The estate had gone silent.
The all the girls had been sent away earlier, still in their night robes, their eyes full of confusion and despair by sheer absurdityof the task..
The door closed closed in front of them them Alaric’s laughter still echoing.
Alaric stopped. He stood alone in the chamber, the soft light of magical lanterns flickering against the marble walls. He didn’t move at first. Just breathed. Slowly. Deliberately.
The previous plan was to answer questionswith silence, but it had beco clear: silence alone would not carry a kingdom through storm. The crisis would not pass simply by letting ignorance veil truth. No... the world needed sothing firr.
A voice.
A na.
A figure to cling to when the light was dim.
***
He waved his hand, and pulled out the garnts he had found while looking around the treasury.. Not finery. Not armor. But an idea woven in cloth.
The robe was a soft grey-black, the edges purposefully frayed, its surface faintly etched with the markings of divine concealnt—
Consolant.
When the hood was raised, his face would vanish into a gentle, impenetrable shadow. Only he could lift it. None else. And tearing it off would require more than re effort—it would demand intention strong enough to challenge fate itself.
The pants were slightly loose, worn at the knees, the fabric showing its age with quiet dignity. The gloves, pale and thin, hugged his fingers like whispers.
Not a shred of power glead from him outwardly—yet the ensemble, once complete, held an air of sothing more. Sothing eternal.
He exhaled.
And then, for the first ti in months, he suppressed his presence.
The warmth. The divinity. The unbearable weight of who he was.
All of it sank, folded inward like the tide retreating from the shore.
In that mont, Alaric ceased to be Alaric.
And Lord Cedric was born.
***
His feet carried him to the slums.
Where nas held little power, and prayers died before the echo could return.
The air here slled of rot, piss, and ti. Old iron, wet cloth, forgotten tears. The wind dared not blow. The buildings stood like wounded n, their bones nailed together with despair and silence.
There was no laughter. No song. Only the sounds of scraping bowls, coughing blood, and mothers murmuring to children that tomorrow would be better.
But no one believed that anymore.
*****
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶
✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧
⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
*****
In one corner of this broken world, in a shack barely held together by will, a boy knelt on a dirt-stained floor.
He was tiny, gaunt—his arms little more than bone wrapped in ash. His eyes were swollen from crying, his voice thin from begging.
Beside him lay a man—his father—who hadn’t stirred in two days. His chest rose in stutters, barely noticeable. His skin had turned cold. Death had one hand around him already.
And still, the boy prayed.
The wooden emblem in his hand had splintered at the edges—a crude carving of the moon, chipped from a market idol.
"I don’t want much..."
The boy whimpered, voice cracking.
" Goddess.Please, just take instead... please... just let Pa live..."
No one answered.
"I’ll be good, I swear it! I’ll stop stealing. I’ll stop lying. I won’t fight with Jorin again. Just... please—please, I don’t want to be alone..."
He sobbed. Pressed his forehead to the dirt. Rocked back and forth. The silence swallowed him like a beast.
"...why won’t you hear ...?"
His throat clenched. Hope was drying in his mouth like dust.
"...please..."
His hands fell limp. The emblem slipped from his grasp.
"...I knew it..."
He whispered.
"No one’s listening... no one ever was..."
And then—
Light.
A gentle, golden-white shimr spread through the cracks in the doorfra.
It wasn’t harsh. It didn’t burn. It embraced.
Warmth poured in—not into the room, but into the soul. A breath not felt in lungs, but in being.
Then ca the voice.
"Child. Your prayers have been heard."
It was not loud. It did not thunder.
Yet it carried through the wood, through the silence, through the grief—like a lody strung through eternity.
The boy gasped and turned.
A man stood in the doorway. Hooded. Shrouded. No face visible. No symbols. No na. Only the quiet light that softened the shadows around him.
The man stepped forward. Kneeled.
And from his gloved hand, a single pulse of divine warmth blood—golden, white, pure—and drifted to the dying man’s chest.
The body convulsed. A cough tore from his lips. His eyes opened.
"Luin...?"
The father rasped.
"W-Where are we?"
The boy stared, shaking, tears spilling from wide eyes.
"Who... who are you...?"
The figure rose, slowly, with the grace of a thousand unseen lifetis.
> "I am nothing but a lowly servant of the Goddess Elyssera. "
He said softly.
"And happen to hear an earnest prayer, and decided to answer. Though I will to take you away. So don’t worry. The Goddess answered your prayers and that’s why I’m here."
With that, the man turned around and left.
****
Long after the golden-white light had faded, Luin remained frozen near the threshold.
He stared at the gate where the man—that man—had stood, his small fists clenched, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. The warmth of the miracle still hung in the air, like incense that hadn’t yet burned out.
Only after several more seconds did he turn his head.
And what he saw stole the breath from his lungs.
"...Pa...?"
The man lying on the mat was no longer the pale, skeletal figure waiting for death. His skin, once stretched and sunken, now held the flush of life.
His fra had filled out, and even the gray at his temples had darkened to the brown of younger days. No... he didn’t look like a man in his thirties. He looked younger. Healthier. Awake.
His father was already sitting up, gazing at the door with the sa wonder that filled Luin’s heart.
And then their eyes t.
Both of them blinked—then startled.
Luin, too, had changed.
Gone were the dark circles beneath his eyes. His cheeks had filled out, the tight lines of hunger erased.
He felt it now—the emptiness in his stomach, once gnawing like a beast, was simply... gone. There was no pain. No ache.
His father was the first to move. He rose, fully, then stood still for a mont as if testing whether it was real. Then he laughed—a full, hearty sound that hadn’t been heard in that house for years.
"Luin!"
He called, stepping forward and clutching his son’s hand.
"Luin, I feel stronger than before. I think—no, I know—even the illness is gone. It’s gone, son!"
Tears pricked Luin’s eyes.
"I think... I can work again. We’ll have a better life. We really will."
Luin looked at his father, breathless. The emotions swelled too fast to na—relief, disbelief, joy, reverence. But one feeling rose above all:
Gratitude.
"Pa,"
Luin whispered, eyes wide.
"I need to go. I need to find that man. I have to thank him."
His father gave a soft smile.
"Then go. And give him thanks from , too."
Luin turned toward the gate, bolted a few steps forward—then stopped. He looked back over his shoulder.
"Wanna co too?"
His father shook his head.
"No... not yet. I’ve been a burden to you for a long ti, son. I need to start making up for that."
He stepped toward the broken doorway, placed a hand on the fra, and looked at the light beyond.
"Especially for you... the only one left who still prayed for ."
Luin’s throat tightened. His eyes stung, but he forced a brave smile and nodded.
And then he ran—out into the street, chasing after the naless miracle worker.
The one who hadn’t asked for worship.
Who hadn’t left a na.
Only warmth.
Only hope.
-To Be Continued
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