Luin ran as fast as his small legs could carry him, the dirt of the slums kicking up beneath his feet. His chest heaved, heart pounding not from exhaustion—but from urgency. From awe. From sothing he didn’t yet understand, but had to chase.
He turned the corner of a crumbling alleyway—and stopped short.
A small crowd had ford at the edge of a clearing, where broken carts and rotting barrels were piled like grave markers. In their midst stood the man—the sa robed figure, hood drawn low, face veiled in soft shadow.
Alaric was on one knee, his hand pressed gently against the chest of a man who had collapsed monts before. The man’s face was pale, lips grey, breath shallow—likely days from death.
The gathered people watched in still silence, too stunned to speak, too burdened by hope to interrupt.
A faint pulse of golden-white light shimred from Alaric’s palm. It spread slowly, not in a burst, but in waves—tender, kind, patient. It slipped across the man’s skin like sunlight lting frost.
Then, it happened.
The collapsed man’s body jerked slightly. His skin flushed. The bones beneath his cheeks filled out. Wrinkles faded. His eyes, once glassy and dim, opened wide with clarity and strength.
He blinked, sat up, and looked at his hands—younger hands, steady and firm. His expression broke open with disbelief. He touched his face. His chest.
"I... I feel..."
But he could say no more.
Because by then, the others had seen. And they sward.
They didn’t run like a mob. They didn’t shout. They pleaded—a sound halfway between prayer and desperation.
"Please, next—my wife, she hasn’t eaten in days—"
"My baby’s fever won’t break—"
"Just a touch, anything, please—"
"I can’t walk—my legs—help walk again—"
"Save my son—he’s all I have—"
The slumfolk looked just like Luin and his father: hollowed, starved, dust-covered. Their eyes told the sa story—the story of people trapped just beneath the border of survival. Food existed beyond their walls. Warmth existed. rcy existed.
But never for them.
Not unless they paid.
And the law made sure they never had enough to pay.
Yet here was a man who asked for nothing.
***
Alaric slowly stood, then lifted his hands before him, palms pressed together in silent reverence. And then—he dropped to both knees.
The crowd fell silent again.
They watched, unmoving, as the hooded man knelt in the dirt of the slums. The sa dirt the priests refused to walk on. The sa ground nobles called infested.
He knelt.
Without hesitation. Got into a praying position
And then,
Divine energy surged from his Heart—not in force, but in compassion. It pulsed through the ground like ripples in still water. Gentle. Warm. Healing.
One by one, the slumfolk knelt, as if their knees gave out from sothing greater than weariness. As if the weight of centuries-long grief suddenly found release.
Tears stread down cheeks weathered by wind and starvation.
All the pressure—the rage, the helplessness, the resentnt toward the rich, the gods, the world—lted.
This man didn’t see their filth.
He didn’t flinch from their sores or judge the sll in their breath.
He didn’t bring sermons or scrolls.
He brought presence.
A man of the divine had knelt before them. And he hadn’t co to preach.
He had co to listen.
He had co to redeem.
To answer the prayers the heavens had long ignored.
Flickering faiths, nearly extinguished, suddenly flared. Not with blind hope—but with trust.
***
When the light finally faded, and the warmth retreated like a tide, the people opened their eyes.
They gasped.
Where monts before stood the broken and the sick, now rose the healthy and clear-eyed. Old wounds were gone. Hunger had vanished. Joints bent without pain. Minds felt alert, clear, alive.
Luin stared at himself again. Even stronger than before. Even fuller.
An old man near the front slowly stood, expecting pain—only to find none.
He straightened. His mouth opened, words trembling on his tongue.
"L-Lord Saint..."
But before he could say another word, the hooded man turned gently toward him and spoke.
"Call Cedric."
His voice was quiet. Calm. A wave of warmth hidden in humble syllables.
The people froze.
Cedric.
Not a title.
A na.
And then he continued:
"There’s no need for formalities. I’m just like you—a humble servant of the Goddess.I’ve only been given certain powers by Her grace. She did not compel to act.Everything I do here... is by my own will.I am helping fellow servants in need—with what has been gifted, not owed."
*****
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶
✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧
⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
*****
Silence followed. Heavy. Holy.
And then, without warning, they wept.
Tears poured down cheeks and fell to dust. People covered their faces with calloused hands. Not because they were ungrateful—but because they had never known this kind of humility from power.
The ones blessed by the Goddess were always proud. Distant. Untouchable.
But this man...
This man compared himself to them.
He did not bring sha.
He brought light.
***
The slumfolk stood in silence, the golden warmth still echoing in their bones. No one moved. No one dared to speak.
It wasn’t fear.
It was awe.
But awe, too, yearns to give. To offer sothing back—even when there is nothing left to offer.
A woman stepped forward, trembling, eyes red. She bowed, reaching into the folds of her worn robe, pulling out a small pouch with just a few dried roots.
"I... it’s not much,"
She whispered,
"but please..."
Before she could press it into his hand, another stepped forward. A cracked clay cup, half full of stale water. A strip of cloth. A few crumbled coins.
One by one, they ca.
Each person—who once had nothing—suddenly found sothing, anything, to give.
But the man only stood, still and quiet, hands at his sides. He shook his head softly.
"You do not need to repay grace."
His voice was no louder than a thought.
"You are not in debt to the Goddess. She hears your prayers not as currency—but as cries of the heart."
The people faltered, unsure, their offerings trembling in their hands.
And then—
A small girl stepped forward from the crowd.
Her clothes hung loose on her tiny fra, sleeves patched in three different places. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks hollow, but there was light in them now—light rekindled just monts ago.
In her hands, she clutched sothing small.
A fruit—half-eaten, bruised at the side. She had likely saved it for a day or more, guarding each bite like treasure.
Wordless, she held it out to him.
Alaric looked at her.
He did not flinch at the dirt on her fingers, nor at the blemishes on the fruit. He did not hesitate.
He knelt again.
And accepted the offering with both hands.
"Thank you,"
He said softly.
He held the fruit gently, as though it were sothing sacred. And then—
A pulse of white.
Not golden-white this ti.
But pure white, like untouched snow under moonlight, like the breath before a prayer is spoken aloud.
The light enveloped the fruit briefly. It shimred—not brightly, not blindingly. Just enough.
He leaned forward and placed it back in her hands.
Then raised a hand and gently touched her head—his palm warm and steady as he caressed her tangled hair.
"Share it with your family."
She looked down.
And gasped.
The fruit in her hand glowed faintly. The blemishes were gone. The flesh now plump, vibrant, as if freshly plucked from the first tree of spring. Its scent was rich—almost sweet enough to taste just from the air.
A miracle made edible.
She looked up again.
But he was no longer there.
Only the breeze moved through the empty space where he had stood.
And then, from that breeze, ca a voice—not thunderous, not distant. Just present, like a whisper shared between leaves.
"I’ll be back tomorrow."
The words lingered.
Hung.
Wrapped around every heart.
The people said nothing. They only looked at one another. So smiled. So wept. All believed.
And thus, by nightfall, the na of Cedric was no longer spoken with hesitation—
It was invoked.
Not in fear. Not in worship.
But in hope.
-To Be Continued
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