The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

The month before coming to Ralan, Lucian had used every chance he could get to practice combat.

Time he could practice with Kair was not much so he had used the soldiers and knights to duel against. Not as Vencian, though. Vencian can never appear weak in front of his people at least.

The more he fought, the more he realized he was not as weak as he had thought while escaping from the monastery or when fighting Osrick. He could forgive himself for once when fighting Osrick. The strain from pulling the illusion to distract the guards and escaping held him back a lot.

But when he was ambushed in the monastery which resulted in the death of Larik and Talor, he just stood frozen like a child.

Forgiveness had come easier then. It was ignorance, that he had no experience fighting so he couldn't do anything.

That was part true. Yet, he had the memories of Vencian fighting. Talented he was like both of his brothers, but his talent was distinct. He had practiced more than anyone to get that mastery.

When Lucian started training he slowly realized, all that the others that could teach him, he already knew. He had never experienced fighting someone with the intention to hurt him.

Ironically, at the end of the day, combat was just that. Murder.

Lucian gazed at his opponent. The smile on his face looked innocently maleficent.

"Let's have a good fight, Peaches." he said to the man in front of him. The latter earned the nickname because of his rosy, almost blushing cheeks that looked out of place on his hulking frame.

Peaches shot a glare at the referee and barked, "Start it already—I can't wait to wipe that grin off his face."

Lucian slid his left foot back as the referee held his hand high. The crowd leaned forward. He tapped his toe once, then twice, his weight shifting low, hands loose.

The signal dropped.

Lucian lunged. His opponent snapped his foot up and forward, throwing mud toward his face. Lucian tilted his head hard to the right. The arc of sludge sprayed past, droplets brushing his cheek. His shoulder dipped lower from the sway, forcing his balance wide.

The man's leg swept across the pit, low, and quick for his size. Lucian caught the shift in hips. He lifted his left foot, mud sucking at his heel. He leapt, more of a hop than a bound, clearing the sweep by a breath. His boot hit ground, sliding half a step before catching hold.

The crowd hollered at the close escape. Lucian pressed forward, his body snapping into range before the man had reset. His shoulder slammed into the ribs, and the impact knocked them both down into the muck.

Lucian rolled aside first, palms scraping wet earth. His opponent struggled up on one knee, face streaked brown, hand digging into the mud to keep balance. Shouts surged from the benches as both regained footing.

The ring's mud dragged against Lucian's boots with every shift. The man spread wide, chest heaving, hands raised in a guard. His knuckles dripped brown. His breath puffed hard, eager for a brawl.

Lucian spat to clear his mouth and surged forward. His right fist hooked low, thumping into ribs. The strike slipped on wet skin. The man countered with a jab that clipped Lucian's cheek.

The punch stung but faded fast under the rush. Lucian seized the wrist before it drew back. He yanked it down while his knee rose into the man's stomach. Air burst out, but an elbow cracked back into Lucian's temple, making his head ring.

Both staggered, footing sliding on the slick ground. The man lunged, shoulder dropping, arms reaching. Lucian shoved his skull down, ramming his face into the muck. The force pulled them down together.

Mud splashed across Lucian's arms. He forced his weight on top, pinning the head half-buried. The man bucked violently, twisting his hips to escape. Lucian raised his arm to smash down, but the movement gave the other space to push him off.

They rolled apart. The crowd roared louder, sensing blood. Lucian wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His cheek still throbbed, his temple ringing, but the exhilaration fueled his arms faster than pain slowed him.

He shot forward again, stomping through the mud. His opponent threw a wild cross. Lucian ducked under, closing distance until their chests nearly collided. His forehead drove into the man's nose. The crunch echoed under the benches.

Lucian ignored the sting in his cheek and shoved the man hard. His palms struck the shoulders, driving him backward across the slick ground. The man's heels skidded before sinking deep, his body slamming into the pit's packed boundary wall. Mud splashed up the side as his back hit.

Lucian closed the gap, his forearm pinning across the man's collarbone. The other arm swung, a hook across the jaw. The head snapped sideways, spit and mud spraying. Another strike followed, thudding against the same side.

The man bent his knees and slid downward, trying to duck away. Lucian shifted with him, catching the forearm and locking it beneath his own elbow as they grappled close. Both remained on their feet, bodies pressed, mud dragging at their boots.

The man's free hand clawed at Lucian's side, nails raking through cloth. Lucian yanked the trapped arm down and twisted, his own knee driving into the stomach. The body folded forward. Lucian dragged him upright again, jerking the collar tight, and slammed his forehead into the man's nose.

Blood burst instantly, streaking down through the sludge already coating his face. The man staggered, balance unraveling, but Lucian didn't let him fall.

For a brief second Peaches caught his expression. Lucian's mouth stretched wide, a smile that looked unbroken from ear to ear.

He hammered another knee into the ribs, then released the arm and shoved him aside.

The opponent collapsed into the mud, landing hard on his side. His palms dug in, pushing against the ground, but his body wavered as he tried to rise. Lucian stalked forward, fists flexing, his chest tight with the thrill that hadn't yet burned out.

The referee shouted for him to stop, but Lucian pushed forward again, fists twitching for another strike. Two attendants rushed in, grabbing his arms and dragging him back through the mud. His chest heaved as he fought against them, the madness clawing through, recklessness pouring out in a way he hadn't allowed since the day he woke in this body.

Lucian raised his arms once, then lowered them, pacing in a tight circle. His own legs shook under him from the slippery ground, but his balance returned. The crowd bellowed, stomping their boots against the benches.

He wiped the last of the mud from his face, forcing his breath calm. The fight had ended quicker than he thought. His cheek pulsed and temple ached, but nothing else mattered. It felt like venting for the first time in a while. And it was only starting to feel good.

The attendants dragged the unconscious man out by the armpits. Mud streaked behind him as they hauled him away. Lucian stared a moment longer before turning back toward the gate.

He calmed at last, chest loosening, and swept his gaze across the benches. He searched for the one face he wanted to see, but the crowd gave him nothing. Strangely, he felt no disappointment. It almost felt good, beating someone down without restraint.

The crowd didn't care who he was, only that he fought like someone with no patience for weakness.

When the thrill cooled, he didn't even bother to gather the money he had won from the fight and took his leave into the adjoining room. He stripped away the filthy clothes, washed his body in the cold water, then rinsed and wrung the garments halfheartedly before pulling them back on.

The colors in his vision were fading again, yet he judged he could hold the illusion longer than he needed. Enough for today. Tomorrow, he would fight again.

Lucian left the pit once the crowd's noise had dimmed behind him. His boots squelched against the stone floor, mud drying in uneven patches along his clothes. Quenya floated at his side, her faint glow keeping close to the wall where no one else would see.

"You haven't used this face in a while," she said, her voice level. "I almost forgot how you act when you change."

Lucian stretched his shoulders and rubbed his neck. "What do you want? For me to act the same as Vencian? That would be dumb."

He didn't want to give this face away. If he wore it, then it meant shifting his voice, his posture, his habits. The least he could do was change the personality along with it, to keep a clean line between both identities.

Quenya tilted her head. "I get it. Just don't let the two mix together. And don't forget who you really are."

"Yeah, yeah." His reply carried little effort. He didn't want to listen to a lecture while the heat of the fight still lingered in his chest.

They stepped out of the hall into the narrow corridor that led to the street above. Lucian's clothes clung damp against his frame. The night air would bite the moment he stepped outside, but it didn't matter.

A voice called from behind. "Oi, young man."

Lucian turned. The figure that approached was short, skin a light bronze shade, with a smile across his face. His gait dragged, one leg pulling each time he shifted forward.

The man caught up, his breath quick but his expression easy. "Young man, do you wanna earn lots of money?"