The morning came gently.
Dawn spilled over the rooftops of Veldroth, gilding the edges of the city with a warmth that did not yet reach the wind.
Alaric walked its waking streets in silence, hood drawn once again over his golden head, body light and movements precise—like a shadow that had chosen to be seen.
His steps led him, without pause, back to the place where adventurers gathered and dreams often died—the Adventurers' Association.
Within, the morning crowd was less dense than the day before. A few guild members loitered around the request board, while others exchanged stories over stale bread and bitter tea.
He approached the desk, where Lirael, the same woman as before, greeted him with a warm nod and a curious glance.
"Back already?"
She asked, sliding a thin slip of parchment toward him.
"You're early."
Alaric scanned the board behind her, eyes narrowing slightly at a particular notice. A low-grade extermination mission—goblin infestation in the Whispering Hollows, just beyond the outer forest.
"I'll take this,"
He said, voice low but clear.
Lirael raised a brow, looking at the paper.
"Whispering Hollows, huh? It's off the main routes. Not much traffic. Bit far for a first mission."
He offered a faint, enigmatic smile.
"Distance keeps the noise away."
She hummed, tapping the counter thoughtfully.
"Want me to find you a party? Plenty of greenhorns your age looking for the same job."
"I'll find them myself."
A polite refusal, spoken with quiet certainty.
Lirael hesitated, then nodded.
"Suit yourself. But be careful. Goblins are smart when they get desperate. Smarter than they look."
Alaric bowed slightly and turned away, the notice now tucked safely within his cloak.
And with that, he left the city behind.
***
The path eastward led through worn roads and winding trails that melted into the wilderness. The trees greeted him like old sentinels—tall and solemn, their leaves whispering ancient lullabies to the wind.
By the time Veldroth's walls had vanished behind the trees, the forest had swallowed the world.
It was not a place of fairytale peace, nor a haunt of creeping dread. The forest was simply true. Untamed. Honest. A realm where every leaf spoke of time, and every shadow held a memory.
Tall oaks loomed above, their branches woven thick like the ribs of a giant beast. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the canopy, dappling the mossy ground in golden patches.
The air was cool and rich with the scent of loam and pine, heavy with silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of a hawk.
Here, Alaric stopped.
For the first time since arriving in Veldroth, he let himself exist.
He reached up, hands steady, and slowly pulled back his hood. His golden hair gleamed like sunlit wheat, tousled but soft.
His eyes, radiant and deep like consecrated amber, blinked freely against the light.
And he smiled.
A small, quiet thing. Faint, almost hesitant. But real.
It had been a long time since he smiled without meaning to hide it. Even longer since the wind on his face felt like freedom, not exposure.
Here in the forest—where only the trees bore witness—he shed the mask he had worn.
The quiet boy with the lowered gaze, the small polite nods, the deliberate stillness… all crafted, carefully maintained.
Not out of pride.
But caution.
Because Alaric knew—more than anyone—that people do not fear power. Not truly.
They fear the unknown.
And so he had become it. A mystery. A whisper. A name that never lingered. Someone who smiled rarely and spoke even less. Because if they could not understand him, they could not control him.
And if they could not control him—they would leave him alone.
It had worked. More than he expected.
But now, here in the forest…
He could breathe.
He could be.
Alaric lingered in that silence for a while longer, golden gaze scanning the towering woods around him. His heart beat calmly, in rhythm with the earth.
And then, with a final glance toward the sky, he turned toward his destination.
There, beyond the reach of sunlight and deeper into the thickets, lay a place known only to those who truly listened to the land.
The Whispering Hollows.
A series of shallow ravines and ancient stone outcroppings half-swallowed by creeping vines and bramble.
A place where echoes never died, and the trees seemed to lean just a little closer when no one was looking.
It was there the goblins had made their nest.
And it was there that Alaric, now unbound and alone, would begin his first true hunt.
***
The forest did not speak. But it watched.
And Alaric walked onward, one with its silence.
After few moments his movement speed increased. At some point Alaric ran.
No—he flew.
With the first stir of divine power coursing through his limbs, the world blurred. Trees zipped past in long streaks of green and brown, their trunks nothing more than vertical shadows.
Wind howled around his ears, tugging at his hair, slapping his cloak back like a banner of light. His feet barely kissed the ground before launching again, bounding from root to branch, stone to trunk, every step a new revelation.
SWOOSH.
His speed—beyond anything he'd ever experienced before—was intoxicating. His body, empowered by the raw fullness of his [Rank-1] strength and the radiant gift of Sanctifying Benediction, moved like a tempest given form. In that moment, Alaric felt it clearly—he was nearing [Early-Rank-2] speed, and he had yet to touch the peak of his potential.
He smiled. A broad, unrestrained thing.
Not the faint polite curl he wore among strangers.
But a true, boyish grin—pure and honest, blooming like sunlight.
The forest opened before him, but not as a threat. It welcomed him, it raced with him.
He vaulted over fallen logs, leapt from rocks with the grace of a dancer and the fury of a storm. Every movement fluid, every heartbeat a drum of purpose.
And then, ahead, came the telltale shift in the air.
The Whispering Hollows.
As the ground dipped and the trees grew denser, Alaric slowed. His speed ebbed. The buff faded.
But he did not feel drained. He felt alive. Like an arrow loosed, not at its target—but at the sky.
His breath came easy. His steps—silent.
And now, in the stillness, he reached within.
The divine energy stirred once more—but he guided it this time with precision, allowing it to saturate his nerves, his senses, without calling upon the radiant light that usually marked its presence. Sanctifying Benediction returned—but hidden, cloaked, like fire inside glass.
His vision sharpened.
The rustle of distant leaves became a song.
The faint hum of insect wings, the breath of soil, even the slow slither of a lizard on bark—he heard them.
And then—he heard it.
A whisper too deliberate. A footstep too soft.
He was being watched.
They had sensed him. Felt the absence of aura suppression. Assumed him to be weak.[Rank-1] goblins—cunning, numerous, ever-opportunistic—gathered in the shadows of the Hollow, blades in hand, eyes gleaming like coals.
They were preparing to ambush.
But Alaric was already moving.
They thought they saw prey.
But he had never been prey.
As the first goblin leapt forward with a low snarl, its rusted dagger raised—
CLANG —SHIK!
Alaric turned on the balls of his feet, aura flaring in a sudden, silent surge.
His sword, newly bought but honed by a blacksmith blessed by Ignarok himself, flashed in the green light. It moved like a comet—silent, swift, absolute.
SLASH.
The goblin's neck parted with a sound like tearing silk. Blood sprayed in a fine arc, spattering the bark behind it. Even the tree behind it groaned with the force—bark cracking.
KRRAK.
The head hit the earth with a dull THUMP, rolling to a stop near Alaric's boots, its expression frozen mid-snarl, still not understanding what had happened.
The others paused—stunned.
Their fear returned. Too late.
BOOM.
The ground shattered beneath Alaric's feet as he launched forward like a streak of gold lightning.
CRACK—SLASH—THUD.
Three more goblins fell in the time it took to blink.
Alaric did not hesitate. Did not speak.
He moved through them, not at them—every strike efficient, clean. His aura-coated sword became a storm of glinting silver, guided by muscle memory and quiet rage.
Their blades met his once—CLANG—and then never again.
Their crude armor offered no resistance. Their cries of rage turned to panic, then silence.
When the last fell, twitching and wide-eyed, the Hollow returned to stillness.
Blood soaked the moss.
Alaric stood, sword in hand, golden eyes calm.
Not cold. Not triumphant.
Just... present.
He exhaled.
He had used his full strength—and it felt good. Not just physically, but spiritually. Not having to hold back. Not having to lie.
No masks. No trembling restraint.
Just him, as he was meant to be.
The wind stirred his cloak as he stood over the fallen creatures, the sanctified strength still pulsing gently beneath his skin.
And in that moment, Alaric felt closer to himself than he had in years.
***
Somewhere, deep in the forest... the trees leaned in and listened.
The Whispering Hollows, once again, had their silence.
The metallic tang of blood faded into damp moss and the earthy breath of the woods. Sunlight streamed in thin columns through the Whispering Hollows, painting golden shafts across fallen leaves and broken bark. Birds did not sing here—not immediately. The forest was watching.
Alaric knelt beside the goblin corpses, his fingers steady as he worked with quiet precision. He drew no satisfaction, no revulsion—only necessity.
SNIP. SQUELCH. RIP.
Small sound effects punctuated his careful harvest of claws, fangs, dark-green leather-like skin, and eyes that shimmered with a faint trace of mana—ingredients known to be useful in alchemy, especially for tinctures of night vision or mild toxin resistance.
The materials were stored in specially-prepared cloth pouches lined with dried grass and powdered lime to preserve them.
He counted as he worked.
Seven. Eight. Nine… Ten.
That was enough.
The rest—he left untouched.
He stood slowly, his golden hair catching the dappled light like fire veiled in mist. Around him, the forest rustled faintly. Not with danger. But with recognition.
Veldroth was no ordinary forest. It had rules, old as root and stone, whispered through leaf and bark to those who stayed long enough to listen.
"Take what you need. No more ."
He had heard the phrase once—spoken not in words, but in silence. A lesson etched into the very air.
Too many adventurers left the forest stripped and wounded. They took for greed, not need. But here, Alaric had learned.
And so, what remained of the fallen goblins—flesh, bone, blood—he returned to the forest without ceremony.
SPLAT.
A goblin's limp limb hit the ground.
It would become part of the soil.
A part of the cycle.
Nutrients to feed saplings. Food for scavengers. A sacrifice returned.
Alaric watched for a moment, his expression unreadable.
Then he turned.
He pulled up the hood of his cloak again—SWISH—hiding the radiant gleam of his hair and the fierce clarity of his eyes.
The quiet mask slipped over him like a second skin, each step slowly pulling him back into the role he played so well.
The mysterious boy with the unreadable gaze.
A ghost among men.
But deep inside, something stirred. Faint… calling.
The divine power he had used in battle was still humming, still warm beneath his ribs. But with its use came a thread of awareness—thin, but insistent.
A sensation like a harp string trembling in the distance, drawing his senses to the deeper heart of the forest.
He felt it.
A presence. Not a creature. Not a beast.
But something older.
WHUUUMMM.
Like a deep bell tolling within the marrow of the earth, barely heard, yet impossible to ignore.
It was not hostile. But it was… expectant.
As if waiting for something. Someone.
He paused. His foot hovered over the moss.
A part of him—a reckless, knowing part—wanted to turn toward it.
But he knew.
He was not yet ready.
His power, though remarkable, was a spark. What waited deeper within the forest required a flame. Perhaps even a blaze.
So he stepped back.
Not in fear.
But in respect.
One day, he would follow the call. When the time was right.
TAP.TAP.TAP.
His footsteps were soft on the path as he left the Hollows, blending into the stillness like smoke fading into twilight.
And though he had killed today for the first time, his soul remained still. Clear. Untouched by the usual stains of bloodshed.
Not out of cruelty or coldness—but because his soul had long been tempered in a different fire.
The trait nestled within him—The Eternal Arcane Core—burned with calm purpose.
He did what needed to be done.
He would do so again.
And the forest… watched him go.
*****
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶
✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧
⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
*****
And so ended Alaric's first hunt.
Not with triumph. Not with horror.
But with a quiet step forward into the path of power, mystery, and truth.
The wooden gates of Veldroth creaked faintly behind him as Alaric stepped through, a fine layer of forest dust clinging to his boots and cloak hem.
The morning light had long since passed; the sun now lingered low, casting the streets of the outer ring in a lazy, amber glow.
He passed children playing with sticks, vendors calling out their wares, and adventurers laughing too loudly over mugs of watered-down ale. Yet to him, it was all distant. Muted.
The forest still clung to his skin like dew.
He walked the streets without hurry, as if his footsteps moved to a rhythm only he could hear. People gave him space, though few realized why.
Something in the way his cloak swayed, the calmness in his gait, the faint sense of something unfathomable just beneath the surface—kept them from drawing near.
THUMP.
The doors of the Adventurers Association opened as he stepped inside. The scent of parchment, sweat, and steel filled the air—familiar now.
Behind the polished reception counter stood Lirael, her uniform crisp despite the long day. She looked up, brushing a loose strand of silver-blonde hair behind one ear.
Her eyes widened slightly as she saw him.
"You're back already?"
She asked, blinking.
He gave a quiet nod and stepped forward.
From beneath his cloak, he pulled a sealed pouch and placed it on the counter.
"Ten goblin materials, as listed. All freshly gathered. Clean cuts."
Lirael unfastened the drawstring and peered inside. Her expression shifted from professional to faintly impressed.
"These are… well-prepared,"
She murmured, examining a claw with practiced eyes.
"Very few new adventurers know how to clean goblin materials without damaging their alchemical properties."
"I learn quickly,"
Alaric replied softly.
CLINK.
She placed the pouch aside and reached for a small metal coffer beneath the desk. A few moments of tallying later, she slid over a bag of coins with a quiet smile.
"Standard [F-Rank] reward. Ten silver pieces."
He accepted it with a nod, tucking it away without counting.
Then her tone softened.
"You really went alone, didn't you?"
His gaze didn't falter.
"I said I would find my own team."
She tilted her head.
"You didn't."
A pause.
"No,"
Ne admitted.
"I didn't."
There was no shame in his voice. No pride either. Just truth.
Lirael studied him a moment longer, something flickering behind her eyes—curiosity, perhaps. Worry. Maybe a quiet respect. But she didn't press.
"Then... good work,"
She said finally, stamping the mission scroll with her sigil.
"Job completed. Your first solo hunt—officially on record."
Alaric inclined his head slightly.
"Thank you."
And with that, he turned and walked away.
TAP.TAP.TAP.
His footsteps echoed softly down the polished floor, fading as he pushed open the doors once more.
Outside, the sky had turned a dusky violet, and the wind carried with it the scent of firewood and rain.
Behind him, Lirael stood still, watching the door long after it had closed.
"There's something about that kid…"
She whispered under her breath.
Not quite danger.
Not quite divinity.
But something unknown.
And the unknown… always changes everything.
***
The inn's door closed behind him with a soft creak. Not a sound loud enough to break the hush of evening that had descended upon Veldroth.
Shadows pooled in the corners of the corridor, lanterns flickering with warm, golden flames. The quiet here felt deeper—sheltering, as if the world held its breath within these walls.
Alaric walked with slow, even steps toward his rented room on the second floor. His boots barely made a sound against the polished wood, his cloak trailing behind like the remnants of a breeze.
CLANK.
The door clicked open, revealing a modest space of smooth stone walls and warm oak. A simple bed, a writing desk, a basin of water. No excess. Nothing unnecessary.
Just like he preferred.
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment. The tension slipped from his shoulders like snow melting in spring.
It was only now, in the solitude of his room, that he allowed himself to feel the weight of the day.
His first kill.
His first hunt.
The first step on a path with no return.
But there was no trembling in his hands. No remorse. No fear. Not even the dull numbness most would expect.
Only stillness.
He raised a hand and gazed at his palm. The fingers were as steady as they had always been, but stronger now—sharper. Beneath the skin, divine energy pulsed like a second heartbeat. Calm. Controlled. Ever-present.
The Eternal Arcane Core kept his emotions wrapped in quiet, icy clarity,in moments like this,a blessing and a burden both.It does not fully restraint the possessers emotions but keeps it under control. Just enough to not lose sanity. In time, he had learned to live with it.
He turned and pulled the curtains aside.
Outside, the night sky stretched endlessly, painted with faint stars barely visible beyond the city's lantern glow.
A wind blew past the eaves, carrying with it the scent of pine and rain-soaked soil. The forest, even now, whispered its secrets from afar.
Alaric stared into the distance for a long moment. His golden eyes gleamed faintly, catching the starlight.
"I'm still too weak,"
He murmured.
He had heard it today. That deep, distant call—something ancient stirring within the forest's depths. A pull that resonated not with his ears, but his soul. But to heed it now would be folly.
He would not be devoured by the very thing he sought to understand.
He stepped away from the window, removed his cloak.
He returned to his bed, the sheets cool beneath him. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, the faint scent of iron and forest still clinging to him.
There was still work to do.
Tomorrow, he would go further. Test more. Learn more.
But for tonight…
He allowed himself a single, deep breath—and a brief flicker of peace.
—To Be Continued