The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

Lucian stepped back from the pit's edge and let the noise wash over him. The place reeked of sweat and blood, but energy pulsed through every corner. Desperation had been compressed into this single space, creating a raw current that moved through the crowd.

People who lived in shadows during daylight hours carved out their existence here. They gambled their last coins on fists and mud.

Among them were the ones who mattered. The ones he needed to notice him.

Lucian adjusted the strap across his chest and found his footing in the crowd. Quenya hovered close, her gaze sweeping the room for threats.

The pit below filled with attendants preparing for the next fight while the crowd's voices rose again, hungry for more violence.

"Why are we here?" Quenya's voice cut through the chamber's roar, reaching his ear with practiced precision.

Lucian's mouth curved into a grin. "Why else? To fight, of course."

He pushed through the crowd and wove toward the far side of the chamber. A small desk sat there with a clerk hunched over a ledger. A line of men waited nearby - some already stripped to their shirts, others clutching coins between restless fingers. The men around the booth looked tense and eager.

The clerk looked up when Lucian approached. His eyes scanned the frame before him, taking in details with the practiced assessment of someone who had seen countless fighters. Lucian wore neither a brute's build nor carried the weakness of a man who would fold on first contact. Something in his posture told the clerk this one had fought before.

The stare lasted a moment too long. Then the clerk dipped his pen into ink.

"Name," he said without inflection.

"Lucian." The answer came with a grin that Lucian made no attempt to disguise.

The clerk scratched the name into his ledger without comment. "Entry fee. Two argents."

Lucian placed the silver coins down. The argents bore the rising sun crest of House Zarionel, their edges inscribed with anti-counterfeiting marks that caught the torchlight.

The clerk's hand swept them into a box beneath his desk before making another notation. "Rules are simple. Weapons and armor are banned. No killing with intent either. If you refuse to continue, you forfeit. Winners earn coin and may request repeat matches."

"Sounds fair." Lucian rolled his shoulders like he was already preparing for battle.

The clerk motioned to a woman seated nearby with a worn satchel at her feet. She had the weathered look of a medic who had long since abandoned bedside manner for efficiency.

She approached and ran her gaze over Lucian's arms and face before pressing her fingers briefly against his wrist.

"He'll do," she declared. Her tone carried no concern beyond the bare minimum required.

Lucian offered her a quick smile that drew nothing in return. She was already turning toward the next fighter in line before he finished the expression.

Quenya circled him, invisible to all other eyes. "Why go through with this? You don't need to prove anything to them."

He lowered his voice as he moved away from the booth. "I'm here so someone else notices. But as Lucian, never as Vencian."

The idea had taken root during his journey from the Moonfrost to Ralan. To grow strong, he needed a teacher. Sure, he possessed Vencian's body along with the fundamentals of fighting that came with a warrior's frame. But he knew one thing with certainty - without a proper instructor, his potential would remain locked away for far too long.

He felt pressed for time, as if it was running out. To catch the attention of a teacher whose credentials matched his standards, becoming the best fighter in this pit seemed like the most direct path. It would take time to work his way up the ranks, but this was a necessary step.

The waiting area stretched along the pit's entrance. Men leaned against walls - some muttering to themselves, others stretching their limbs. A few sat on the floor in quiet focus while others laughed loud enough to draw attention from the crowd above. Boasts filled the air, mostly about past victories or promises of how quickly they would finish their next opponent.

Lucian found a spot near the edge where he could watch the pit while staying out of immediate reach. He bent forward and loosened his shoulders, feeling the familiar roll of muscle earned from weeks of training. Lucian was reckless by design, but the strength beneath the persona was real.

Across the waiting area, a broad-shouldered man cracked his knuckles loud enough to echo. Another fighter spat into the dirt and stretched his neck from side to side.

The mood carried a sharp charge - anticipation mixed with the desperate need to prove something before strangers.

Names were called from the ledger in rough succession. Fighters moved toward the pit as their turns came, each stepping forward into the mud to cheers or jeers from above. Some carried themselves with confidence while others moved with the tight focus of men who could lose everything.

Quenya hovered close, her small form leaning toward his ear. "You really mean to go through with this."

Lucian tilted his head. "What's life without a few bruises?"

Her eyes narrowed, a faint glow flickering in her gaze. "That's a dangerous game."

"Dangerous games are the only ones worth playing." His shoulders shifted as though shaking off her concern. He knew better than to explain more - the fewer words he gave her, the more she would puzzle over them. That amused him enough to keep it that way.

A voice rose above the din, shouting from the desk. "Lucian!"

He pushed himself from the wall and strode toward the pit entrance while Quenya floated behind him, her silence carrying more weight than any of her questions.

The attendants guided him through the wooden gate as the crowd's noise swelled around them. He walked down the narrow ramp until his feet sank into the edge of the pit. The mud clung immediately against his boots. It wasn't deep enough to swallow his feet completely, but it dragged against every movement and promised to slow his reactions.

Lucian flexed his legs and tested the pull. Each forward motion brought sticky resistance that would force him to fight his opponent and the muddy ground. His grin remained fixed. If anything, the filth made the stage more entertaining.

The opposite gate creaked open. His opponent stepped out to a cheer that rolled across the benches above. The man stood taller by a full head with shoulders wide enough to fill a doorway. He moved with the ease of someone accustomed to throwing bodies around like sacks of grain.

His skin glistened with a thin coating of mud while scars traced lines across both arms. The crowd shouted what must have been his name, though Lucian made no effort to catch it. Most of the voices probably belonged to people who had bet on the larger fighter.

The man cracked his neck and slammed a fist into his palm - a clear promise of what was coming. Lucian tilted his head and met the intimidating stare with a glimmer of mischief rather than fear.

The attendants closed both gates behind them, leaving the two fighters alone in the pit. The smell of damp earth and sweat pressed close while the crowd's roar circled overhead like a brewing storm.

Lucian flexed his fingers, mud creeping higher against his boots. He drew a breath, grin still carved across his face, and locked eyes with the brute before him. The fight had not yet begun, but the stage was set.