Awakening

Under a breathtaking, starry night in the quiet village of Branmere, nestled within the outskirts of the Kingdom of Velmora, something monumental was unfolding.

Something so profound that the course of the world itself might change.

Yet, as if veiled by divine will, the world remained unaware.

It moved at its own pace, untouched by the weight of this moment. No one could sense it—as though fate itself conspired to keep it hidden.

In the small orphanage chapel, faint golden-white light shimmered through the old stained-glass windows, casting dancing patterns across the stone floor.

Within the chapel, a dome of radiant, ethereal light hovered like a heartbeat frozen in time—a sacred womb of power.

Inside it knelt a boy with golden hair, head bowed in prayer before the statue of the Goddess Elyssira.

He was bathed in celestial brilliance, yet seemingly unaware of the miracle taking place around him.

Or perhaps… he simply didn't care.

Because something even more extraordinary was unfolding within.

Deep in his chest, his heart stirred—not with fear, but with awe. It began with a soft glow. Flecks of light, faint as stardust, shimmered around his heart.

Then, the glow intensified. The particles swirled, no longer random, but guided—as if moved by the will of the divine.

The light took form.

Mist-like at first, drifting as though carried on some sacred breath, it began to pulse. It reached outward, yearning to spread through his veins—to sanctify his entire being. But it was held back. Not by force, but by design. By an ancient seal. A divine barrier.

And the light... obeyed.

It paused, then changed.

It began to grow once more, not in breadth but in depth—refining itself. Light became liquid. One drop, then two, then a cascade—like golden tears wept from the soul of a god.

Soon, it became a pool, then a sphere. Golden-white, luminous, and perfect. The size of a heart. Then larger—a football.

It pulsed gently, glowing with a brilliance that felt both tender and absolute.

A sacred core, being born.

The sphere expanded, cracked, condensed—again and again—a rhythm echoing the creation of the world. Each pulse echoed in his chest like a drumbeat of destiny.

And then, without warning, it consumed him.

Alaric found himself within the sphere, no longer in the chapel but surrounded by a sea of light. Endless. Infinite.

Golden-white and ethereal. The light shimmered with voices that did not speak—hymns without sound, prayers without words. It felt alive. Ancient. Holy.

Awe welled in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him.

He had never seen anything so magnificent.

As he stood within this ocean of divinity, foreign symbols bloomed in the air before him—glowing, shifting, speaking a language he did not recognize.

And yet… he understood.

Not with his mind, but with his soul.

The knowledge flowed into him—not taught, but remembered. It spoke of balance, of control, of sacred responsibility. How to guide the power awakening within him. How to master what was no longer just a gift—but a calling.

As the transformation deepened within Alaric, the world outside held its breath.

The dome trembled with each pulse, divine pressure radiating from his body.

His appearance sharpened—more refined, more ethereal. His aura shifted from innocent warmth to something sacred, something sovereign.

The golden-white light struck the dome, again and again, threatening to shatter it. But the dome, too, responded—strengthening, reinforcing, determined not to let even a whisper escape. Without it, the entire world might have awakened in awe—or terror.

The light was too pure.

Too divine.

And then… it softened.

The surges slowed, the dome dimmed. The miracle receded, like the tide. And then—silence.

The dome vanished, its purpose fulfilled.

Alaric remained kneeling before the statue of the Goddess, unmoving.

Silvery moonlight bathed his figure, mixing with the gentle golden-white glow still clinging to his form. He looked less like a boy and more like a celestial being—a child sculpted from starlight.

His aura was calm, contained.

Once, his power had flowed unconsciously—healing, comforting, blooming like spring. Now it was anchored. Under his will.

No longer leaking into the world without consent. It had become a crown resting on his soul, silent, until summoned.

But not all things can be contained.

His presence had changed.

Where once it brought comfort, now it stirred reverence. Those who stood before him would kneel—not by force, but by instinct.

Despite the commotion settling into silence, Alaric still didn't move—not because he was trapped within the light sphere.

In truth, he had been fully aware of his surroundings long before the divine dome dissolved. But something far more profound held his attention elsewhere—something stirring deep within the very fabric of his being.

A new awareness bloomed in his mind, not like a whisper, but a quiet unveiling. He had awakened his Soul Trait.

It was not a gift, nor a blessing granted by external forces. It was his from the very beginning—woven into his soul the moment it came into existence. It had lain dormant, untouched and unseen, waiting for this very moment to awaken.

And now, it had.

The Eternal Arcane Core

Born of celestial harmony and sanctified by divine breath, this soul trait distills the essence of creation into a single, radiant core. The bearer's soul flows in perfect balance, transforming chaos into sacred light.

It is both shield and sanctum—granting mastery over the arcane and protection from corruption. The one who holds it is not merely a wielder of power, but its sacred harmony made manifest.

The revelation settled into his heart like the final note of a sacred hymn—resonant and absolute.

After that, he finally opened his eyes. They glowed with a renewed, steady light.

He gazed at the statue for a few quiet moments before offering a deep, reverent bow of gratitude. Then, without a word, he turned and walked back to his sleeping quarters.

His steps were slow, deliberate—not from exhaustion, but reflection. He needed time to think, to make sense of the storm that had passed through him.

The situation still seemed inevitable, the path ahead uncertain. But tonight… there was hope.

Tonight, he would rest.

And tomorrow, he would begin to understand.

*****

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

*****

Since the awakening of his Divine heart core —the golden‑white sphere pulsing at the center of his chest— a name inspired from his soul trait The Eternal Arcane Core.

Alaric had spent every moonlit hour in silent training beneath the orphanage roof.

Long after the candles guttered, he would stand alone in the courtyard, calling upon the faint currents of his nascent aura and experimenting with its shape.

He sought a supporting technique rather than an attack, for he knew too well that no burst of power could shield his friends from the coming storm.

As Alaric trained, he drew inspiration from the novels and manga he once read—those stories that now felt like fragments of a distant life.

With meticulous focus, he set out to create the perfect buff-type technique, a method to enhance the body through divine power. He even attempted self-healing.

Healing, after all, came naturally to him. Even before his awakening, his mere touch could ease pain and soothe illness.

Now, with the Divine power fully awakened within him, he could will that phenomenon into being. Self-healing was no longer a mystery—it was instinctive, almost effortless.

But buffs… buffs were a different matter entirely.

He had no proper references, no one to guide him, and no practical means to test the effects.

He didn't even know what the process was supposed to feel like. Still, he tried. Over and over.

He began with self-buffing, pouring divine power inward, trying to reinforce his body—to strengthen his muscles, sharpen his senses, enhance his speed.

And… it worked. But not in the way he hoped.

His physical state remained largely the same, but something in his demeanor changed. He felt more alert, more confident.

His posture straightened. His thoughts flowed more clearly. His will sharpened. It improved his overall attitude, his mental state—but that was all.

No matter how much divine energy he funneled into himself, the effect plateaued.

He couldn't replicate the kinds of buffs he had read about—where priests could amplify a person's strength three- or four-fold when targeting a specific trait, or double their overall physical capacity with a generalized spell. He had the power, but not the method.

It wasn't enough to just channel energy. There was something more—some missing piece of understanding.

It frustrated him.

Each attempt left him feeling more drained—not physically, but mentally. Like grasping at something just beyond reach.

His brows would furrow, his breathing slow, his golden eyes dim with exhaustion.

Something was missing. And no matter how deeply he searched, how fiercely he willed it, he couldn't find what it was.

And the uncertainty… the constant feeling of coming up short—it wore him down.

Yet at dawn he folded away his weariness, stepping into the day as always—laughing, running, and scattering light like petals on the breeze.

***

Daylight brought the familiar rhythm of Branmere, yet everything had changed. Where once his footsteps coaxed flowers into bloom, now a hush of reverence fell over the villagers whenever he passed.

Men and women bowed their heads, children fell silent in mid‑play, and even the hardest hearts yielded to a respect they could neither name nor explain—an instinctive homage to the divine essence dwelling in his golden gaze.

He played.

He wandered.

He gathered a band of children around him—five in all—who called themselves The Bramble Bunch , roaming the village like knights upon an uncharted realm.

Alaric stood at their center, his calm confidence drawing even the most stubborn child into his orbit.

But after the awakening—Alarics presence- no the whole being of alaric changed. He's features more refined presence that command respect from the on lookers.

The miracles stilled.

No longer did birds perch upon his shoulders or bruises fade at his touch. In their place was a serene, implacable grace.

People still bowed their heads as he passed, but now with reverence rather than awe. Children followed him, still, but were gentler in their games, more solemn in their laughter.

No one could quite name it, but they all felt it: the divine now slumbered not in his actions, but in his being.

He is not like us, the village thought. He is something more.

Even his closest companions sensed it.

And so did Elior.

***

On a lazy afternoon beneath the elder tree, Alaric spotted Elior sitting alone, ink‑dark eyes tracing the words of an ancient tome as though its letters held every secret of the world.

The other children darted about, but Elior remained apart—quiet, watchful, untouched by the laughter around him.

Alaric approached with his usual calm smile.

"Elior,"

He said, voice like distant bells at dawn,

"come outside with us. We're racing the shadows across the bell tower."

Elior looked up, the book slipping in his hands. For a long moment he said nothing. Then, in a low voice:

"I—I feel… you're different now."

Alaric smiled without saying anything.

A silence settled, gentle as falling petals. Then, slowly, Elior closed his book and stood. Without a word, he followed.

They slipped through the village paths where The Bramble Bunch tumbled and squealed. Elior did not join their games; instead, he walked at Alaric's side, ever in his shadow.

He watched as elders paused in their work to bow their heads, as children hushed their play in respect.

And though he spoke not a single word, there was a new intensity in his gaze—fierce, searching, as if trying to find the boy he once knew beneath this emerging divinity.

Alaric glanced at him, a tender warmth in his eyes.

Elior did not smile. But when Alaric laughed—a pure, bell‑like sound—it was enough. The tiny shift of his lips, almost invisible, was as close to comfort as Alaric could feel.

And so they walked on, children of light and shadow, side by side.

***

The day after the new member of the orphanage was brought in, the atmosphere shifted.

The once lively orphanage, always filled with laughter and childish squabbles, now carried a quiet reverence. All because of one boy.

The day Elior arrived, Alaric wasn't quite himself. He wasn't smiling as usual, nor did he join the other children in welcoming the newcomer. Instead, he seemed lost in thought—contemplating something far beyond his years.

Joran Hestel, the head of the orphanage, noticed immediately. Others might have dismissed it as simple childish jealousy—perhaps Alaric felt slighted by the attention given to the new boy.

But Joran knew better.

Alaric was no ordinary child. He wasn't one to act out just because someone else had drawn the spotlight. His silence held weight. And Joran's instincts told him something important was stirring beneath the surface.

He was right.

The very next morning, when the entire orphanage gathered in the chapel for prayer, the air itself felt different.

The small space, usually filled with the soft whispers of children, the warm murmur of staff, and the occasional giggle, had gone still. Utterly silent—not out of fear or reprimand, but something else. Something unspoken.

They all felt it.

A sense of reverence. Of sacred awe. As if to speak too loudly in the presence of the golden-haired boy with luminous amber eyes would be a sacrilege. A violation of something divine.

Even Joran, seasoned and grounded as he was, felt it stir within him—the urge to kneel, to bow his head in respect.

And so, they prayed in silence that morning. A silence so profound it echoed louder than any chant.

After the prayers ended, the children and staff quietly went about their day. Joran retreated to his office, his thoughts lingering on Alaric.

He stared out at the horizon, his gaze distant yet deep, as though he were searching for something far beyond the clouds.

For a long while, he remained that way. Then, a faint smile curved his lips, and he returned to his work.

***

Life for Alaric continued, though not quite as it had before. There were subtle differences now—small, but ever-present.

The way the other children addressed him—more cautious, more respectful. The way adults, too, spoke to him—like one might speak to a visiting noble, or a prophet in disguise.

It was strange. Unsettling, even.

But Alaric said nothing.

He endured the reverent stares and the awkward politeness, pretending not to notice. This was not something he could change, nor something he had asked for.

So he simply continued with his days, quiet and composed.

Until one night.

Sixteen days after his birthday. Fifteen days since Elior had joined the orphanage.

It was a quiet night. The kind that lulled one easily into peaceful dreams.

Alaric was just drifting into slumber when a distant sound tore through the silence—a bell.

It rang once. Then again. Urgent. Loud. A signal known by all in the village.

DANGER.

Faint shouts followed—excited, panicked, rising from the outskirts of town.

Alaric jolted upright in bed, his heart pounding.

It had begun.

The first great turning point of his life. A moment that would either break him or forge him into someone new. Into someone stronger.

The bandits had come.

Far earlier than they should have.

—To Be Continued