. The earth did not stitch its wounds; it reinvented its shape.
He had not merely been blessed with Elyssira's grace—he had inherited one of her authorities. Not of healing, but of growth.
The white light was not a balm. It was a seed. A divine force that understood not repair, but renewal.
Aurevia stepped beside him, red eyes soft.
"You've only just begun to touch it."
"I know,"
Alaric replied.
"But even a seed knows what it wants to become."
Behind them, Cellione flopped into the new grass, arms spread wide.
"You could've done this earlier,"
She muttered.
Serineth sat beside her, brushing green strands from her face.
"He probably wanted to see if we'd burn down the world first."
Alaric turned, expression unreadable.
"I did."
"And?"
Cellione raised an eyebrow.
"You exceeded my expectations."
They all laughed then, even Aurevia. And for a time, the forest—no longer scarred, no longer screaming—listened in peace.
***
Fifteen days earlier…
The forest lay dying.
It had been a test—a brutal but necessary one. Serineth and Cellione had pushed their limits to the edge of reason, carving through a corrupted glade teeming with aberrant beasts.
The aftermath was expected: trees burned down to coal, air thick with poison mana, the ground groaning under the weight of decay.
Alaric walked through the ruins alone.
He hadn't chided them. They needed freedom. They needed to falter, to burn bright and make mistakes. He had simply watched… and now, when they were done, he had come to restore.
Or so he thought.
He knelt by a wilted root—a once-majestic tree now curled in on itself like a corpse in pain. His golden eyes closed. Divine Energy surged gently within him.
He reached inward, channeling the blessing of Elyssira, the Goddess of Radiance, Life, and Renewal. Her grace had always responded in times of death—when bones broke, when blood pooled. He had used her light to bind, to mend, to preserve.
He placed his hand upon the root.
And then… something changed.
The usual warmth of restoration did not come.
Instead, a deeper pulse stirred—silent, vast, unknowable. Not the flicker of mending, but the heartbeat of creation.
It came from his core.
White light flooded outward, not like a beam, but a bloom. It spilled from his hand like morning mist and soaked into the soil. Not one leaf reattached. Not one broken limb was sealed.
No—new roots sprang forth. Bark wove itself in strange, elegant spirals. Flowers he had never seen bloomed in fractal patterns around the base.
The dead tree had not been healed—it had been transfigured. The energy inside him had overwritten the decay, not with memory, but with possibility.
Alaric stood still, breath caught.
He had not used healing magic.
This was something older. Something deeper.
From within, he heard a distant voice. Not a sound, but an intuition—a radiant whisper from the goddess he had long called Elyssira.
"I am not the balm. I am the seed."
It dawned on him then.
Elyssira's Authority was not mercy.
It was renewal. Vitality. Life, not in preservation—but in evolution.
And in that moment, standing amidst the wreckage of fire and magic, Alaric understood: he had been chosen not just to survive death, but to rewrite the ruins into gardens.
***
Now, back to the present…
After the girls' training, and after Alaric had cleansed the shattered forest with Divine Light, the four of them stood together in silence. Above, the sky stretched wide—pale gold breaking through a patchwork of clouds.
They didn't say much.
There was no need.
Serineth kicked a clump of grass. Cellione leaned her head against Alaric's arm, utterly at ease. Aurevia took a slow breath, her white hair stirring gently in the wind.
"…Let's go home,"
Alaric said at last.
They didn't fly this time. Not immediately.
They walked through the restored forest, the scent of wildflowers in the air. The path beneath their feet glowed faintly, as though remembering their presence. Birds called to one another from branches that hadn't existed minutes ago.
It was peaceful. No longer sacred battle, no longer training—it was a return. A descent from divinity to the mundane.
Their home awaited them beyond the forest's edge. A quiet dwelling tucked against the hillside, where Aurevia had arranged everything with care.
Where Cellione's spellbooks lay scattered on the floor, and Serineth's shadow familiars slumbered in corners like cats.
Where they could breathe.
Where Alaric could be less than a god.
And just for a moment—a man.
*****
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶
✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧
⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
*****
The walk back home was quiet—peaceful in the way only spent exhaustion and silent companionship could make it.
The forest behind them, once drowned in fire and shadow, now shimmered faintly with the remnants of Alaric's white light. Life stirred anew where desolation once bloomed.
By the time they reached the manor nestled near the foothills of Veldroth, the evening sun cast its final golden rays across the tiled roof. The familiar hum of protective runes faintly pulsed from the walls—a soft thrum of sanctuary.
As they stepped onto the polished stone of the courtyard, the front door creaked open on its own.
And there she was, bowing slightly with a mischievous smile.
Shoulder pitch black hair swayed gently in the breeze, and her smoky grey eyes sparkled with trouble. Her mouth curled into that same crooked, mischievous smile that had—by now—become her signature greeting.
"Welcome back, Master,"
She said, voice lilting with amusement. Her gaze flicked to the girls.
"Mistresses."
The moment hung awkwardly for a breath.
Aurevia stepped slightly aside, regal and poised, her crimson eyes narrowed just slightly—habitually mistrusting.
Cellione simply sighed, brushing a leaf from her hair. Serineth looked away with mild irritation, her fingers still stained faintly with shadow mana.
Alaric smiled—wry, easy, a touch amused. He didn't need to say anything. This had become routine.
The maid stepped forward with a bow so theatrical it bordered on parody.
"The bath's drawn. Dinner is ready. And I've locked the wine cellar this time, in case Mistress Cellione gets any more ideas."
Cellione flushed.
"That was once."
The maid gave a small curtsy, mischief never leaving her voice.
"A story I'll cherish forever."
Alaric chuckled, hands tucked behind his back.
"Let's not test her memory. She does have a mind like a fox."
"Why thank you, Master,"
The maid purred.
"Flattery this early? You'll spoil me."
The girls filed past her, barely suppressing their reactions. Aurevia maintained her aloof air.
Serineth muttered something under her breath. Cellione offered the maid a smirk of equal parts annoyance and defeat.
Alaric stepped in last. As he passed her, he paused.
"You've been doing well."
"Of course."
She leaned in slightly, voice softening.
"Wouldn't want to lose my spot in your eyes."
He didn't respond, but the faint lift at the corner of his lips said enough.
She turned on her heel, gesturing dramatically down the hall.
"Shall we, Master? Dinner awaits. And I do believe you owe us a story tonight."
Alaric gave a light sigh.
"I suppose I do."
***
Her name was Virellen Elowen Cyradis. Or simply Virellen Cryadis now. A woman of noble origin. Took on the work of a maid for certain circumstances. She didn't share it with anyone, she didn't need to.
Her job as a hired maid was to serve her master. Not to share useless story to gain sympathy. Not that any one cared. She was hired not out of need but purpose.
Alaric had visited the slave trader—unannounced, cold-eyed. He asked for someone capable, beautiful, sharp. He couldn't think of any one else for this kind of job.
Above even the standards of his girls, not in comparison, but professionalism. The slave trader had grinned like a serpent offered incense.
"If you are willing to pay, Master Alaric… everything is possible."
The slave trader also informed him that a merchandise of the level he previously bought will arrive in few months. Same quality. And asked if he should reserve it under his name.
Hearing this Alaric said nothing and nodded with a cough. The slave traders smile deepened. As Alaric turned to leave he bowed.
"Certainly Master Alaric. I will notify you first when that happens. And also rest assured it will be reserved under your name."
Alaric just nodded with out looking back.
'They are going to wine again.'
A few days later, Virellen arrived with a suitcase in hand and a devil-may-care smile on her lips.
The girls had not taken to her. Especially not at first.
"I can dress as a maid, if that's what Master wants,"
Cellione had blurted one evening, utterly serious.
"It's not that hard."
Alaric waved her off, voice firm but warm.
"We need someone trained. Someone reliable. You three have other paths. Let her handle this."
Eventually, they accepted her presence. Grudgingly. Quietly.
But even so, Virellen had become a part of their world—an enigmatic thread stitched into their growing home. With her sarcasm, her quiet grace in duties, and that glint in her eyes that said she knew far more than she let on.
And though none of them would admit it yet, perhaps—just perhaps—they were starting to like her.
***
The hearth crackled in its usual rhythm, casting mellow light on the wooden beams of their home. Dinner had been laid out—simple, home-cooked, but rich with the fragrance of herbs and the subtle tang of mana-simmered broth.
The clink of cutlery and soft murmurs filled the space, surrounded by a warmth that came not just from fire, but familiarity.
Virellen, leaning against the archway with a lazy elegance, watched them. Her grey eyes danced with a faint glint of mischief, but she said little, still gauging the unspoken rhythm of the household.
Alaric's voice came calmly, as it had many nights before, as familiar now to the girls as the moonrise beyond their windows.
"In my old world,"
He began, breaking a slice of bread between his fingers,
"we didn't measure strength in circles or spell arrays. Strength came in other forms—money, status, cunning. Sometimes… silence."
Aurevia, crimson eyes half-lidded in thought, finished chewing and spoke with a soft, knowing tone.
Serineth stirred her soup absentmindedly, blue eyes alight.
Alaric told them about his dreams a few days before Virellen arrived. He did it to prevent any future complications—he didn't want them to think he was still a child.
That would be embarrassing. Of course, he omitted some important parts. They didn't need to know everything—at least, not yet.
"How did they travel long distances? They didn't have travel Mount's or teleportation gates, right?
"Airplanes,"
Alaric nodded.
"Massive things. Like steel birds carrying people across continents."
Cellione grinned, elbowing Serineth.
"You said you'd make him draw one for us."
"I did, but he's terrible at drawing,"
Serineth quipped.
"Excuse me, I drew a perfect rectangle."
Alaric said, feigning offense.
"With wings,"
Aurevia added dryly, but a rare smirk touched her lips.
Virellen, now unable to resist, stepped forward with a laugh.
"So this is the nightly entertainment? Stories of magicless chaos and iron beasts?"
"It's tradition,"
Cellione declared proudly,
"He tells us things no one else could know. Like a bedtime legend, only it's all real."
Virellen cocked her head, scrutinizing Alaric with amused disbelief.
"And you all actually believe this?"
"We don't believe it,"
Serineth replied smoothly,
"We know it."
The three girls exchanged a glance, a silent unity forged from months of shared truths. Virellen looked between them, then narrowed her eyes at Alaric, who simply raised his cup in a quiet toast.
"Even you must admit, Master,"
She said, voice lilting,
"If it's a lie, it's a beautifully rehearsed one."
"It's a life,"
Alaric said simply.
"Mine. Or… it was."
The quiet that followed wasn't heavy—it was contemplative. A pause in the conversation, like a held breath before exhale. Virellen, watching
Alaric's golden eyes flicker in the firelight, couldn't help but feel something stir. Not belief—no, not yet. But curiosity. The kind that digs in deeper when you're not looking.
After dinner, as the dishes were cleaned and the table cleared, Alaric and the girls settled into their usual seats around the hearth.
Cellione tucked her feet up beneath her, Serineth lounged with a lazy sprawl, and Aurevia sat straight-backed, poised but relaxed. Virellen took her place as well—not as servant now, but as quiet witness.
Tonight's story was about oceans of plastic and towering cities of steel, about people who spoke through glowing panels and lived inside invisible networks of thought.
It wasn't a dramatic tale—it was mundane, normal. The kind of "normal" none of them had ever known.
And yet, they listened.
Because in Alaric's voice was a memory of a world without mana, but full of complexity, and beneath it all—a longing none of them could put into words.
***
The story wove on until the logs in the hearth glowed dimly, casting long, flickering shadows across the wooden floor.
The warmth in the room remained—not just from the fire, but from the shared silence, from the weight of stories that had, over time, become a gentle bridge between souls.
Virellen leaned against the wall now, no longer merely observing. Her arms were crossed, but her posture had softened.
She said nothing as the girls asked one final question about the "internet" and Alaric answered with a laugh and a wave of his hand, simplifying the complexity into something almost magical in its own right.
One by one, the girls retired to their rooms—Serineth first, muttering something about drawing what an airplane might look like. Cellione followed with a yawn and a grin.
Aurevia lingered longest,then she, too, disappeared into the quiet corridor.
Virellen watched them go, then met Alaric's gaze with an inscrutable look.
"You're a strange man, Master,"
She said at last, voice gentle for once.
"But somehow… it suits you."
Alaric smiled faintly, golden eyes tired but kind.
"Sleep well, Virellen."
She bowed slightly, a trace of her usual playful smirk returning.
"Good night, Master."
And then she vanished down the hall as well, the flick of her black hair the last thing to disappear around the corner.
Alaric remained in the hearth's glow a while longer, listening to the wind murmur outside the window, a low hum of the world continuing on. He closed his eyes.
A world without mana. A past that shaped him. A present filled with bonds he never expected.
And a future that was now, finally, his to shape.
The flames dimmed.
Silence fell.
And the house, for a while, simply breathed.
-To Be Continued