The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

Students entered the lecture hall, talking as they came in from the corridors. The desks were arranged in rows, already set up with paper and ink by the assistants earlier that morning. The room carried a faint smell of wax and chalk.

Vencian entered with Elias, their steps carrying them to the right-hand section where sunlight from the tall windows made the benches brighter than the rest. A few heads turned. Whispers followed, the same low hum he had grown used to since his arrival. He ignored them, lowering himself into a seat while Elias dropped into the one beside him.

The noise dulled when Professor Marothil strode in. His black robes swept behind him, and he carried a stack of bound packets in one arm. His tone needed no effort to command attention.

"This session will not follow the usual form. Today marks the beginning of the Interdisciplinary Practicum."

Chairs scraped as students straightened.

"You will work in merged groups. Three subjects overlap in this exercise: Ancient Scripts and Symbols, Government, Law and Society, and the History of Republics. Your task is to decipher, interpret, and compare."

He set the packets on the desk at the front. His hand rested on the pile as he explained.

"Each group of three will receive materials: a fragment of inscription, civic records, and a modern case brief. From these, you will reconstruct a law or civic decree, situate it within a constitutional framework, and debate its purpose and beneficiaries. You will then present your findings as a charter and defend it against challenges from your peers."

The room shifted with quiet mutters.

Vencian's mind tracked the requirements. Combining three subjects into one assignment was meant to add pressure. They wanted to test both academic reasoning and how different minds worked when forced together.

Marothil raised his hand, and the assistants moved along the aisles, placing packets on each bench. Students leaned forward, curiosity rising over their nerves.

"You will not choose your partners," Marothil said. "Groups are already drawn. Numbers are on the front page of each packet. Find those who share your number, then begin. You have two bells."

The room dissolved into movement as parchment cracked open and voices rose, comparing numbers.

Vencian flipped his own packet. The number written in thick black strokes: Four.

Elias's packet bore a different mark. "Seven," Elias said, lifting a brow.

Vencian nodded once. They both understood—separation was part of the design. Elias stood, gave him a short look, and headed across the hall where another boy raised the same number.

Vencian scanned the room. A girl waved from a bench two rows ahead, her packet lifted high with the same mark. Saely Fidril—bright-eyed, dark hair tied back, her smile quick and unbothered. She gestured for him to join her.

To her right stood another with packet in hand, his posture straight as if he carried a weight invisible to others. Rapheldor Herrera.

Vencian rose, crossing the aisle. As he moved, he felt glances follow him. Some watched with curiosity, some with suspicion. He gave them no acknowledgment, sliding into the empty seat across from Saely and setting his packet on the desk.

Rapheldor inclined his head, formal but without stiffness. "Vicorra."

"Herrera."

Saely leaned forward with her elbows braced on the desk, eyes bright. "Good. We're settled. Group Four." She tapped her packet. "We should start before the others get ahead."

Her tone was light, and the two boys eased a little as she spoke. She flipped open her packet, spreading the first sheet out. The inscription fragment covered half the page—curved symbols cut into stone, with scratched notes in the margin showing partial translations.

Rapheldor shifted his seat closer. His hand rested near the parchment, but his eyes moved once more to Vencian. For a breath he seemed as though he might speak, but then Saely's quick voice pulled the moment away.

"So," she said, tapping a finger against one glyph. "This one appears in civic records as well. That should anchor our translation."

Vencian leaned slightly, scanning the shapes. The work mattered, but he noted the way Rapheldor still lingered in silence, as if holding words back.

Saely pulled the second sheet free, sliding it across the table. "Civic records. Half of it smudged, but at least the names are there. We can match them to the script."

Rapheldor scanned the lines, but his focus shifted again to Vencian. His lips parted, then closed as if weighing the moment. Finally, he leaned forward, lowering his voice so the words stayed between them.

"I heard what happened on the road," he said. "Your father and brothers. I offer my condolences."

Saely's pen scratched against parchment. She pretended not to hear, but her shoulders drew in slightly.

Vencian kept his gaze on the glyphs, though he heard the weight in Rapheldor's tone. Condolences could not change the dead, but refusing them would draw more attention than accepting. He gave a small nod. "I appreciate it."

Silence stretched, filled by the shuffle of parchment. Saely's quick voice broke it. "If we identify this glyph as 'decree,' then the rest should follow. Here, see?"

Her finger tapped the jagged mark at the top. Rapheldor leaned closer, but his eyes returned to Vencian with a stubborn persistence.

"You'll be at the Lojyl Tournament," he said. It was not a question.

Vencian traced the outline of the glyph with his finger. "I will not."

Rapheldor's brow furrowed. "What do you mean? You won last year. You beat me in the quarter finals."

The Lojyl Tournament. A tradition from decades ago, when a king honored his queen by declaring a yearly contest of arms in her name. It had grown into the most prestigious competition for young nobles, a stage to prove skill before peers and lords alike.

Vencian remembered the cheers from the stands, the ring of steel, the final victory. For Rapheldor, elimination at his hands had left a mark that had not faded.

"I will not compete this year," Vencian repeated.

Saely lifted her head, frowning lightly. "You're serious?"

"I have other matters that take my time." He left it there. Half the truth—busy, yes, but with reasons no one in the room should know.

Rapheldor shook his head, sitting back in his seat. "You beat me there, and I thought you'd defend the title. Why step away now?"

Vencian let the question hang. Explaining more would not serve him.

Saely shifted the parchment toward herself, lips pressing thin. "We should focus. Professor Marothil will ask for progress before long."

Her words smoothed the edge, but Rapheldor's eyes lingered.

Vencian glanced at him once, noting the mix of confusion and frustration. Rapheldor sought rivalry, something to sharpen himself against. But rivalry required both sides to agree.

He picked up the pen and marked the glyph Saely had identified. "This one aligns with civic decree. Continue from there."

Saely nodded quickly, grateful to return to the task.

They worked through the sheets. Saely pieced translations with quick clarity, her quill marking connections that might have taken longer without her. Rapheldor contributed when the subject leaned toward precedent or law. Vencian filled gaps where neither noticed, drawing on memories.

The packet began to take shape as more than fragments. Their reconstructed charter described land rights between common-born and noble estates. It was clumsy, with missing lines where the translation failed, but the structure stood.

Rapheldor leaned closer again when the last sheet neared completion. His voice dropped, almost a whisper. "You seem different than before. I cannot tell if it is good or bad."

Vencian paused, quill hovering above parchment. "Different is not always worse."

The remark seemed to settle him for now, though his eyes lingered with quiet scrutiny.

Saely coughed softly, as if clearing a silence she did not like. "This law favors the estates. It grants them tax exemption under the guise of religious duty. That should be our final argument."

Rapheldor shifted back, swallowing the words he might have answered with. His eyes stayed on the parchment, though his mind was elsewhere.

Vencian returned the quill to the inkwell and leaned back slightly. He could tell Rapheldor's sincerity was not false.

Minutes passed as Saely shaped their conclusion. Their notes sprawled across the desk, but the work aligned, each gap nearly filled. By then, their fragments had become a draft that could hold up in the debate.

Rapheldor drummed his fingers once against the table, then folded them under his arm. "We are nearly finished. Strange how it came easier than I expected."

Saely gave a light 'tsk.' "If I wasn't here, you'd still be stuck on the first page."

Her lightness lifted the air.

They turned the last sheet, checking the civic record one more time. Saely adjusted her notes, correcting a line where the translation slipped.

Then noise broke from across the hall. Voices rose, sharp enough to cut through the steady hum of study. Desks scraped. A few students craned their necks.

Vencian lifted his head. The sound was too distant to make out clearly, but it carried the rhythm of an argument.

Saely sighed, setting her quill down. "What is she doing now?"

His eyes searched the cluster forming near the far benches. The girl at the center of it drew the weight of every gaze. He recognized her instantly—the same girl he had seen with Aline yesterday.

Seris Valemont.