The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

The silence that followed the command was absolute. The crowd froze, all eyes drawn toward the voice that cut through the rising tension. Students shifted as if a current moved them aside, and soon the source came into view.

A servant pushed a wheelchair toward the fountain, the wooden wheels creaking faintly against the stone. The man seated in it wasn't large or imposing, but the weight of his presence carried farther than height or strength ever could. His dark hair, trimmed short, framed a face lined from years of battle. His right leg was strapped with a brace, the limb stiff and unmoving. Even in the chair, he commanded the space as if the courtyard itself bent to him.

Vencian recognized him at once. Amadeus Navorian. His name surfaced easily from memory—war hero, once High Marshal of the Airantis Elite Legion. A man whose victories against the Sedronian army were still told in taverns. His body bore the cost of that legacy, yet his authority had only grown stronger for it.

Conversations cut short. Those who had laughed a moment ago now swallowed hard. Vencian noticed how even Elías, usually restless, straightened and lowered his gaze slightly.

Amadeus's eyes swept over the scene. He didn't need to raise his voice again. The silence stretched long enough that the two at the center began to falter.

"Deshelve," Amadeus said. One word, quiet but final.

Both obeyed.

Rapheldor's blackened gaze flickered back to normal. Pereneth's smirk thinned before his eyes followed. Neither wanted to be the first to admit defeat, yet the weight pressing down on them made the choice for them.

The murmur in the crowd died entirely. Vencian felt the tension bleed away, though it left behind a strange boredness. For a second, he had expected to watch something rare—a true clash of Arkspren. That possibility vanished with a single order.

Amadeus gestured faintly to both. "What you did here is reckless. The Academy is not a dueling ground. If you want to throw your powers around, do it outside these walls. Here, it will earn you an expulsion."

Rapheldor bristled first. His jaw worked, then his words came in clipped bursts. "Sir, he insulted my family. He pushed until—"

"Enough," Amadeus cut in. "Excuses are the same thing children use when caught fighting in the dirt. Do you expect me to care which insult came first?"

Rapheldor's teeth ground audibly, but he lowered his gaze.

Pereneth, less willing to fold, raised his chin. "Sir, with respect, if an attack on my house is left unanswered, it sets precedent. If I let Herrera spit on my name here, then—"

Amadeus leaned slightly forward in his chair. His stare locked onto Pereneth, and the Chancellor's son faltered mid-sentence. "Then what?" Amadeus asked. "You think these students will respect you more for snarling like a cornered dog? You want to be a leader, Varethion? Learn control. Otherwise, you're nothing more than another brawler with a title."

The silence that followed was sharper than the outburst had been. Pereneth's lips tightened. A retort burned behind his eyes, but the weight of the man before him pressed it down. Finally, he exhaled through his nose, gave a short nod, and turned away. His departure was marked with the scrape of shoes against stone and a loud snort that left no doubt he resented every step.

Rapheldor lingered, fists flexing open and closed. His pride wouldn't let him leave first, yet hesitation chained him in place. His eyes flicked toward the crowd, then back to Amadeus.

"Sir…" He paused, then bowed his head stiffly. "Understood."

Only then did he follow after Pereneth, his stride tight with restrained anger.

Amadeus watched him go before lifting his gaze to the rest of the students. "The rest of you—find something better to do. You came here to study, not to stand gawking at theater."

The dismissal was clear. The crowd thinned quickly, their curiosity yielding to the discomfort of being under Amadeus's scrutiny. A few whispered as they left, but even that died once distance grew.

Beside Vencian, Elías blew out a breath, relief mixed with something else. "Guess that's over," he muttered. He gave Vencian a look, half-expectant. Vencian relented as a response escaped from his mouth.

"They'll only wait for another chance to clash. Especially Pereneth. He can't stand walking away second."

Elías smirked faintly. "And Rapheldor isn't much better. Give him an insult and he'll bite it every time."

Vencian's eyes stayed on Amadeus. "That's why they'll keep dragging everyone else into their quarrels. They'd rather prove themselves loud than prove themselves right."

Elías tilted his head. "Sounds like you've already judged them both."

Vencian replied. "It isn't judgment if they keep showing the same face each time."

The courtyard grew quiet again, leaving only scattered footsteps. Quenya floated near the edge of the fountain, her gaze wandering from stone carvings to passing faces, unconcerned by the drama. Her lack of attention to the weight in the air almost felt deliberate, as if she had no interest in human posturing.

Vencian shifted slightly, intent on leaving with Elías. Before he could, Amadeus's voice called out.

"Vencian Vicorra."

He froze. The sound of his name, spoken in that voice, drew every eye still remaining. Elías stopped as well, his brow lifting in surprise.

Vencian turned back slowly. Amadeus's gaze was on him alone now. The old soldier's expression hadn't changed, but something in the way he said his name made it impossible to ignore. Vencian's first thought was simple curiosity. Why him, out of all the students gathered? He had done nothing. He hadn't spoken a word.

Then another thought intruded. Amadeus knew his family's disgrace. Everyone did. Being called now—was it a warning? A challenge? Or something else entirely?

Vencian recalled speaking with him a handful of times before, though only in formal settings. Amadeus belonged to a different faculty, and Vencian's studies kept him elsewhere. Their exchanges never stretched beyond polite greetings in passing.

The servant behind the wheelchair waited silently as the chair remained in place. Amadeus remained still and offered no explanation. He simply held Vencian's gaze.

Elías glanced at Vencian, uncertain whether to step forward with him or wait. Vencian didn't answer that look. His attention stayed locked on the man in the chair.

Amadeus spoke again, quieter but clear enough for Vencian to hear. "Stay a moment."

The rest of the courtyard faded around him.

The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, until Vencian realized the next words would not be meant for the crowd, but for him alone.