The Verdant Veil stood silent, bathed in morning mist. Towering trees arched above like cathedral pillars, their branches knitting a green sky that shimmered with mana-rich dew. The forest exhaled ancient magic, thick with the scent of sap, moss, and something older—something watching.
A flash of magic tore through the clearing.
"O radiant current, shape and shield—"
Serineth's voice rose like a hymn. Her hands weaved complex sigils mid-air, and glowing symbols bloomed around her like golden petals.
Beside her, Cellione's incantation overlapped, her tone lower, denser with force:
"O binding root and hungry earth—coil, crush, consume!"
BOOM!
Explosions of light and stone crashed against a charging beast—an armored Ridgeback Boar. Its momentum faltered under a barrage of elemental fury. Vines ensnared its legs.
CRACKLE-BZZT!
A bolt of light cracked through its skull with divine precision.
And yet, from the side, Alaric stood utterly still.
His cloak fluttered gently in the breeze. Aurevia watched calmly nearby, hand resting on the hilt of her sheathed blade, but Alaric's gaze was not on the battle.
His eyes were half-lidded, golden irises distant—deep within a memory from the night before.
He hadn't slept.
As the others drifted into slumber, Alaric sat in silence within his chamber at the manor. Moonlight painted the wooden floor silver, but the shadows were thick—almost reverent.
There was something that gnawed at him, something that had been whispering from the edge of his soul since the first time he watched Serineth cast a spell.
"Too slow,"
He murmured to himself.
"Too delicate. Too rehearsed."
Magic in this world relied on incantations—spoken will turned into structured command. He understood the beauty of it, the ritual, the precision. But it was a scaffold. A bridge for beginners.
He didn't need a bridge.
Not when his body coursed with Divine Energy—a light that transcended structure.
He stood, raising his hand. The air around his palm shimmered faintly.
He focused. First, he directed his Divine Energy down from his heart, through his blood vessels—a path carved into him by nature itself. When it reached his palm, he let it seep through the skin, into the open air.
Whoosh!
A subtle wind stirred.
He didn't shape it, didn't force it. He just let it flow, unfiltered. The moment it touched the world outside his skin, the room reacted.
The air felt clearer. Cleaner. The Divine Energy didn't just purify—it harmonized, erasing impurity at the level of existence.
'So that's what it is.'
He thought.
'Divine Energy... doesn't just obey. It aligns.'
He withdrew, slowly, carefully, the warmth fading from the air.
But that wasn't enough.
He wanted more.
He closed his eyes, drawing from his memories—not from this life, but from the last. He remembered the concept of fire. Not magic fire, not divine fire. Just a spark.
Combustion: a chemical reaction involving fuel, heat, and oxygen. A process that, once begun, sustained itself.
He could be the fuel. His divine energy the heat. And the world—the oxygen-rich atmosphere—would provide the rest.
He tried.
It fizzled. Nothing.
Too abstract. Too forced.
Again.
Again.
And then—something caught.
FLUSH!
A tiny flicker danced into being in his palm.
Golden-white. Sacred. Soft.
It gave off no heat, no harsh light.
But its presence was undeniable. The kind of flame one might find on a holy altar or inside a forgotten temple at the end of the world.
His breath slowed.
This was a beginning.
But now, curiosity—the scientist in him from another world—took over.
What if it wasn't divine?
He stopped the flow of divine energy. The flame vanished instantly.
Now, he tried again. This time, as the divine current left his body, he willed it to break down, fragmenting it into its core essence—mana.
The moment it did, he visualized the ignition again. Fuel. Heat. Oxygen.
BOOM!
A yellow flame erupted, loud and violent. It shot toward the ceiling, filling the room in seconds. The heat was sudden and immense—a raw elemental reaction. No prayer. No incantation. No structure.
Just intent.
Only his sharp instinct saved the room. He slammed the flow shut, smothering the fire before it could anchor itself to reality. No damage. But the air shimmered with heat. The floor groaned faintly.
Sweat beaded on his brow.
He sat for a while, still. Letting his pulse return to calm.
'That could've... burned the whole house.'
Power like this wasn't just overwhelming—it was undisciplined. Wild. Primal.
A reminder that too much strength without shape is ruin. He forgot that when he turns Divine Energy into mana it multiplies.
So he tried again.
Carefully.
A smaller flame this time. Just a ball. Nothing more.
He created a shield of Divine Energy around the room first—a dome of silence and protection—and began again. This time the fire was warm but stable, flickering gently in the air like a heartbeat.
But Alaric wasn't done.
He narrowed his eyes.
This flame… wasn't enough.
Not for what he had in mind.
He wanted to forge a weapon—not to protect, not to heal. But to destroy.
The sacred flame was a balm to the world. But he wanted to see what happened when it was corrupted with rage, hatred, and vengeance.
So he searched within himself. Called forth the darkness.
Memories from his past life surfaced—the loneliness, the pressure, the silent office nights, the bitter heartbreak.
Then he summoned the emotion he had once seen beneath Aurevia's mask: fury disguised as stillness.
He fed it all into the flame.
Bit by bit, the golden glow warped.
Red seeped in. Then black.
Vmmm~.
The fire began to ripple, twist, undulate like a living thing trying to escape its cage.
Black and red. Chaotic. Unstable.
The room quaked softly, walls groaning, the very air vibrating with potential devastation.
Rumble.
Alaric stared, eyes unblinking.
He could feel it.
The explosion waiting.
The hunger.
The raw, unrelenting will to burn everything.
His heart was racing—not with fear.
With exhilaration.
With purpose.
And yet, he knew… this was not something to be unleashed. Not yet.
So, like a master taming a storm, he wrapped Divine Energy around the flame, containing it—blessing it. The fire hissed, resisted.
And then, with a single thought, he dispersed it into the air.
Silence returned.
The room was warm. His breath steady.
But something had changed.
Not just in the air, not just in the flame—
But within Alaric himself.
*****
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶
✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧
⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
*****
The afternoon sun drifted lazily through the high branches of the tree, casting a warm golden light over the soft grass below. The air was still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze.
Beneath the shade of an ancient oak tree at the outskirts of Veldroth, Alaric sat cross-legged, his small frame unusually quiet, his golden eyes gazing somewhere far beyond the visible horizon.
Alaric decided to rest here after the morning hunt the two mages did.
Around him, seated in a loose circle, were Aurevia,Cellione and Serineth all quietly enjoying the tranquil moment and the peaceful respite under the tree felt like a gift. The world was calm, and for a time, so were their thoughts.
Then Alaric spoke.
"Tell me,"
He said softly, still staring ahead as though the answer was hidden somewhere in the wind,
"What is magic to you?"
The question hung in the air, unexpected and strange. The girls glanced at one another. It wasn't like Alaric to ask such abstract things without a reason. There was something in his tone—calm, almost detached, but layered with meaning.
Cellione was the first to respond. She brushed a lock of Blonde hair behind her ear and said,
"Magic... is the language of the world. A way to understand and reshape it, using the mana that flows through everything. It's both a force and a tool."
Serineth tilted her head thoughtfully.
"To me, magic is like breathing. It's natural. Instinctive. A gift the gods entrusted to us. It's how I speak with the world—how I protect and vanquish any threats."
Alaric nodded slowly, acknowledging their words.
"I see,"
He murmured, and then asked again,
"Then... what are incantations?"
They blinked, slightly puzzled, but answered nonetheless.
"Incantations are structured chants,"
Cellione replied, her voice almost textbook-like,
"Words that shape mana into spells. They stabilize and direct the flow, making it easier to control."
"They're like maps,"
Serineth added.
"They guide your mind and mana to the result you want. Without them, most spells are too unstable or too powerful to control."
Alaric was quiet for a long moment. The breeze picked up again, rustling the leaves above.
"Are they necessary?"
He asked at last.
Both girls nodded firmly.
"Yes,"
They said in unison. Then Cellione clarified,
"At least until [Rank-4], incantations are necessary for most people. Without them, a spellcaster would lack the control or precision needed. But... there are exceptions. Some with profoundly deep magical affinity can skip incantations even before then."
Alaric turned his gaze toward the two of them, his golden eyes intense, yet calm.
"Then tell me,"
He said,
"why can [Rank-4]s silent cast while others can't?"
The question lingered.
Before either girl could answer, Alaric leaned forward, his tone sharper now, layered with clarity that came from somewhere deeper than mere study.
"Is it imagination? Or is it elemental affinity?"
The girls hesitated, uncertain. He locked eyes with both of them and said quietly—but firmly:
"Neither."
A pause.
"It is comprehension,"
He said,
"and intent."
His voice was soft, but the conviction behind it made their skin prickle.
"You can't imagine something you don't understand. Imagination requires knowledge—even the seed of it. Without that knowledge, even someone born with the highest elemental affinity will fail to cast a spell.
And then comes intent. Intent is what defines the spell—its strength, its sharpness, its scale. Your will decides what the mana becomes."
They listened, transfixed. Alaric's voice had the strange weight of someone speaking not from theory—but from knowing.
Not of this worlds knowledge but from his previous world. Well atleast the theories he learned from the novels and mangas. It is coming quite handy in this world.
Of course he didn't say those words without any practical execution of the knowledge. That's what he tried last night. If it was possible or not.
And to him it felt doable. If there is the right knowledge and support provided to them. So he prepared a logical explanation on silent casting. And he continued his explanation.
"As for silent casting... high-ranking mages can do it because they choose one path—one thing they're good at—and they delve into it until their understanding runs deeper than rivers. Enough that the spell becomes second nature. That's how they do it without words."
He looked at them meaningfully.
"When you chant, I notice... you don't really imagine anything. You just believe in the result. You know the spell will work, so your mind fills in the blanks automatically.
It becomes a subconscious crutch. And only if your affinity is strong do you notice the subtle differences in casting."
Alaric leaned back, resting his palms behind him on the grass, golden eyes glowing faintly.
"Over time, your body memorizes the mana flow tied to the chant. Your mind seeks quicker, better ways to reach the same result—efficiency leads to comprehension. And at some point... the words are no longer needed."
He paused, letting the silence deepen the weight of his next words.
"Incantations are magic too. A kind of speech magic. They help you picture the result—because you already expect it."
Then, with a soft smile, he turned toward Cellione and Serineth again.
"I believe I told you that today would be a hectic day, right?"
He asked, almost playfully.
They blinked, as if waking from a trance.
"Well,"
Alaric said,
"I think you got a rough idea of what I want from that lengthy explanation... but let me say it straight."
He stood up and brushed dust from his robes.
"Starting today—you'll learn how to cast spells without incantations. From me."
Their eyes widened. Disbelief flickered across their faces like startled shadows.
Even Cellione, who had been practicing magic since she was five, stared at him like he'd just said the sky was green.
Silent casting?
Now?
At their rank?
It was common sense in Elarion—no one could cast silently before [Rank-2], not without collapsing from mana drain or mental fatigue. Even those blessed by divine lineage couldn't do it more than once or twice before being utterly spent.
Yet here was Alaric, barely five years old in appearance, speaking as if it were no big deal.
As if sensing their unspoken doubt, Alaric chuckled softly.
"Did you forget who I am?"
He said with a grin that was equal parts childlike and knowing.
"Don't worry about exhaustion. I'll take care of that."
His smile was reassuring, strangely comforting, and completely confident.
"Now,"
He said, taking a step back,
"begin."
***
What followed was a test of mental fortitude.
Again and again, Cellione and Serineth tried. They channeled mana, concentrated, visualized, failed. Tried again. Failed harder. The spell fizzled, imploded, or simply vanished. Alaric never scolded, only watched. Every so often, he gave short, pointed advice.
"More control. Less force."
"Your intent is too vague."
"Don't rush. Feel it."
Hours passed. The sun crept across the sky and began to sink toward the horizon. Sweat glistened on their brows. Their clothes clung to their backs. The grass around them was scorched in places and muddy in others.
They weren't physically exhausted—Alaric made sure of that, pouring small waves of Divine Energy into their bodies to keep them going. But mentally?
They were wrung dry.
Alaric can also heal their exusted mind but he new that if he did that too much,it will do more harm later. So until it was absolutely necessary, he wouldn't heal heir exusted mind.
It is also because natural healing can strengthen their mind with time ,but quick heal won't so that. Atleast Alaric wasn't capable of that yet.
Serineth seemed like she was about to die.
And even Cellione, the most composed but mischievous at times among them, was blinking sluggishly, her focus flickering.
And still Alaric stood, patient and unwavering, like a teacher sculpting patience from stone.
Finally, as the sun dipped low, casting the world in orange-gold, Alaric clapped his hands.
"That's enough for today."
The girls dropped to the ground almost instantly. Their legs gave way, and their bodies relaxed in unison. Despite the failure, there was a strange satisfaction in their eyes—a spark of something new.
***
On the way back to their home in Veldroth, they stopped by a familiar vendor in the market square, buying some grilled skewers, honeyed bread, and cold fruit tea.
The streets were still lively, and the warm air was thick with the scent of spices and baked goods.
Serineth nibbled on her skewer in silence, too tired to speak. Cellione chewed slowly, her Blonde hair sticking slightly to her damp cheeks.
Once home, the girls each took quick showers—dragging their feet but feeling oddly content. Serineth finished first, nearly falling asleep while drying her hair. Cellione followed right after, her eyelids drooping even at the dinner table.
After a quiet meal, everyone went straight to bed.
Especially Cellione and Serineth.
They didn't even make it halfway through the soft goodnights before collapsing onto their beds, asleep before the blankets could cover them.
Tomorrow would be another hectic day.
And this time, they'd be ready.
-To Be Continued