Renard sat back on his heels, hands trembling, sweat trailing down his temple as the lingering effects of Devour rippled through him. The bathroom was silent save for the occasional drip of water from the basin. The corpse of Elder Thomas lay sprawled across the floor, expression frozen in a moment of disbelief. Boa curled protectively near Renard's side, watching him intently, her tongue flicking as if sensing the shift in his soul.

He had done something unheard of, yet again!

He hadn't just stolen magic.

He had stolen memory.

A man's thoughts, experiences, interpretations of knowledge—the very architecture of Elder Thomas's magical understanding now resided inside Renard's mind. And it wasn't a simple download. No, it was a chaotic storm of fragments, jagged and unaligned.

Renard closed his eyes and touched his forehead.

He could still feel it—the buzzing, like static under his skin. The foreign thoughts pulsed like a second heartbeat inside his skull. If he let his focus drift for even a moment, visions threatened to overwhelm him.

The absorption was not perfect yet, far from it, Renard could feel that what he absorbed was just a part of Thomas' memory and it wasn't stable enough yet!

"Focus," he whispered.

Renard took a deep breath and let his mind sink inward. Instead of pushing the memories away, he welcomed them. Like opening the pages of a disorganized tome, he began flipping through the chaos. One by one, images settled. Words aligned.

First, the spells.

Ritual structures for circle binding. Essence weaving principles. Adjustments for atmospheric anomalies. He mentally tagged and stored these with the discipline of a seasoned archivist. They weren't useful yet—not for deception, not for combat—but they formed the foundation of a mage's technical mastery. They were pieces of Thomas's intellectual spine.

Then came the students.

Names, faces, aptitudes. Notes scrawled in evaluations. Dozens of minds, ranked, criticized, and shaped by Thomas's judgment. These were unnecessary, but Renard let them pass through his awareness thinking that might be useful. Even the irrelevant memories held emotional context, and emotions anchored understanding.

And then—he found what he needed most.

Circle formation.

Thomas's magnum opus. Dozens of variants. Personal refinements layered upon ancient scripts. The way the man thought about the process was illuminating.

"It's not a structure you carve—it's a structure you grow," Renard murmured aloud, echoing Thomas's favorite analogy.

He saw diagrams now. Clean. Precise. Circles revolving around the heart. Each ring layered with intentional imbalance to stimulate harmony. Specific resonance frequencies for essence types. Protocols to dampen dual-source conflicts—essential for Renard's own dual-crested body.

This is gold.

Renard didn't just learn how to form a First Circle. He learned how to simulate it. Thomas had kept secret records—methods to create faux manifestations for students with spiritual disabilities, to boost monastery recruitment numbers.

If Renard could reverse-engineer that, he could fake a Circle without undergoing the real process, wait...what if he could create a circle for real!

'Let's not get ahead of myself'

His current situation with two bloodcrest was risky enough, he didn't want to complicate it more than that. More than that, he had not even made full use of even one of his bloodcrest yet, it would too greedy to try learning magic too at this point in time.

Right when he was thinking of such things, he felt giddy and sick.

His knees buckled slightly, and he leaned against the cool stone wall of the bathroom. Boa slithered up his sleeve and pressed her head near his neck, sensing his weakening state. The tiny beast's warmth grounded him.

'Not yet'

His work wasn't done.

There was still the matter of cleanup.

He turned his gaze to Thomas's body. Already stiffening, eyes glassy, limbs cooling. Time was running short. He needed to dispose of the corpse and erase every trace of what had happened here.

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a folded piece of dark cloth—a magical cleanser from his preparation kit. Originally meant for Circle sterilization, it would serve well for what he was about to do.

First, the blood.

He wiped every surface. The washbasin. The floor. The spot where Thomas's head had struck the wall. Every trace of their struggle had to vanish. The cloth absorbed essence as well, ensuring no magical residue lingered.

Next, the corpse.

Renard looked at the cold corpse with equally cold eyes.

But before he could act, a voice cut through the silence like a dagger.

"Let me handle the corpse."

Renard spun around instantly. His body moved before thought could catch up—essence surged to his fingertips, condensing into a piercing strike aimed directly at the intruder's face.

But the man caught his wrist with effortless precision.

Their eyes locked.

Renard froze.

"…Kasim."

The energy in his hand flickered and died.

He slowly lowered his arm, the reality of what just happened settling into his bones. "Sorry," he muttered, breathing hard. "I acted on instinct."

Kasim didn't answer.

Without a word, he stepped past Renard and knelt beside Elder Thomas's body, examining the corpse with a calm, unreadable expression. His movements were quiet, deliberate—clinical. Not a trace of hesitation.

Renard remained frozen in place. Watching.

He had almost forgotten.

Kasim was supposed to be watching over him. It was very likely he had seen everything—if not the act itself, then certainly the aftershock. He might have glimpsed the tendrils of dark energy when Renard invoked Devour. Maybe even sensed the essence warping unnaturally during the absorption.

And yet… Kasim said nothing.

No questions. No judgment. Just a task to complete, as if this was expected.

Renard's throat tightened. Was it acceptance? Was it restraint? Or something deeper—something unreadable, like the man himself?

"You should return to your quarters, young master," Kasim said, still facing the corpse, his tone devoid of accusation or warmth.

Renard hesitated. There were a dozen questions caught in his throat. But none escaped.

He nodded slowly. "Right."

His eyes lingered on Kasim's back for a moment longer—searching for meaning, for approval, or perhaps even condemnation.

But Kasim didn't move. Didn't look back.

Renard turned and slipped into the shadows, his steps silent, precise.

Whatever questions lingered between them would have to wait.

For now, the mission continued.

***

Renard reached his quarters just as the first pale strands of morning light spilled through the high window above his bed.

He eased the door shut behind him, locking it quietly, and leaned back against the cold stone. His breathing was calm, but his body still felt like it had been scraped hollow. The memory-absorption process, the fight, the knowledge surge—then the sudden appearance of Kasim—it was all still circling inside his skull like wild birds refusing to land.

He moved across the room with careful steps, not out of caution but exhaustion. Every muscle felt one breath away from cramping. Boa uncoiled from around his wrist, slithering silently up to the small desk, curling into a tight spiral on the wooden surface like a worn-out sentinel finally at rest.

The sky outside was bleeding from charcoal to gold now, light crawling slowly over the jagged silhouette of the distant peaks.

He'd made it.

Despite everything—despite the delay from the Devour, despite the risk of being caught, despite the weight of what he'd done—he had returned exactly on time. No alarms. No suspicion.

If anything, the monastery was just beginning to wake.

Renard moved to the washbasin in the corner of his room. He splashed cold water onto his face, suppressing a shiver as it soaked into his collar. He looked up into the tiny mirror set into the wall.

His reflection stared back at him—young, calm, expressionless.

But beneath the surface… he could feel it.

The knowledge. The power. The change.

He dried his face and let the cloth fall into the basin.

From the corridor, he could hear faint sounds now—doors creaking open, the shuffle of feet, whispered voices rising in sleepy fragments. Students stirring. Another day beginning. Another layer of illusion to maintain.

But not yet.

Not for him.

Renard pulled off his outer robe and sank into his narrow bed, letting the scratchy blanket fall over him. The stone mattress was unyielding, as always, but right now it felt like a luxury.

He stared at the ceiling for a long while.

His mind was still processing everything. Thomas's knowledge hadn't fully integrated—he could feel it sitting like thick ink in the corners of his thoughts. He'd have to refine it over time, organize it, make it his own. But that would come later.

For now… he had done enough.

The fight. The Devour. The cleanup. Kasim.

A lot had happened. Too much for one night.

He exhaled slowly, his body finally beginning to relax.

He didn't know why Kasim hadn't asked any questions. He didn't know how much the man had seen. But his presence had saved Renard precious time. Without him, Renard might have returned late. Might have been seen. Might have been caught.

It wasn't just help—it was trust.

And that made it more dangerous.

But it wasn't a problem for now.

The sun crested the ridgeline outside, light spilling into the room in long, golden blades. Voices in the hallway grew louder. Students were waking fully now, heading toward their morning wash and the day's first lesson.

Renard didn't move.

He closed his eyes.

For the next few hours, he was just another student in the monastery—sleeping in his room like everyone else.

And if he dreamed… well, he made sure they were quiet.

---***---