CHAPTER 61: 61

The auction hall dimmed in preparation for its second act, but behind the grand obsidian stage—veiled in runes and dampening wards—there was a stillness not of silence, but of exhalation.

Aurevia sat on the edge of a velvet-cushioned bench, her veil now lowered, revealing her pale, composed features. Her crimson eyes still shimmered faintly with residual frost, but there was no tension in her body.

Only grace—and exhaustion veiled beneath discipline.

"You looked like a priestess of frost and judgment out there,"

Cellione said with a grin, her golden hair tied in a loose braid, the ends singed slightly from the earlier mana transfer arrays.

Serineth leaned forward, her green hair casting soft shadows over her blue eyes.

"Everyone out there thought you were just another slave. Until you turned the hall into a glacier."

"And you kept your voice calm the entire time."

Virellen’s tone was tinged with admiration, arms crossed as she leaned against the wall, her grey eyes unusually focused.

"Even I forgot for a moment that you were Rank Five. You never boast, never show it."

Aurevia shook her head gently.

"That’s what Master wanted. He said I didn’t need to make a display. Just enough... to command the room."

Serineth blushed faintly.

"He was watching, wasn’t he?"

"Always is,"

Cellione said softly. Her voice lacked its usual brazenness. There was reverence there.

A low pulse of mana shimmered through the room—like a soft breeze against their skin. A ripple unfolded in the space before them, and then—

Alaric appeared.

A phantom projection, standing in muted radiance. Not illusion, but manifestation—a technique rooted in divine circuitry, refined until his very presence felt solid.

He stood in silence at first. The girls rose, instinctively bowing—not out of fear, but the kind of respect that no title alone could command.

Alaric’s voice was quiet, measured.

"You did well."

Aurevia’s lips curved into the softest smile.

"I simply followed your orders, Master."

"And surpassed them,"

He said, his gaze sweeping across the three others.

"The coordination was seamless. The transitions flawless. The audience is shaken. But more than that... they’re hungry now."

Cellione smirked.

"Good. They should be. It’ll only get worse from here."

Serineth tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Did we make you proud...?"

There was a pause.

Then Alaric nodded once.

"Yes."

Aurevia’s shoulders visibly relaxed.

Just then, the heavy curtain at the side of the warded room parted slightly. In strode a tall man with shrewd hazel eyes and a lion’s mane of hair streaked with grey—Lord Crydias, merchant king and Virellen’s father.

Beside him, a woman of stern posture and crystalline features—Lady Crydias, her aura like a steady blade cloaked in velvet.

"Apologies for the intrusion,"

Lord Crydias said, voice brisk.

"Perimeter shifts required our oversight. Some movements near the southern teleportation gates. Nothing urgent yet."

"But we wanted to commend your performance,"

Lady Crydias added, offering Aurevia a brief nod.

"Flawlessly handled. The security detail was impressed."

Virellen looked away, a bit flustered.

"They’re busy keeping the entire eastern trade ward under surveillance... but still came here..."

"We have eyes everywhere, my dear,"

Lord Crydias replied with a smirk before the pair turned and vanished down the corridor, flanked by quietly shifting guards.

Silence returned.

Alaric’s phantom form flickered slightly as he glanced toward Aurevia.

"Half done. Rest. Breathe. And remember—what comes next will decide more than just ownership."

Then, as quickly as he came, he faded.

The girls remained in the soft-lit chamber, bathed in quiet and wonder.

Cellione finally sighed.

"I hate that he always says something that sounds like a prophecy."

Serineth giggled.

"But it makes you want to do better, doesn’t it?"

Aurevia reached for a flask of chilled springwater, her fingers trembling only slightly now.

"He believes in us,"

She said quietly.

And in that silence, between frost and fire, shadow and light—the four girls found stillness.

The storm would return soon enough.

*****

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

*****

Behind the layers of velvet curtains, where nobles mingled and merchants whispered, not all was as it seemed.

Beneath the gold-laced hospitality of the auction house and the well-guarded decorum of Caerywn’s elite, something darker stirred—a web moving in quiet desperation.

In a sealed chamber under the eastern stands, masked figures shifted like rats within a nest of incense and static mana. Their breaths were tense, their hearts beating not with conviction, but the hollow rhythm of gamblers pushing their final chips forward.

A fake attack.

That was the plan.

A show of chaos. Controlled. Designed. Simulated.

They would let loose hired blades at the final bid—timed perfectly, choreographed even. Then, once panic bloomed across the crowd like spilled blood in water, they would heroically intervene.

Subdue the intruders. ’Protect’ the scene. Earn favor. Seize a sliver of the One Above’s gaze. A calculated sacrifice of pawns, a bet placed with trembling hands against fate itself.

But the divinity seated above them had already seen all.

Alaric sat atop the high dome of the auction tower—unseen, unbothered. His body cast no shadow. His presence did not stir the wind. But his divine sense had long since enveloped not just the hall, but the six blocks beyond its walls.

From the sewers below to the skyward balconies, everything danced within the rhythm of his knowing. Every breath. Every thread of mana. Every lie hiding behind a nobleman’s smile.

He watched the conspirators whisper their lines like actors beneath a collapsing stage.

And he... didn’t care.

Their plan was bold. Dangerous. Pathetic.

Even they knew it could be their end. They knew they were playing with a fire they could neither tame nor escape.

But desperation—ah, desperation made fools of even the wise. And in their foolishness, they dreamed of glory.

Alaric’s gaze moved past them, past the dome, past the velvet and gold and schemes.

It moved to her.

Aurevia.

Through the reflective glass in his phantom projection, he saw her now standing behind the auction curtain, her white hair like woven starlight, her crimson eyes focused, radiant with quiet certainty.

She was discussing something with Serineth and Cellione, perhaps teasing or bantering. But Alaric didn’t listen to the words.

He saw her.

And in that moment, something dark and hungry stirred within him.

He had not expected to be affected like this. Not now. Not here.

He’d known her beauty before. Known the way she moved with dignified grace, how her voice carried both steel and warmth. But tonight—tonight she had crossed into something more than mortal. The moment she stepped onto that stage, she became mythic.

A goddess veiled as a slave.

And now he was burning for her.

His desire wasn’t a storm, loud and reckless—it was a slow and suffocating tide, one that pressed against the walls of his restraint like a rising sea. And worse, he felt disgusted with himself for it. He had trained his will to resist temptation, honed it like a blade. Yet here it slipped through his fingers like sand.

’If I had gone down there myself... if I had stood before her tonight...’

He didn’t finish the thought.

He wouldn’t have been able to hold back. Not as he was now. Not with this hunger gnawing at the edges of his soul.

He hated this feeling. This weakness. This longing.

But he couldn’t extinguish it either.

He would act upon his desire—soon. That much he knew.

Yet not now. Not by force. Not while her heart was still learning the rhythm of his.

He would give her time.

Even if the fire inside him refused to dim. Even if each second apart felt like torment.

Even if the taste of her from before haunted him like a sacred sin.

"...Aurevia."

He whispered her name aloud—only once.

It echoed through his phantom form like a confession in a cathedral.

Somewhere beneath, the conspirators readied themselves.

Somewhere behind the curtain, Aurevia took a calming breath.

And above it all, Alaric waited.

Not because he feared what was to come.

But because the real battle... was within.

***

Crydias Estate – Arcane Auction Hall, Thirty Minutes Before the Final Item

For the man known to society as Lord Caldrith Veinos Varn, the moment had finally arrived.

A noble by name, a traitor by purpose, and a visionary by instinct, Caldrith sat with ease in the heart of Velmora’s pride—the Crydias estate’s arcane auction hall, nestled within velvet seats and champagne murmurs.

What the world saw: a minor lord enjoying rare artifacts.

What they didn’t: a revolution sharpened to a single edge, years in the making.

The Thirteenth Dusk had operated in shadow for nearly a century, but tonight, the silence would break.

At the heart of their plan was a [High-Tier Grade 5] Spatial Gate Artifact—one of the few remaining relics from the Old Aetheric War. Unlike simple teleportation talismans, this gate did not displace.

It linked.

With a stable anchor, it could form a doorway—between two points, up to 10,000 meters apart—for nine full seconds. Enough time for three [Rank-5] combatants to breach, seize, and retreat.

The anchor point would be the [Grade-5] Mana Crystal when it was placed on stage, fully exposed to the room’s spatial field.

Their operatives waited offsite, cloaked within a hidden chamber near the Velmoran commercial quarter—still within range, carefully attuned to the moment they’d activate the gate and bring devastation.

They would rip open a gate, snatch the crystal, trigger a dungeon gate surge, and amid the collapse... assassinate the royal family.

Velmora would fall.

And Caldrith Veinos Varn would rise.

But Then—She Walked Out

Aurevia stepped onto the stage.

Not a noble. Not a herald.

A slave.

She stood with calm, elegant composure—but when her aura bloomed, it tore every expectation to pieces.

[Peak-Rank 5].

The formation above the ceiling shimmered. Magical ambient pressure shifted. Even seasoned nobles leaned back subconsciously. She wasn’t just powerful—she moved with lethal grace.

She could reach any point on the stage in under a second. She could cut the arm off anyone who moved for the crystal. She could intercept the gate before it opened.

And worse... she was owned.

He had enslaved her.

Caldrith’s lips tightened, but he betrayed no outward emotion. Inside, however, his soul trait—[Path of Tension]—fired like a horn of war.

Change the plan. Now. Or we all die.

-To Be Continued