When Renard finally opened his eyes again, the sun had climbed higher into the sky, its warmth bleeding through the thin stone walls of his room. His body still felt sluggish, not from fatigue but from the aftermath of everything that had transpired just hours ago.

He lay there for a few heartbeats longer, gathering his thoughts, ensuring the mask he wore was firmly in place.

Then he rose.

He dressed as any other student might—efficiently, with the practiced rhythm of someone used to structure. Boa remained coiled quietly under the folds of his robe, silent and obedient.

Renard joined the other students in the hallway with the same quiet nods and brief exchanges. If any of them noticed his brief absence during the morning meal, they didn't mention it. Nor did they question the slight darkness beneath his eyes.

When he entered the classroom, he smiled casually at the girl with dark hair who always sat beside him.

The teacher arrived and began the morning lecture on elemental essence refinement. Renard took notes with practiced ease. He didn't need the information—he had Elder Thomas's knowledge tucked away like a secret vault inside his mind—but he scribbled just enough to appear engaged.

As the instructor droned on, Renard let his attention drift for a moment. With a subtle thought, he opened his Providence window—visible only to him.

[Providence State]

[Name: Renard Grim]

[Age: 14]

[Gender: Male]

[Zone: Essence Zone]

[Title: Devourer's Heir]

[Blood Crest: Eternal Hunger (Primordial - Partially Awakened) | Wild Heart (Royal)]

[Crest Abilities: Devour (F) | Prajna (F) | Pact of the Wild (F) | Guardian Beast Sigil (F)]

[Contracted Beasts: Boa (Keth'mor)]

[Stolen Abilities (2/2): (---------) ]

[Devoured Abilities (2/2): Beast Mimicry (F) | Night Vision (F)]

[Sealed Abilities: Devourer's Rage (F)]

His gaze narrowed slightly.

The Stolen Abilities slot, which had been empty for so long, was now filled—but not with a name. Just blank space. Dashes. As if something was there but undefined. A ghost of power without identity.

"What…?" he murmured under his breath.

He stared at the phantom entry. It hadn't registered as a ability, spell, or physical trait. It was something else—likely the knowledge, the memories, the theoretical mastery he'd ripped from Elder Thomas.

But the system hadn't accepted it fully.

It was still labeled Stolen. Still marked as Other. Not Devoured. Not truly his.

"Because it isn't mine yet," he thought grimly.

The understanding hadn't been integrated. The memories lingered like foreign ink in his bloodstream—waiting to be absorbed, aligned, and accepted. Until then, they would remain dormant, inaccessible by instinct.

He leaned back slightly, brushing his fingers over his temple, as though the action could steady the swirl in his mind.

'I have to find a way to make it mine.'

But not now.

He straightened his posture and forced his attention back to the lesson. The instructor was speaking about fire-elemental stability and the conversion of ambient essence through the heart's proximity.

Renard scribbled a few notes—words he didn't need, concepts he already understood—but they served their purpose.

Throughout the day, he engaged in idle conversations, nodded along to peers' complaints about training, and even made a joke or two during their brief rest period.

No one looked at him strangely.

No one whispered behind his back.

The world hadn't changed.

At least, not yet.

By the time the sun dipped behind the mountains and students filed into the dining hall for their evening meal, Renard allowed himself a small exhale of relief. The day had passed without incident. No alarm. No suspicion. Just the slow, grinding routine of life in the Silent Monastery.

He ate quietly and returned to his quarters when the bell rang. Boa stretched once before retreating beneath his robe again. He lay on the stone cot, staring at the ceiling.

It had worked.

The memory. The cover. The illusion.

But something still lingered within him—unclaimed.

For now.

***

Three days passed.

Routine became Renard's greatest weapon. He blended perfectly. Attended every session, completed every exercise, nodded at every passing instructor. To the outside world, he was just another gifted fire student.

But on the fourth day, something changed.

It began subtly—quiet conversations between instructors in the hallway, voices lowered and urgent. A few teachers remained behind after class instead of rushing to their next schedule. The headmaster's aide was seen climbing toward the instructor quarters twice in one afternoon.

By that evening, the monastery felt tense in a way only Renard could perceive.

Elder Thomas was missing.

At first, the teachers handled it quietly, as if expecting him to return. But by the fifth day, whispers reached the students. Some said he had left on a secret mission. Others whispered that he had been reassigned to the Inner Hall. A few joked that he had finally snapped and left the monastery to live among the farmers.

But the truth was simpler.

He was gone. Without a trace.

And now, the monastery wanted answers.

Renard watched carefully as the spells began.

Search rituals. Divination circles. Tracking glyphs scrawled into the air with glowing chalk. Mages walked the halls late into the night, hands glowing with spiritual energy as they scanned the walls, the floors, even the air.

But they found nothing.

Not a single thread of essence. No traces. No signs of violence. Nothing that led them even an inch closer to the truth.

Renard knew why.

He hadn't done the cleanup.

Kasim had.

A shadow among shadows. A ghost within the monastery walls. That man had made Elder Thomas vanish like smoke in the wind.

Renard stood on a balcony that night, watching the moon hang over the jagged mountains. Below, he could see flickers of blue and gold as another sweep of magical sensors combed the stone walkways.

He lowered his gaze.

"Thank you," he whispered.

He didn't know where Kasim was now. Didn't know if the man was listening, or watching.

But he meant it.

Because if Kasim hadn't been there, if Renard had been left to clean up that body on his own... this search would've ended differently.

The monastery was looking for a shadow.

And they would find nothing but silence.

The next morning, a formal announcement was made. Elder Thomas was declared "on retreat," assigned a sudden but urgent mission by the Inner Monastery—one none of the students or low-ranking instructors could question.

The students accepted it with the distracted apathy only youth can afford. But the instructors—some were clearly uneasy. Renard saw it in their eyes, the subtle glances, the undercurrent of fear that came from knowing someone of Thomas's rank didn't just vanish without cause.

That fear worked in Renard's favor.

Fear made people look inward. Quiet. Hesitant.

And he needed quiet. He needed time.

Because every night, when he returned to his room, he could feel the weight of the knowledge inside him—still unintegrated, still foreign.

Each evening, he would close his eyes and dive into the mental vault of stolen memory. He sifted through it bit by bit, letting small pieces settle into the shape of understanding. He repeated complex circle patterns in his mind until they became second nature. He cross-referenced fire flow charts with his own innate instincts, verifying what he'd stolen.

It was working.

Slowly, painfully, but it was working.

The blank entry on his Providence hadn't changed yet, but it felt less… alien. As if, day by day, he was earning what he had taken.

Boa remained close, unusually quiet. She spent more time coiled in his shadow, rarely leaving his side unless necessary. It was as if she, too, felt the storm brewing.

Then came the inspection.

On the eighth day after Thomas's disappearance, the monastery's Circle Masters arrived.

They were not teachers. They were enforcers.

Clad in robes that shimmered with internal glyphs, three of them arrived by sky-tether, descending on a platform of floating stone. Their eyes were hard, and their questions sharper.

Every student was questioned.

Where were you? What did you see? Did you notice anything unusual?

When it was Renard's turn, he bowed with perfect etiquette and answered with careful confidence.

"I spent the evening in the practice hall with group seven. I returned before curfew and went straight to my room."

"Alone?" one of the Circle Masters asked.

"Yes, sir."

"What is your elemental alignment?"

"Fire and minor wind," Renard replied. "Though my cultivation leans heavier toward fire."

"Understood. You may go."

They didn't press further.

They didn't know what to look for.

And that was Renard's greatest strength—his crimes were so far outside their expectations that even the most invasive of spells wouldn't detect them.

He wasn't just hidden.

He was invisible.

That night, alone again in his room, Renard opened his Providence one more time.

The stolen slot still held its blank name.

So he decided to try something new.

---***---