I Reincarnated as an Extra in a Reverse Harem World-Chapter 87: Embers Beneath the Ash

Time passed.

Not in loud declarations, but in steady, unrelenting motion—like a river that reshaped the land simply by existing.

After the first wave of slumfolk arrived at the Crydias Estate, they were given what they had never dared to hope for: time to breathe. Space to live. Food that filled the stomach and lingered. Clothes that fit, simple but clean. And training—not just for labor, but for purpose.

Alaric had not spoken to them again. He didn’t need to. The symbol on their hands, warm and constant, reminded them that they were already chosen.

The stewards of House Crydias, directed by Lord Crydias himself, moved like quiet clockwork. Scribes and trainers began the long work of preparing the newly arrived for what was to come. They were not being taught how to bow or scrub floors.

They were being trained for a mission.

The Information Network was still in its infancy. Much of it existed only on parchment—coded instructions, maps, unclaimed land deeds, sealed letters waiting for names and faces.

But the framework had begun to rise.

Scouts were being selected.

Messengers, trained in silence and memory.

Relay nodes prepared.

Every name among the slumfolk marked for training was chosen not for muscle, but for sharpness—of mind, of instinct, of loyalty. They were not building a workforce.

They were building eyes.

And all the while, the city kept talking.

The name Lord Cedric was now etched into Caerywn’s daily rhythm.

What began as hushed rumors in alleyways had grown into something the nobles could no longer ignore. The poor spoke of him openly. Merchants muttered his name over dice and wine. Midwives swore by him before delivering children. Children traced the mark of the golden lily in the dust.

"An envoy of the Goddess."

"A healer who touches the dying and makes them rise."

"He who speaks for those no one hears."

And the strangest thing?

No one had seen his face clearly.

Descriptions varied. Some said he wore silver robes. Others claimed he bore no noble crest. But the results—those were clear.

Men who were coughing blood days before now walked with the backs of soldiers. Children who hadn’t eaten in weeks played with color in their cheeks. And women whose skin had been grey with fever now tended gardens on the Crydias

outskirts, humming softly.

Even those outside the slums began to notice.

And so did the Church.

It began subtly.

A reduction in foot traffic during morning rites. A decrease in alms from the commoner districts. Not devastating—but strange. Suspicious. Enough for lower clergy to send quiet reports.

And though the coin flow had not stopped entirely, something more dangerous had begun.

The attention of the people had shifted.

The clergy felt it.

People still came to the temples—but they didn’t pray with the same desperation. Not for sickness. Not for food. Why pray, after all, when Lord Cedric answers faster than the altar ever did?

For now, the damage was tolerable. The donations from commoners had dipped slightly, yes—but the main lifeblood of the temple’s gold came not from the poor, but from the nobility. Nobles came not for healing, but for absolution. For clean hands after dirty deeds. And they paid handsomely for that illusion.

So long as the nobles kept sinning, the coffers would remain full.

But the high priests knew the deeper truth.

It wasn’t the money they feared losing.

It was the narrative.

Control over faith, over virtue, over the fragile veil between man and divinity.

And Lord Cedric—whoever he was—was writing a new narrative.

One miracle at a time.

*****

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✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

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*****

In the central sanctum of Caerywn’s grandest cathedral, the air hung thick with incense and silence.

The polished marble glistened beneath soft light filtering in through golden-stained windows. Statues of Elyssera lined the walls—serene, graceful, but cold. They looked down with hollow eyes, carved expressions too perfect to comfort.

Before the great altar, upon an elevated dais, knelt High Priest Veydran Elthros.

His robes were immaculate, the color of deep crimson threaded with silver vinework. His posture was flawless—head bowed, arms raised, as if reaching toward heaven. But no words escaped his lips. His mouth moved, his breath steady... yet his eyes were open.

He was not praying.

He was thinking.

Behind him, armored footsteps echoed softly down the sacred aisle.

A single figure approached—tall, armored in deep silver and steel-blue. A golden lily blooming under a radiant sun sigil of the Church of Elyssera. A longsword was strapped to his back, a ceremonial relic of a forgotten crusade. He bowed on one knee, fist over chest.

"High Priest,"

He said, voice respectful but unflinching.

"There is news."

Veydran did not turn.

"Speak, Paladin Theron."

Theron inhaled, then delivered the report in measured tones.

"The name Lord Cedric has entrenched itself fully. Word has spread across the inner wards and merchant quarters. The slumfolk call him an envoy of the goddess. They wear a mark—witnesses say it glows golden upon touch. It bears Elyssera’s lily beneath a sunburst."

Still, the High Priest did not move.

After a moment, he spoke, voice thin and sharp.

"Lord Cedric, huh?"

He let the name hang in the sanctum like dust caught in light.

"A Saint?"

He murmured.

"An Envoy?"

Then he scoffed.

A quiet, cutting sound.

He lowered his arms and stood with practiced grace.

"So be it,"

He said, turning now toward the Paladin.

"Try recruiting him. This Cedric of theirs."

Theron blinked.

"You want to... recruit him?"

"If the people believe him to be divine,"

The High Priest said,

"then let us offer him divinity—in our terms. Bring him into the fold. A title. A station. A collar, dressed in silk."

He stepped down from the dais, footsteps deliberate.

"If he agrees, we control the story."

Theron nodded slowly.

"I will try my best, High Priest. But what if he refuses?"

Veydran paused, gaze sliding past the Paladin as though already measuring alternatives.

"If he does not comply..."

He began, voice like a blade dragged over marble.

"...then eliminate him."

Theron’s expression darkened. His hand clenched slightly.

"High Priest,"

He said carefully,

"the rumors—if they hold truth—say he bears the goddess’s favor. If we kill him... what if her wrath returns to this world?"

Veydran’s eyes turned toward the stained glass above the altar—an image of Elyssera’s radiant form descending among mankind, hands outstretched in blessing.

His lip curled.

"Fool."

His voice lost its whisper.

"There are no gods anymore. Their silence has lasted generations. You think Elyssera watches this world? If she did, she’d have struck me down long ago."

He stepped forward, now close enough to be heard by soul rather than ear.

"We built this Church. We built faith from dust and coin. We built order from myth. The gods are gone—we remain. Do you understand?"

Theron was silent for a long moment.

Then, quietly, he bowed again.

"I understand, High Priest. I will do as you command."

But something flickered behind his eyes.

Not defiance—but a crack.

Doubt.

Veydran did not notice. Or did not care.

He returned to the altar, placing one hand upon the cold silver chalice that sat beside the book of rites.

He no longer looked at Elyssera as a goddess.

He looked at her as a symbol. One that had served well... until now.

Lord Cedric threatened that.

Not because he claimed divinity, but because the people believed he didn’t need it.

And that—that—was dangerous.

If the flock found answers beyond the Church, what use was the shepherd?

So this Cedric had to be brought in.

Or extinguished.

Either way, the people would know who still controlled their prayers.

-To Be Continued