The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

Lucian slowed when he heard the call. He turned, spotting the bronze-skinned man limping toward him. The fellow's leg dragged with each step, like the ground clung to him. His smile never left, though the edges twitched now and then as if it might crack apart.

"Young man," the man said, a bit breathless but cheerful, "do you wanna earn lots of money?"

Lucian raised an eyebrow. "You're definitely a swindler."

The man waved both hands, huffing a laugh. "Wait, wait. I'm a swindler. People say that because they refuse to admit someone beat them fair."

Lucian paused, considering walking away. He knew these types—parasites around pits and taverns, promising a shortcut while digging pockets.

The man called after him. "I saw you leave the purse after that fight. You left it behind without looking back."

Lucian's grin spread wider, but he kept his back turned. "So why are you asking me if I need money?"

"Because," the man said, shuffling up until he was at his side, "I know people like you don't fight for scraps. You're here for something bigger, right? That's the type I can help."

Lucian faced him again. "What do you want?"

The man gave a little bow, more mock than formal. "Casalus Stonethorn. Let's talk it over a drink. On me."

Lucian tilted his head. "You think I drink with swindlers?"

Casalus's grin widened, unbothered. "Only the good ones. Come on." He limped ahead, dragging his leg with each pull, never once checking if Lucian followed.

Lucian shook his head slowly and trailed after. If nothing else, it might be entertaining.

The bar smelled of sour ale and grease. Wooden beams sagged above, the lanterns dim. A few men hunched over their mugs, their mutters drowned out by dice rattling against a corner table. Casalus waved at the owner like an old friend and claimed a booth at the back.

He slid into the bench with a grunt, rubbing his leg before settling. "Sit, lad. You'll like this better than the piss they hand out to fighters."

Lucian sat opposite, stretching his arms along the backrest. He looked comfortable, but his eyes swept the room once before landing back on Casalus.

Two mugs landed between them with a clatter. Casalus lifted his with a nod of thanks, then studied Lucian as if he were assessing the cut of meat.

"So. You're not here for the little coin." Casalus's voice dropped, softer, edged with confidence. "That makes you rare. Most men jump on the purse like rats on bread. You walked away without blinking."

Lucian sipped, letting the bitterness slide down his throat. "Or maybe I'm an idiot."

Casalus chuckled. "Idiots take the purse. Men with bigger stomachs ignore it." He rested his elbows on the sticky table. "See, the pit isn't only fists and blood. It's a stage. And stages need someone who knows how to sell the act."

Lucian tilted his mug. "And that's you?"

"Of course." Casalus straightened, his chest puffed slightly. "One of the pit's biggest brokers. Odds, bets, stories—they all run through me. Fighters, backers, bookmakers, you name it. Without me, most of them are bodies tossed in mud until they're broken. With me, they become names worth gold."

Lucian's expression shifted to fake admiration. "So you're the puppet master."

Casalus's lips twitched again, though his eyes stayed focused. "If you like puppets, sure. But I prefer 'builder of legends.'"

Lucian snorted, setting his mug down with a thump. "That's rich."

"It is," Casalus said. "And it can be for you too. You fight reckless, wild, like you've got no thought for tomorrow. That excites the crowd. But it's a fire that burns quick unless someone fans it the right way. Men like you rise fast, or they collapse even faster. My work makes sure it's the first."

Lucian moved forward, elbows on the table. "And what's in it for you? Don't tell me you're generous."

Casalus wagged a finger. "No one's generous. Me, you. I earn when you fight, whether you win or lose. But the difference is I keep you fighting. I don't sabotage my own fighters, because then the profit stops. You keep selling, I keep earning. Simple."

Lucian swirled the drink. "Sounds like a leash."

Casalus's brow lifted. "More like a ladder. Fighters pay coin to join matches, but the regulars—the ones under me—they get the real fights. The ones that bring in nobles and gamblers, men who matter. Your name grows, wagers swell, and your cut grows with it. You play wild, but you win when I tell you it counts."

Lucian gave him a long look, his expression amused. "You sound like a teacher telling a student how to behave. You think I'd listen?"

"You'd listen because I'm right," Casalus said easily. "You want to climb, you need someone who knows the rungs. Or else you'll swing punches for coin until your body gives out and you're nothing."

Lucian leaned back, stretching his arms again. His thoughts flicked inward for a moment. A leash was exactly what he'd never take—but a ladder, now, that could be useful. If this man thought he was holding reins, then Lucian could let him believe it.

Casalus took another sip and continued, his tone dropping low. "Fighters under me don't fade. Some are rich, some still fight, but all left their mark. I make sure of it."

Lucian tapped the mug against the table. "And what do I have to do? Besides dancing when you pull strings."

Casalus spread his hands. "Fight under my card. Take the matches I give. Some you'll win, some you'll lose, but always with style. Stretch a fight, end it fast, whatever keeps the odds alive. Never take a booking without me, never let another broker lure you. You stay loyal, and I make you a name."

Lucian studied him. "So if I fight dull, you drop me?"

Casalus shook his head. "If you fight dull, the crowd drops you. I don't waste time with boring fighters."

Lucian's mouth twisted. "At least you're honest about it."

Casalus moved closer, never breaking eye contact. "You'll do more than fight. You'll be noticed. Nobles place wagers, gamblers talk. Your face spreads, your reputation grows. I give you the path. Without me, you're another brawler forgotten when the next bloody nose comes along."

Lucian looked around the bar. A man at the corner sneezed hard, breaking the moment, and the dice table erupted in shouts. He turned back, placing his elbows on the table. "You really talk like I've already agreed."

Casalus shrugged. "Because you already have. Men like you come here because you want something bigger. And hunger always accepts the hand that feeds it."

Lucian watched him, his expression unreadable. Inside, he weighed it. Casalus thought he had him boxed, thinking coin and fame were the goal. That mistake might be useful. A reckless smile could hide plenty.

He drained the mug, slammed it down, and stood. "Fine. I'll play your game. Give me the fights, Casalus. I'll make your odds worth it."

Casalus's grin broke into something wider, almost triumphant. "Good lad. Under me, you'll be rich and feared before long. Keep that wild smile, and you'll be a legend."

Lucian clapped him on the shoulder, light but firm. "Then let's see who ends up using who."

Casalus laughed, missing—or ignoring—the bite beneath.

Lucian left the bar, his smile unchanged. Inside, his thoughts turned sharp. A leash, a ladder, or chains—it made no difference. A plan was already forming in the back of his mind. He obtained more than he wanted on the first day of his visit itself.

— — —

The night passed without mention. When morning light cut through the academy courtyards, Vencian had already buried Lucian's grin and carried himself as Lord Vicorra once more.

Yesterday had been easy. The first day carried only one class, a slow introduction that left more silence than work. Today pressed harder. Morning filled with lectures that switched between demanding his full attention and others so dull that his mind wandered to matters outside the academy.

By the time the bell rang again, the hall filled with restless shifting. Professor Marothil entered.

"This session will not be your usual," he said, voice carrying without effort. "The Interdisciplinary Practicum begins. It will merge your class with two others that share the same field. You will be evaluated as mixed groups, not as individuals."

Murmurs spread fast. Students looked around, measuring who they might be forced to work with.

Vencian adjusted his seat. Merged classes meant new variables. Exposure.

Pereneth stood among a cluster of his supporters, gesturing as he spoke with clear authority. Rapheldor leaned back against a column on the opposite side, his own circle gathered close.

Elias moved in beside him, voice low. "Seems they want to see how much we can tolerate."

Vencian sighed. "Then it will be a long day."

— — —

Author's note: I know the past few chapters may seem a bit slow, but we'll soon pick up the pace.If you have any criticism or feedback, I'd love to hear it. Otherwise just throw some stones so I will motivation to write.