At least, that was his rank now.

To be more specific—he and the others with him yesterday were given the rank of an apprentice mage or a 1-circle mage. The ceremonial bronze pin on his robes caught the morning light as he moved through the corridors, its simple design marking him as one of the newly inducted. Around him, other fresh initiates wore similar pins with varying degrees of pride or nervousness.

His performance in the trial had even earned him small nods from instructors, some of his peers were also glancing at him as he moved. The way Elder Thorne had lingered after announcing his results, the slight upturn at the corner of Instructor Vale's mouth when their eyes met—these were the subtle acknowledgments that marked him as someone to watch. Not exceptional enough to draw unwanted scrutiny, but competent enough to earn respect.

As usual there were whispers in the hallways.

"Did you see how cleanly he formed that essence spiral?"

"I heard he completed the resonance test in half the usual time."

"My roommate said Elder Mariam actually smiled when she saw his formation work."

Renard caught fragments of these conversations as he passed, each whisper a thread in the web of reputation he was carefully weaving. In his previous life, such attention would have filled him with genuine pride. Now, it was merely another tool—a means to an end that burned in his chest with cold purpose.

Renard kept his composure, offering modest smiles when praised, answering with humility when asked about his experience. He played the role to perfection. He had to. Because now, the real mission began.

"Renard!" called out Marcus, a stocky boy from the western provinces who had bunked near him during the trial period. "Care to join us for morning practice? We're working on essence channeling exercises."

"Of course," Renard replied, his voice carrying just the right amount of enthusiasm. "Though I suspect you'll find my technique rather unremarkable."

Marcus laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Unremarkable? After yesterday's display? Come now, don't be so modest."

As they walked toward the practice yards, Renard allowed himself to be drawn into casual conversation, his mind already cataloguing every detail of their route. The worn stones beneath their feet spoke of centuries of student passage. The way certain corridors felt heavier with residual magical energy. The barely perceptible hum that grew stronger as they approached areas where advanced magic was regularly practiced.

Everything was information. Everything mattered.

Hobbren's daughter.

That was his reason for coming to the monastery in the first place. The daughter of the Martial King, who had been taken and spirited away into one of the most fortified magical sanctuaries in the world. Her name echoed in his thoughts like a prayer and a curse combined: Irene Aster. The girl whose actions in his previous life had set in motion the catastrophe that destroyed everything he held dear.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He had come here seeking revenge, driven by memories of betrayal and loss. But those very memories had also shown him the true scope of what was to come—the greater threat that made his personal grievances seem almost petty in comparison. The girl he had once wanted to destroy was now the girl he needed to save, not for her sake, but for the sake of everyone who would suffer if the timeline played out as it had before.

From the moment he entered the Monastery, he had been constantly keeping an eye out for her.

In the Inner Hall.

But Renard could not reach the Inner Hall yet. Not as he was now.

The Inner Hall loomed like a distant mountain peak—visible, imposing, but seemingly unreachable. Its towers rose beyond the Outer Hall's boundaries, wrapped in layers of protective enchantments that made the air itself shimmer with barely contained power. Even from a distance, Renard could feel the weight of those defenses, like invisible pressure against his skin.

So he began the search. Quietly. Systematically.

Every class, every corridor, every shadow was a potential thread. During lectures, while others memorized incantations or drew formation circles, Renard was memorizing floor plans. Professor Aldric's voice would drone on about the theoretical foundations of elemental manipulation, and Renard would nod attentively while his eyes traced the architectural details of the lecture hall—the way support beams were positioned, the subtle variations in stonework that might indicate hidden passages, the flow patterns of ambient magical energy.

He traced the patterns of magical energy that ran through the walls, noting where they converged or vanished. The monastery was built like a vast magical circuit, with essence flowing through carved channels in the stone itself. Most students never noticed these patterns, focused as they were on their own internal cultivation. But Renard had learned in his previous life to read such things, and now that knowledge served him well.

The energy flows told stories. Main arteries pulsed with the steady rhythm of foundational ward networks. Smaller tributaries carried power to specific rooms and functions. But there were gaps—dead zones where the energy simply stopped, and mysterious convergences where multiple streams met for purposes he couldn't yet determine.

His cover gave him leverage. With his new status as a First Circle student, instructors gave him access to restricted areas—advanced practice halls, minor artifact storage rooms, inner-courtyard gardens. Each privilege was earned through careful displays of competence and reliability.

"Renard," Instructor Kaine had said after a particularly successful demonstration of ward-weaving, "I believe you're ready for independent practice in the Resonance Chamber. The key will be available to you during evening hours."

The Resonance Chamber. A specialized room where students could practice advanced techniques without interference from ambient magical fields. More importantly, it was located in a wing of the Outer Hall that bordered the Inner Hall's outer perimeter.

He used each opportunity to map a little more of the monastery's true shape. The Resonance Chamber provided access to a balcony that overlooked a section of the Inner Hall's gardens. From there, he could observe patrol patterns and study the behavior of the advanced students who moved with casual confidence through areas he couldn't yet reach.

The artifact storage rooms contained detailed inventories that revealed the scope of the monastery's resources. Protective items, scrying tools, communication devices—all catalogued with meticulous care. Some entries were marked with restricted access codes, suggesting they were reserved for higher-ranking members.

The inner-courtyard gardens proved most valuable of all. Ostensibly places of meditation and reflection, they were actually carefully designed sensor networks. The placement of each tree, each flower bed, each decorative stone served a purpose in the monastery's overall detection grid. Understanding these patterns would be crucial for any future infiltration attempts.

It was slow work.

And dangerous.

He couldn't let his curiosity seem unnatural. Couldn't ask too many questions or linger too long. Every action had to fit the profile of an eager but unremarkable new student. Too much interest in restricted areas would mark him as suspicious. Too little engagement would make him forgettable, which was almost as bad.

The balance required constant attention. When exploring the artifact storage rooms, he made sure to spend time examining the mundane items as well as the interesting ones. When studying the garden layouts, he carried meditation texts and appeared to be seeking quiet study spots. When observing patrol patterns, he timed his presence to coincide with evening relaxation periods when students commonly took walks.

More than once, he caught the sharp eye of Elder Mariam trailing him, as if testing the boundaries of his persona. The elderly woman had an unsettling way of appearing around corners just as he was examining something particularly interesting. Her presence felt like a weight against his consciousness—not hostile, exactly, but intensely evaluative.

"Admiring the stonework, young Renard?" she had asked one evening, materializing beside him as he studied the energy convergence patterns in the eastern corridor.

"The craftsmanship is remarkable," he had replied smoothly. "I was trying to understand how the builders achieved such perfect symmetry. The precision must have required incredible skill."

Elder Mariam had smiled then, a expression that didn't reach her eyes. "Indeed. The monastery's builders were... very thorough in their work. Every stone placed with purpose, every line drawn with intent." Her gaze had lingered on his face for a long moment before she continued on her way.

But he was careful.

Always careful.

The persona he maintained was that of a studious, respectful young man with healthy curiosity about his new environment. He asked questions, but framed them in terms of academic interest. He explored, but always with plausible reasons. He observed, but never in ways that suggested he was gathering intelligence.

In the evenings, after classes and training, he returned to his quarters and poured his observations into a mental map. A three-dimensional construct built from memory and essence-sensing, refined with each passing day. The small room assigned to him became a sanctuary where he could finally drop his guard and process the day's intelligence.

---***---