The room at the inn was dimly lit, a single lantern flickering gently on the wooden desk by the wall. Shadows danced across the stone floor, long and soft, like fading echoes of the day.
Outside the window, the moon hung high and cold in a velvet sky, silvering the rooftops and distant hills beyond.
Alaric sat by the window in silence, one leg bent up to his chest, chin resting on his knee. The bowl of warm stew he had earlier felt like a distant memory now. His eyes stared past the glass but did not see the stars.
Instead, his thoughts wandered inward—replaying the sights, the sounds, the weight of his first real mission in this world.
He had gained much more than he had anticipated. Not just coin or camaraderie or even renown—but knowledge.
Insight.
The living blueprint of a swordsman's cultivation lay now within him. Garron, the grizzled mercenary captain, had unknowingly shared more than his skills; through every clash, every recovery, every tactical pause, Alaric had traced how a warrior harnessed mana: how they stored it, circulated it, and bled it into steel.
And more than memory—he had recorded it.
The Eternal Arcane Core, his soul trait, had quietly done its work. With each passing day, its presence deepened.
It grew—not through force or will, but as a sacred spring might deepen from quiet rainfall. It did not forget, and it did not fail. Whatever his eyes beheld, whatever his soul brushed against, the Core made its own.
He breathed in slowly, the still air of the room tasting faintly of woodsmoke and lavender oil.
Now was the time.
He rose from the window and crossed the room. His small body climbed onto the bed with practiced grace.
Cross-legged, hands resting loosely on his knees, Alaric closed his eyes. The world fell away.
In the vast quiet within, he focused on the steady pulse of his heart—more than flesh and blood. Nestled deep within that core, in a realm unseen by any mortal eye, lay The Divine Heart Core —his most sacred inheritance.
It pulsed with a radiant, quiet light. Not bright. Not blazing. But ethereal. As if it breathed to the rhythm of the universe itself.
He observed it without thought, letting its glow soak into his being.
Then, gently—reverently—he reached out with his will.
He guided a thread of that divine essence downward, toward his lower abdomen—toward the space where mana was meant to dwell.
In this world, every soul was born with a seed of mana within them. Most never saw it. Few ever nurtured it. Fewer still transformed it.
There, faint as dew on a spider's thread, he saw it—his own mana, attribute-less and clear, still dormant, untouched. Unlike Joran's or Helbric's, whose mana hummed with fire or strength, his was blank. Pure.
But Alaric would not walk their path. He would forge one.
He breathed in again—this time deeper, longer, like drawing the first breath of life. Then, with delicate command, he willed the Divine Energy to fracture.
Not shatter. Not collapse.
To degrade—to soften, to humble itself, to descend into the raw form known as mana.
The Core obeyed. The thread of divine light, once too refined for mortal flesh, began to unravel. With each degradation, it thickened and multiplied.
By the time it reached his energy center, it had become something altogether different—dense, brilliant mana, purer and heavier than anything this world's cultivators would ever begin with.
It glowed like moonlight underwater, and it filled him swiftly.
Alaric steadied himself.
Then, drawing on the memory of Garron's flow—the sequence of pulses, the spiral of recovery, the forward thrust of aura into limbs and back again—he began to circulate.
The moment the mana surged through his veins, his body screamed.
His mana veins were simply too small, too fragile, to contain such a flood. They tore.
Agony lanced through him—sharp, white, blinding. It felt like molten threads were being dragged through his flesh. His body convulsed.
His jaw clenched. He bit down on a scream, his teeth grinding together until his vision blurred.
But he did not stop.
With trembling control, he channeled just enough divine energy to stitch the ruptures back together—temporarily, barely—but enough to hold the line.
Again and again, mana flowed, ripped, healed. A brutal cycle. But with every circuit, his veins grew stronger. Wider. Hardened by trial.
One full circulation completed.
Alaric gasped as if surfacing from deep waters. His chest heaved. Sweat poured down his back. But it was not over.
The mana still churned, wild and half-settled. Nine more times, he reminded himself. He wasn't even halfway done.
But his body could do no more.
When he opened his eyes, the candle had burned almost to its base. His skin was slick with sweat, his golden hair clinging to his forehead. But worse than the exhaustion, worse than the trembling in his limbs, was the smell.
His body, forced to evolve too fast, had pushed out impurities in the form of a tar-like black substance. It clung to his skin like oil, reeking of iron and rot.
Alaric winced.
He wanted to sleep more than anything—but not like this. Not in this.
Dragging his tired body from the bed, he stumbled toward the inn's small bathing room. The water was cold, but he hardly felt it. It stung against torn mana veins, but he endured it. Slowly, the filth was washed away. He dried off, changed into fresh linen, and made his way back to bed.
As he collapsed into the mattress, the world finally spun down into silence.
His final thought, before sleep claimed him, was not of pain.
But of possibility.
***
The first light of dawn slipped quietly through the shutters, soft and pale, like the breath of the world returning after a long night of labor.
A breeze drifted through the open window, carrying with it the scent of distant dew-soaked earth, baking bread from the inn's kitchens, and the hushed murmur of early footsteps in the cobbled streets below.
Alaric stirred.
For a moment, he did not move. He simply breathed—deeply, fully—and the breath felt different.
Lighter.
Clearer.
His eyes opened slowly, golden irises catching the newborn sunlight like polished amber. He blinked once, then again, as the pieces of the world gently fell back into place.
The fatigue that had hollowed him the night before had lessened—not vanished, but quieted. Beneath the lingering soreness was something else. A strange, subtle strength. As if every part of his being had been refined in the crucible of his own will.
He sat up—and stilled.
His body... felt new.
Not drastically. Not like a sudden transformation. But like the morning after a storm has passed, and the sky feels just a shade too blue, the air just a touch too crisp.
He glanced down at his hands—smaller than a grown man's, but no longer as frail as a child's. His fingers, once soft, now carried the faint hint of definition beneath the skin.
When he touched his arm, he felt the smallest swell of budding muscle, lean and taut like the string of a drawn bow.
Even his frame had shifted. A half inch taller, perhaps more—but it was the balance that changed most. His center of gravity felt firmer. His movements, as he swung his legs off the bed, smoother. Quicker.
His skin, once pale and boyish, now bore an almost translucent quality—flawless, faintly luminous, as if The Divine Heart Core had whispered beauty into his flesh while he slept.
Alaric stood, barefoot on the cool wooden floor, and drew in another breath. The mana within him responded. Not wildly, not uncontrollably—but eagerly. Obedient. Settled.
He touched his lower abdomen, eyes closed, sensing the quiet reservoir that had formed there.
Stable. Alive.
He had done it.
Not just survived the night—but changed. Grown.
He walked to the small mirror in the corner of the room. It was old and a bit cloudy, but enough. He studied his reflection—same features, same eyes—but framed now by something else.
A new poise. A quiet dignity. The face of a child who had taken one step off the edge of the known world, and not fallen, but risen.
He whispered to himself, voice low.
"This is only the beginning."
As he dressed for the day, his thoughts shifted to what must come next.
He would return to the mission hall. Not to accept another task—yet—but to gather more information. More pieces.
Every encounter, every warrior, every spellcaster he crossed paths with… they would become silent mentors in his path. Their techniques, their essence, their failures—he would learn it all.
He would visit the local apothecary and the smithy. Ingredients, books, tools—he needed to understand this world's framework better, not just its battle arts.
He might appear like a prodigy to those who saw him. But Alaric knew—he was not hurrying.
He was laying the foundations.
And tonight, he would continue the circulation. Nine more to go. The pain would return. It would grow sharper before it dulled. But he no longer feared it. He had befriended it.
By the end of this path, he would not just be a child blessed by light.
He would become the wielder of it.
As the morning sun rose higher, casting golden lines across the inn room floor, Alaric tied the sash of his robe, straightened his sleeves, and walked to the door.
Each step rang with quiet certainty.
The day awaited him.
And he was ready. Ready to go on his first true adventurer he would go alone. And tomorrow is the final preparation for that. He would find a good sword that suited him and go hunting mission.
*****
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶
✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧
⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
*****
The morning sun had already crested the eastern spires of Veldroth, casting long rays of gold over stone streets slick with the dew of early spring.
Alaric walked with quiet purpose through the heart of the city, his robe fluttering lightly at his heels, the hood drawn low enough to shade his golden eyes from curious gazes.
He arrived at the Adventurers' Association just as the doors opened for the day. The place was already half-filled with warriors and mages, loud laughter and the sharp scrape of weapons echoing against the stone walls.
He stepped inside, unnoticed among the chatter and clamor, and made his way to the clerk's counter.
"I'm looking for a blacksmith,"
He said softly, yet with a calm assurance that stilled the the receptionists attention.
"One who sells low-grade weapons... but of good quality. Something affordable. Sturdy."
The man blinked at first—taken aback by the sight of the boy who spoke with the tone of someone much older. But he nodded and reached below the desk to retrieve a parchment.
"If you want good craft for a modest price, head to Bronzeforge District That's where the hammer-born dwell."
Alaric nodded. That name sparked something in his memory. The Bronzeforge District —a pocket of forges and smoke, born in the shadow of old shrines to Ignarok, God of Embered Hearts and Sacred Flame. It was said those born under his blessing had strong arms, short stature, and iron wills.
He thanked the man and left the Association without drawing more eyes.
He would go solo from now on.
Not out of pride.
But necessity.
He couldn't afford to reveal his power—not yet. A slip of the veil, a wrong pair of watching eyes, and the entire balance he had built might crumble. In this world, strength unveiled too soon was an invitation—to worship or to devour.
More than that, holding back would cripple him worse than any enemy.
If he had to silence his power, temper his blade, mask his stride just to appease a party—he would learn nothing, grow nothing. He would rot in hesitation. And that, more than solitude or pain, terrified him.
So he would walk this road alone.
By the time he reached the fringes of Bronzeforge
, the scent of smoke and iron filled the air. The streets here were narrower, darker, and coated in a thin dusting of soot.
Anvils rang like steady heartbeats, and old prayers to Ignarok were carved above doorways in scorched stone.
He followed the directions until he stood before a modest forge with a sign marked by the Flamefather's sigil—a rising hammer wreathed in crimson.
This was the shop of Master Rhogar of the Cinderbreath, an old blacksmith known for his stubborn quality and fair prices.
The door creaked open under Alaric's hand.
Inside, it was warm—stifling, almost—but not unpleasant. The forge crackled in the back, its fire eternal. And there, hunched over a blade, was the smith himself.
Short, broad-shouldered, with a soot-stained beard and eyes like smoldering coal.
"I'll be with ye in a breath,"
The old man grunted, hammering twice more before setting the blade down with care. He turned and looked Alaric over.
"Hmph. Bit small for a blade, aren't ye?"
"I'm not here for a warrior's blade,"
Alaric replied evenly.
"I'm here for one that suits me. Light, sharp. Honest steel."
Rhogar stared, then gave a raspy chuckle.
"Ignarok favors the bold, not the loud. I like ye already."
He moved to a wall rack and retrieved a sheathed short sword, simple in design, but with a faint gleam to its edge.
"This one's clean. Balanced. Not fancy. She'll cut true if you treat her right."
Alaric tested the weight. It fit snug in his grip. The blade was slightly curved, the hilt wrapped in firm leather. It wasn't a weapon of legend.
But it was real.
"Perfect,"
He said, and handed over the coin.
Rhogar nodded, watching the boy a little longer than necessary.
"Mind the fire, lad. It giveth, but it tests too."
Alaric bowed his head respectfully, then turned and left the forge.
He would return later to forge his own blade.
But not yet.
***
Night fell with a quiet sigh across the city. Back in the privacy of his room, Alaric sat once more on the edge of his bed, the window open to the stars. The sword rested beside him, silent as a promise.
He could feel it—his energy center, still unstable. Like a shallow pool over still-burning coals. If left unattended, it would collapse, devour itself, and leave him broken.
So he breathed.
He centered himself.
And he descended once more.
His consciousness sank inward, toward The DivinevHeart Core. Its radiance pulsed like a distant sun, still and proud. He reached not for the full light, but a portion—lesser, cruder—and willed it to fracture. To break. To become mana.
The same as before, but smoother now. More fluid. The crude became refined. And once again, he channeled it downward. Into the reservoir. Into the veins.
Through the pathways of Garron—the stolen wisdom.
This time, the pain did not roar like fire.
His mana veins were stronger. Thicker. Rebuilt and healed by divine power. They welcomed the strain with a silent groan, not a scream.
Each circulation became easier.
By the seventh, there was no pain at all.
By the ninth… there was joy.
A quiet rapture. As if his very blood now sang.
When he opened his eyes, the moon had climbed high. Sweat clung lightly to his brow, but there was no foul smell. No dark substance. Only clarity.
His body was light—impossibly light. His movements effortless. His every breath deeper than before.
His skin shimmered faintly, unmarked by blemish. As if the divine had polished his vessel to match its light within.
He stood, stretched, and jumped—and his fingers brushed the ceiling.
No mana. No divine energy. Just the strength of a [Rank-1] Aura User.
He smiled softly to himself, eyes aglow with quiet triumph.
He had ascended. Alone, unseen, unknown.
But not unheard.
The world would listen soon enough.
The night cradled him as he lay down, his new sword by his side, his path still long and veiled. But in his heart, The Divine Heart Core pulsed—brighter than ever.
-To Be Continued