The next morning arrived with chilling silence.
The skies above the ruined Core Forest of the Verdant Veil hung overcast, their gray expanse mirroring the land's barren breathlessness. Veldroth, slumbered to the east—still intact, still unaware.
But here, on the shattered outskirts, the forest no longer bore its name. It had been stripped of its mysticism, reduced to splinters, mountains torn asunder, the earth gutted and blackened from the battle of yesterday.
The girls stood at the edge of that devastation—shoulders stiff, expressions unreadable, minds bracing for another day of what Alaric had affectionately dubbed Hellish Training.
They had come prepared. Pain was a given. Exhaustion, expected. None of them spoke. Even Virellen, ever the silver-tongued spark of mischief, kept her lips sealed.
But the blow never came.
Instead, Alaric turned toward them with his usual unshakable calm and said:
"We're not training today."
The words hit harder than any of his spells.
Eyes blinked. Hearts skipped. Even the wind held its breath.
Then came his explanation—blunt, matter-of-fact.
"Virellen,"
He said, his tone softening just slightly,
"you recently broke through. You need time to stabilize. But Aurevia, Cellione, Serineth..."
He gazed at the three, his voice ringing with finality.
"You've already been ready to ascend. Yesterday just hardened your foundations. You're ready."
The silence broke with a blink of disbelief. Cellione's lips parted. Serineth's brows furrowed. Aurevia narrowed her eyes in surprise, but said nothing.
Virellen was the one who dared to ask,
"So… no training today?"
Alaric nodded.
"No training. But starting tomorrow—hell begins again. Harder than before. Because by then, the three of you will be stronger."
And then, without waiting, he raised a hand.
A section of the ashen, devastated land shifted under his will. Mana hummed. The dead soil pulsed.
A patch of vibrant green burst from the charred earth—grass blooming, life reclaiming. A quiet miracle in a broken world.
He called out to Aurevia.
She stepped forward, silent, steady.
The spot was hers.
She sat down upon the new-grown grass without hesitation, her blade resting across her lap.
Around her, Alaric raised a gentle barrier, translucent and shimmering—a dome of protection to isolate her aura from the others. Her breakthrough would shake the surrounding mana. This much was certain.
Aurevia, now at [Peak-Rank-4], had reached the threshold. The next step was not a climb—but a leap.
Unlike prior ascensions, [Rank-5] demanded no aid. It could not be rushed, nor guided. It was internal. Personal. The realm of Foundation.
At this stage, all the aura a cultivator had built up over years—months—was consumed. The goal was simple yet brutal: forge a Sphere.
Not metaphorical. Literal. A perfectly condensed ball of solidified aura, formed within the energy center.
The process was devastating.
The denser and purer the accumulated aura, the stronger the resulting sphere—and the more brutal the sacrifice. All of it, every trace, funneled into shaping that core.
And once done, the cultivator would be left empty—a state known across all cultivation paths as The Desolate Phase.
No aura. No defense. No second chances.
They would be as vulnerable as mortals, until new aura could slowly be drawn and stored again.
Which was why breakthroughs to [Rank-5] were always done in secluded places, hidden away from predators, enemies, and even allies. For a time, the mighty became fragile. And the wise, patient.
Aurevia closed her eyes.
Her breakthrough had begun.
Alaric turned, walking away, as if already confident in her success.
He gestured for Cellione and Serineth to sit further apart, away from Aurevia's protective sphere. He didn't speak again—he didn't need to.
They understood.
Their path to [4th-Circle] wasn't the same, but it carried its own torment.
For mages, their mana was channeled through rings—circles of condensed power formed during cultivation. Cellione and Serineth had three each, a standard mark of a [Peak-3rd-Circle].
To ascend, they had to destroy them.
Painfully. Deliberately. One by one.
It wasn't simple destruction, though. The process demanded will—unflinching, raw will. As each ring shattered, the mana would explode outward, threatening to scatter, to overwhelm the body.
But the cultivator had to force it inward instead—compressing it into the heart, into a single, purer form.
A mana crystal.
Cellione's hand trembled.
Serineth's eyes narrowed.
They began.
The third ring cracked first. The backlash surged. Their mana rioted, tearing through channels like a wild storm.
But they endured.
Gritting their teeth, they compressed the raging mana into a droplet—then into a speck of glimmering crystal within their hearts.
As the crystal formed, the runes that once floated around their rings were drawn into it—seared into the very muscle of their hearts like molten script.
Then the second ring.
Then the first.
Each time, the crystal grew—marble-sized, pulsing with power. Each time, the runes etched deeper. Sixty-three total, engraved in synchronized agony.
Pain was constant. This was no illusion. Meddling with the heart—quite literally—was never painless. It carved through nerve and soul.
But they endured.
Not because they were unafraid. Not because they were fearless.
But because their wills were sharp. Because their master believed in them.
And because pain was the price of ascension.
In the heart of the broken forest, three women chased power.
And the world waited—quiet and still—for what would rise from the silence.
*****
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶
✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧
⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
*****
By the time Cellione and Serineth stabilized their breakthroughs and slowly opened their eyes, it was already well past noon.
The sun had tilted toward the western horizon, casting a long, burnished glow over the land. Silence stretched over the wasteland—deep, humming with the aftershock of transformation.
A sluggish, murky feeling clung to their bodies like a damp film. It wasn't physical grime, but something more primal—a residue of broken thresholds and burned-out impurities, the lingering waste of a hard-earned ascent.
Cellione furrowed her brows, rolling her shoulders with a low groan, while Serineth flinched lightly, dazed and unsteady. The sensation was disorienting, like wearing a body they didn't recognize.
But even before they could process it, a gentle wave of warmth swept through the air—soft as breath, radiant as sunlight filtered through a veil.
Alaric's divine energy flowed past them in silence. He stood a small distance away, his figure steady and still, eyes half-lidded in quiet observation. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to.
The sacred current he released peeled away the murk—cleansing them not with force, but reverence. The filth dissolved into shimmering light, evaporating like dew under morning light.
As the haze lifted, the girls looked down at themselves—and froze.
Their skin, once pale, now held a delicate sheen—like moonlight caught on snow. Their bodies had matured subtly: a little taller, more finely proportioned.
Lines had sharpened. Curves had grown graceful. Their youthful softness had evolved into something else—poised, poised and mesmerizing.
Serineth's green hair spilled over her shoulders like a cascade of jade silk, and her sapphire eyes gleamed like dew-kissed petals in the sun.
Her expression, timid and hesitant, hadn't changed—but there was a haunting beauty in her silence now, as if even her shyness had refined into elegance.
Cellione, by contrast, radiated with bold vitality. Her golden-blonde hair fluttered in the wind, glowing like woven sunlight.
Her violet eyes sparkled with mischief and newfound power. She turned slightly, inspecting herself with a slow grin, every movement fluid and proud.
They had not just grown stronger. They had bloomed.
Just then, a voice drifted over from the edge of the clearing, laced with teasing delight.
"Well, well,"
Verilene said, her tone playfully exaggerated.
"Did the heavens get a bit too generous while I wasn't looking?"
Leaning against a soot-darkened stone, the silver-haired maid strode forward with lazy confidence. Her gray eyes danced with amusement.
"Look at you two—taller, shinier, and still managing to make the rest of us look like side characters."
Serineth immediately flustered, covering her chest with her arms in reflex, as if that could deflect the compliment.
"I-I didn't mean to—It just… happened…"
"Don't apologize for being beautiful, Mistress,"
Verilene grinned.
"It's a public service at this point."
Serineth gave a tiny squeak and tried to hide behind Cellione.
Cellione, meanwhile, gave a slow, unapologetic stretch, arms above her head as her golden hair spilled down her back.
"Can't lie… I feel incredible. If this is the Fourth Circle, then I'm looking forward to the Fifth."
"That's the attitude,"
Verilene chuckled.
"You're glowing like a protagonist finally stepping into her arc."
Serineth peeked out from behind Cellione.
"Verilene, you're not helping…"
"Oh, I'm not trying to help. I'm here for the reactions."
They all laughed softly, the tension bleeding from their shoulders as the moment settled. Light-hearted. Warm.
And then, as if by instinct, their gazes turned again—to where Aurevia still knelt within a sealed dome of icy aura and golden threads of divine energy.
Her breakthrough had not yet ended. Unlike theirs, it was unfolding more slowly—deeper, heavier, something far more absolute.
So they waited once more, quiet and watchful. Their bodies reborn, their spirits alight, their eyes on the one yet to return.
-To Be Continued