That night, alone in the quiet gloom of his stone-walled room, Renard sat cross-legged atop the cot with his Providence still shimring faintly in his mind's eye. The stolen slot continued to display its blank presence—silent, unidentified, yet undeniably full.
It hadn't resolved.
But sothing tugged at his thoughts—a thread of possibility. A spark buried in the noise.
'I've been trying to claim it all at once,' Renard realized as he was sat in the dark.
What he had absorbed from Thomas wasn't ability but Knowldege and knowledge was not a thing that can be claimbed, it is sothing that should be learned!
'But maybe that's not how it works.'
Layers of pedagogy, research, speculation, and refined wisdom etched across decades of magical instruction. And perhaps, like any deep learning, it couldn't be forced into place. It had to be earned, through repetition, recognition, and retention.
He took a slow breath and reached inward—not toward the system, but toward the mindscape where Thomas's fragnted mories had settled. It was a chaotic place, crowded with half-ford diagrams, shifting terms, and echoing voices.
But now, he focused.
He searched for one piece.
A basic formation—the fire convergence ring for essence calibration, one of the simpler diagrams Thomas had perfected.
He found it, shimring in the void.
Instead of letting the mory play back passively, Renard copied it. Stroke by stroke. Line by line. He recreated the formation from scratch inside his mind, speaking aloud as he traced its curves with his thoughts.
"Three-fold spiral... weave essence clockwise, then center-pinch at convergence node... reinforce using minor wind essence to preserve stability."
He repeated it.
Then again.
Each ti, it grew clearer. Less like a mory. More like his own thought.
And then—he felt sothing shift.
His Providence flickered. A subtle pulse. The blank slot twitched, as though acknowledging the echo.
But it didn't resolve.
Renard exhaled.
'Not enough.'
Still, it was progress. For the first ti, he had touched the boundary. The stolen knowledge wasn't locked—it was dormant. And it would awaken one layer at a ti, if he could learn it by heart.
Not just recall it, but embody it.
He spent the next hour working through more fragnts. Circle layering. Reverse layering. Spell node conditioning. Every concept he recovered from Thomas, he reconstructed—diagramd it in the air with glowing essence, then forced himself to explain it aloud as though he were teaching soone else.
So of it ca easier than expected. So of it resisted him—like Thomas's convoluted shorthand or his ntal tricks for mory retrieval.
Boa stirred once or twice, but otherwise remained curled near the base of his bed, sensing the ntal labor without interfering.
Renard paused only when the night grew cold enough for his breath to fog.
The Providence still hadn't changed.
But the weight in his head had.
He felt lighter—not because the knowledge had faded, but because it had shifted into familiarity. Like a language he once knew as a child, now being rembered.
'This is the path,' he realized.
'Not brute force. Not assimilation but Repetition.'
Although he had obtained the knowledge with a shortcut, keeping it was in his own hands - he had to keep repeating and rehearsing them to actually earn them for himself and until then, his stolen ability slots would be kept occupied!
Ending his training here for now, Renard extinguished the pale glyphs still hanging in the air and climbed under the blanket. The stone beneath him was as unforgiving as ever, but his thoughts were calr.
For the first ti since the Devour, he felt like he had a thod.
It wouldn't be quick. It wouldn't be easy.
But it was doable.
If he could learn fast enough, he could present that knowledge in public without arousing suspicion. If questioned, he could speak with the voice of a scholar, not a thief.
And eventually… maybe the system would recognize it as truly his.
His eyes fluttered closed, and he murmured one last phrase to himself:
"mory becos mastery, one thought at a ti."
And with that, he slept.
***
The next morning began like any other—but the undercurrent of excitent was unmistakable.
Today was the day of the First Circle Ceremony.
Renard sat up before the morning bell rang. The chill of dawn lingered in the stones beneath his feet, but his mind was already awake, sharpened by purpose and anxiety. This was the stage he had been preparing for since he'd arrived at the monastery. The mont where talent was recognized—or broken.
And for him, it was more than ceremony.
It was a test of deception.
He dressed carefully, checking every fold of his uniform, every placent of his crest pin. Boa nestled silently beneath his sleeve, her coils loose and relaxed—as if she, too, understood that calm was survival.
When Renard entered the hallway, he found dozens of students already gathering, whispering among themselves. So looked excited. Others anxious. A few were desperately trying to revise circle theory in their heads.
Renard blended in seamlessly.
He offered nods, shared a quiet smile with a passing classmate, and answered questions with practiced ease.
When he entered the lecture hall, Elder Mariam was already waiting for them.
She was a tall woman with eyes that could freeze a furnace, her grey robes etched with old, faded sigils. The class fell into silence as she raised her hand.
"Today," she said, "you will leave behind the identity of re students. Today, you will attempt to open your first spiritual circle—and earn the right to call yourselves cultivators."
Her voice echoed through the stone chamber.
"You will follow now to the Hall of Foundation. Speak to no one. Bring only your will."
With that, she turned.
The students followed in a tight line, nerves humming through the air like a current. The passage they took was unfamiliar—downward, deeper than the training halls, past runes that shimred faintly against the darkness.
Renard walked in the middle of the group, heart steady.
This was it.
The ceremony had begun.
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