CHAPTER 56: 56

The room was silent.

Virellen’s grin had vanished, fading into a stunned stillness that matched the other three. Even the warm lamplight seemed to hesitate, flickering against the tension that clung to the air.

He said it.

Alaric had said it without hesitation—Yes. I’m jealous.

Aurevia’s lips parted slightly, crimson eyes wide. Cellione had frozen mid-breath, and Serineth’s cup tilted dangerously before she caught it with trembling fingers.

The door shut gently behind him.

"...Did that really just happen?"

Virellen whispered after a long pause, blinking rapidly.

"He’s never said it that clearly before,"

Cellione murmured, cheeks flushed.

"Like, straight-up jealous. Out loud."

Aurevia’s hand went to her collar.

"He’s getting bolder,"

She said softly, but there was a quiet pride in her tone.

"Not just as our Master—but as himself."

Serineth gave a small smile behind her teacup.

"It made my heart skip."

Virellen sighed dramatically, but her smirk returned.

"Well, now I actually have to make the veils look divine. Something so breathtaking that even the gods would envy."

***

Elsewhere, Across the City...

Whispers had begun to circulate like wind before a coming storm.

In drawing rooms and parlors, noble estates lit candles for sudden emergency meetings. Letters flew by crow and magic pulse. Wine glasses clinked nervously.

"Something will be revealed at the auction."

—That’s what the Emberdrop Pavilion’s representative had said.

Some called it a bluff. Others called it a warning. But all of them—nobles, merchant princes, and foreign dignitaries alike—felt the ground shift beneath their feet.

And then came the second revelation.

"The Pavilion accepts not only coin—but land deeds, exclusive rights, and even individuals."

"Only females."

"Only the highly talented."

A cold silence swept through aristocratic halls. One noblewoman spat her tea. Another immediately summoned her third daughter and began testing her magic affinity.

At the embassy of a distant eastern kingdom, a veiled emissary murmured,

"So they truly are building an empire within the shell of a restaurant..."

In the shadowed alcoves of Velerra’s mercantile council, cloaked figures cursed.

"They’re moving faster than expected."

"Should we intervene?"

"No. We observe. For now."

Not like they can do anything in the first place.

***

The Next Morning — Emberdrop Pavilion

A skilled artisan near the heart of Caerywn’s Tailor Row jolted upright as his workshop door opened.

Standing beneath the threshold, dressed in black with an air that stilled even the morning birds, was Alaric.

The tailor bowed instinctively, though he had never met the man.

"Welcome, my lord. What might I—"

"I need four veils,"

Alaric said calmly.

"Not decorative. Functional. Absolute concealment. Magical interference. Face untraceable. Identity unassailable. Make it beautiful. But make it untouchable."

The tailor blinked.

"I’ll... I’ll have to call in my best enchanters."

"Do that,"

Alaric replied, handing over a pouch of coins so full it clanked like armor.

"I’ll return in two days."

Then, without another word, he turned and walked out.

***

Afternoon — Capital Branch of the Slave Trader Guild

Alaric arrived without fanfare, though the moment his boot crossed the marbled threshold, attendants scrambled.

He was swiftly led to a velvet-draped VIP room. A faint aroma of cinnamon tea wafted from porcelain cups. The slave trader— the same man from Veldroth —entered moments later, face lit with delight.

"Lord Alaric!"

He exclaimed, voice dripping with rehearsed warmth.

"As expected of you. You haven’t even been in the capital a full month and yet... you’ve shaken the entire country! Truly, you never fail to impress!"

Alaric gave him a flat look.

"What do you mean?"

The man blinked.

"W-What I meant was—those things. The Pavilion. The rumors..."

"Ah,"

Alaric said, voice cold.

"Then perhaps you’ve forgotten why I’m here."

The trader bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the floor.

"Please forgive me, Lord Alaric. My tongue is old and foolish. You came for the girls. The twenty-four."

Alaric’s eyes narrowed.

"Have they arrived?"

"They have,"

The trader said quickly, straightening.

"Treated with the utmost care—freshly bathed daily, given private quarters. And of course... all are pure. As requested."

Alaric didn’t respond immediately. But a faint smile touched his lips for a heartbeat.

He raised his hand.

CLINK—

Gold rained onto the table, pouring like a waterfall from an unseen pouch. The slave trader’s eyes nearly burst from his skull.

"That should cover the cost,"

Alaric said.

"Whatever’s left, take it as their tip."

The trader visibly shuddered, dreams of retirement painting themselves anew in his eyes.

"Lord Alaric... about the timing?"

"Keep them here,"

Alaric replied.

"I’ll pick them up after the auction. Or not. Depends on how things go."

The man bowed again.

"Of course. Anything for you, my lord."

Alaric didn’t even glance back as he left. The trader remained bowed, forehead nearly scraping the carpet, until the echo of Alaric’s footsteps had vanished completely.

*****

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

*****

The tailor room had once been a dusty side chamber for linen repairs and moth-bitten noble coats.

Now, it was bathed in soft sunlight, woven through tall windows and filtered by enchanted glass panes. Bolts of rare fabric lined the walls.

Gold-thread needles hovered midair, suspended by invisible hands. The floor gleamed with polished wood, and the scent of lavender wax lingered like a memory of gentler days.

In the center of the room stood a long table, and atop it: four veils.

They were unlike anything the girls had seen before.

Alaric stood beside the table, arms folded, the morning light brushing against his cheekbone like a divine artist’s hand. His expression was unreadable—neither proud nor nervous, but something in between. Thoughtful. Measured. Quietly waiting.

The girls stood just beyond the threshold, silent. None of them moved until he spoke.

"I had these made for you,"

He said. His voice was low. Not commanding, not even formal. Just... sincere.

"Each one is enchanted. To veil your identity, mask your mana, suppress traceability. They are beautiful, yes—but they are also armor. Made for a stage you cannot afford to face bare."

No one spoke.

Alaric exhaled.

"Try them on. If you don’t like them, I’ll change them. This time, your comfort comes first."

Aurevia stepped forward first. Her fingers brushed the white veil, the one embroidered in faint silver like frost across a lake.

It was light—weightless, almost—but when she held it up to the sun, the rays bent away, as if the world itself refused to pierce its modesty.

She slowly fastened it around her head. When the veil settled, it transformed her—not by hiding, but by elevating. Her crimson eyes peeked through the filmy layer like twin embers in winter fog.

The others stared.

"You look..."

Serineth began, voice barely above a whisper,

"...untouchable."

Aurevia tilted her head toward Alaric.

"This was your design?"

He nodded once.

Aurevia didn’t smile, but the look in her eyes softened. Deepened.

Next was Serineth.

Her veil was dyed in tones of storm-dusk and woven through with threads of violet starfire. It fluttered as she picked it up, like it had a breath of its own.

She hesitated before putting it on, her fingers trembling slightly. But when the cloth fell over her, her blue eyes became pools in shadowed twilight—mysterious, haunting, beautiful.

Cellione stepped forward and clapped gently.

"You look like a prophet who wandered out of a dream,"

She said with rare admiration.

Serineth flushed, half-turning away.

Cellione’s veil was jet-black, simple in design—but its enchantment shimmered along the trim with a fiery gleam, visible only when the light struck at the right angle. She draped it over herself with practiced ease, like donning a mantle of pride.

Alaric watched her closely.

"You don’t feel restricted?"

"Not even a little,"

Cellione replied.

"I feel like a goddess trying not to destroy mortals with one look."

Virellen’s veil was last—silken beige layered with spiraling gold accents, playful and daring. She flipped her hair before fastening it, making sure the veil settled perfectly at the angle that showed just enough while still veiling everything.

When she turned, the light kissed her outline like she was sculpted from sunlight itself.

"Well?"

She said, striking a pose.

"Would the crowd kneel or faint?"

Aurevia sighed.

"Both."

Laughter broke the tension. Just for a moment.

Alaric watched them. A warmth bloomed in his chest—but beneath it, the weight remained.

"...There’s something else,"

He said.

They all turned to him again, the room quieting once more.

He looked down at his hand. Then back at them.

"The twenty-four slave girls I purchased... they’ve arrived. They’re being held at the capital’s branch of the slave trading house, under protection."

He expected reactions.

What he didn’t expect was stillness.

No jealousy. No anger.

Just thoughtful silence.

"I bought them as a foundation,"

He continued.

"For the company. For legacy. But now... I’m not so sure."

He looked at them, one by one. The sword. The flame. The shadow. The storm.

"I don’t want to turn this into a... harem of convenience. I don’t want to collect girls and convince myself it’s all for a higher cause. If any of you feel like I’ve started down that path..."

He swallowed. It was hard to say.

"...Tell me now. I’ll return them. Or find them better homes."

No one spoke.

Aurevia was the first to step forward.

She reached up and removed the veil—slowly, carefully—and placed it on the table. Her crimson eyes met his with unwavering calm.

"You asked us to wear these,"

She said.

"Not because you were ashamed of us, but because you respected what we are. More than faces. More than bodies. We’re symbols of something new."

She stepped closer. Stopped just short of touching him.

"You’re not collecting girls, Master. You’re collecting people who would’ve been lost. People like us."

Cellione walked forward and leaned on the table.

"Just make sure you give them purpose. And make them choose. Like you made us choose."

Serineth added, quietly,

"And never forget who your firsts were."

Virellen rolled her eyes.

"And if you try to treat them better than me, I’ll poison your tea."

The girls laughed.

Even Alaric smiled—genuine, this time.

"Thank you,"

He said. It was all he could say.

He looked again at the veils, now cradled in moonlit air, and then at the women who wore them.

He was not building an empire alone.

He was building it with them.

-To Be Continued