The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

"Do you know anything about tendons and ligaments," Lucian asked.

Terin held his breath. A pulse jumped in his neck, quick and uneven.

Lucian scraped the chair a thumb's width closer, as if testing how the sound sat in the room. His fingers tapped once on the sword hilt, a light touch with no rhythm behind it.

"No," he said before Terin could answer, "you don't."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, posture loose in a way that felt wrong in the cold room.

"So let me fill you in. Tendons sit everywhere a muscle clings to bone. Calf to heel. Kneecap to shin. Biceps to shoulder and elbow. Wrist flexors. All of it." His voice stayed calm, almost conversational, though his eyes never blinked. "Ligaments hold joints together. Inside the knee, at the sides of it, running along the spine."

Terin shifted in the ropes. The chair creaked under the strain.

"Old physicians," Lucian went on, "thought tendons were nerves. Thought they carried spirits that made the body move. Thought ligaments were sacks with fluids. They believed movement happened because the brain pushed animal spirits through tubes."

He tilted his head, studying Terin as if checking whether the man still listened.

Then Lucian slowly straightened, rolling his shoulders once, as if settling into something he enjoyed.

"Then came Valetheth Zarionel, fifth king of Airantis. Ruled in the same age the Sedrons committed half their favorite atrocities." His hand lifted, palm open, tracing an absent pattern in the air.

"Spies everywhere. Betrayals every month. Valetheth had a hobby. He wanted to understand the body. So he opened his spies up and learned from the pieces."

Terin's breathing thinned. His jaw clenched hard enough that a muscle twitched near his ear.

"He wrote a book that shredded every old belief. Tendons barely get blood. They heal slow. They inflame quick. They don't stretch." Lucian leaned closer, the movement small and controlled, his voice lowering without losing its edge.

"Joints are packed with sensory nerves. Pressure makes pain sharp. Stress makes it worse."

He let the words settle before smiling—a small, steady shape that didn't reach his eyes.

"He included a list of dissections as proof. Detailed work." Lucian lifted the sword point off the ground by a finger's width. "Claims he found certain patterns. Personally, I think he lied."

Terin swallowed—one visible, rough motion.

"So," Lucian said, "I want a body to test. To see if he was right. If those cuts reveal what he promised."

He reached out and tapped Terin's knee with the flat of the blade. A light touch. Almost courteous.

"It starts with separating the—"

Terin flinched hard, breath bursting out of him.

"Wait." His voice cracked, then steadied with effort. "Wait. Stop."

Terin's breath caught again. Lucian didn't step back. If anything, he seemed to settle deeper into the chair, as though the interruption confirmed something he'd already expected.

"You're stopping me early," he said. His tone stayed mild, almost most disappointed. "I hadn't even reached the part where you find out how little force it takes to peel a tendon off the bone once the first cut lands. Most people think it requires strength. It doesn't."

He angled the blade a hair closer, not touching, letting the cold of it reach the air between them.

"You'd feel it snap against the joint first. A small sound. Almost polite."

Terin squeezed his eyes shut for half a second. "Wait—please—"

Lucian tilted his head, as if considering whether to grant mercy. Then let the moment run.

"I was also going to explain how the joint locks when the surrounding ligaments panic. How the body tries to protect itself by tightening everything at once." His voice dropped, soft but unwavering.

"It never works. It only gives me clearer targets."

Lucian lifted one brow but didn't move the blade.

Terin shook his head once, shoulders pulling against the ropes as if trying to draw himself back from the edge.

"I'll talk," he forced out, words pushed through gritted teeth. "I said I'll talk."

"Then talk," Lucian said. His tone carried no shift, though the blade hovered a breath higher. "What do you know about the five dots. And who they are."

Terin's shoulders rose in a shallow drag against the ropes. "They… they're called Pentarch." His mouth worked once, as if the word stuck to his teeth. "The five dots are their departments. Palm, Knuckles, Nails, Skin, Dust." His gaze flicked down in panic.

"Which are you?"

"I'm Dust."

Lucian studied him, unreadable. "What was Gundal doing at Seris Valemont's mansion."

"I don't know," Terin said quickly. Too quickly. His breath rasped at the edges. "Gundal deals with nobles. Talking matters. That's all I know. He's a Nail."

Lucian let the silence drape again. The sword point traced a small arc in the air, soundless.

"What do you know about the incident at Coriel. Do you know why they were after the chalice."

Terin shook his head in a short, frantic motion. "No. I swear. I don't." His chest hitched. "All I know is—" He stopped himself, then forced the rest out before Lucian could press him again. "There's going to be a meeting. With someone from the king's council. During the crown prince's engagement."

Lucian's brow dipped a fraction. "Why are they doing all this."

A thin laugh escaped Terin. It trembled, high and sharp, scraping the air like a glass chip dragged across stone.

"We're gardeners," he said. "Tending roots." His voice wavered but held a strange conviction beneath the fear. "Roots of something immense. You won't understand."

Lucian didn't move.

Terin's eyes shone with a feverish glint. "Interrogating me won't do anything. All you're doing is digging your own grave. They'll come…" His breath shuddered out of him. "He'll come. And take his rightful place…"

"What do you mean by they," Lucian asked.

Terin tried to answer—jaw opening, throat working—but the sound collapsed into a hard choke. His eyes rolled upward. His body jerked against the chair, ropes snapping taut as his torso convulsed.

His heels hammered once against the floor. Then again. Then his limbs seized in a stiff, unnatural arch.

Quenya drifted down a hand's span before freezing, the glow around her dimming under Lucian's raised hand.

Terin made a final sharp exhale, shoulders dropping as if something inside had been cut loose.

The room went still.

Terin's jaw cracked open on a breath that didn't belong to him.

"Well," a voice said, relaxed and wrong in the small room. "You were the one watching."

Lucian felt the shift under his skin but his posture stayed steady.

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Author's note: Is anyone still reading?