The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

"Listen, lad," Casalus sat on a barrel, counting coins one by one without lifting his eyes. "From today the fight won't be like yesterday's."

Lucian leaned against the booth's wall, arms folded. A smile plastered on his face as always as he spoke. "In what way?"

"In every way. Yesterday was nothing more than a common bout. Nobody would have remembered it."

"You did though."

That earned him a glance. Casalus looked up at last, his grin spreading, crooked teeth on display. "Because I'm different. I'm the chosen one."

Lucian gave a dry chuckle. "Yeah. And I'm the heir of a high noble family."

Casalus broke into loud laughter that filled the cramped booth. Lucian let out a smaller laugh of his own. A rough pat on the shoulder came with it, an acknowledgment of good humor.

Then Casalus's grin slipped away. "I'm serious. That fight was nothing but surface-level Deluos. The one I'll let you into will have real wagers. Nobles, merchants, gambling addicts—everyone bets heavier on these."

Lucian straightened. "So what will I have to do?"

"I've pulled some strings to arrange a good opponent for you." Casalus swept the last of the coins into his pouch and stood, brushing his sleeves off.

"Strong?"

He gave a short nod and motioned Lucian to follow. His hand rested on Lucian's shoulder as they stepped into the hall. "Stronger than yesterday's. Bronn's dangerous, but you've seen worse. You could end him early, maybe. But if you do, the odds die with him. Last two rounds, let the mugs throw their coin away. If you're still standing, you finish him then. If not, the loss sells you just as well."

Lucian's brow shifted. "So I'll have to play along?"

"Exactly. These fights don't run until someone's beaten half to death. They're split into rounds. You'll have to last at least two before the result can be decided."

Lucian already knew that. Vencian had come to the pits before, not often, but enough to learn how the betting worked. He'd even tried his hand at it once or twice.

"Well, seems simple enough."

Casalus stopped and looked at him. "No. It's not that simple. Make sure it looks real. You'll take hits. Throw fake punches. Whatever it takes."

An associate walked up, leaning close to Casalus's ear. "The brat who owes us is here. Still empty-handed."

Lucian frowned. The man hadn't bothered lowering his voice much.

"What'd we do last time?" Casalus asked.

"Warned him."

"Then give that scion some humbling this time. In moderation. He still owes."

Casalus waved his associate off with a flick of the wrist. The man dipped his head and slipped back down the corridor, leaving the booth quieter than before.

Lucian tracked him for a moment. He could guess the matter well enough—another debtor who had walked into the wrong hall with empty hands. He did not ask. The pits thrived on coin; questions about how it was collected were wasted breath.

Casalus stretched his neck, muttered something under his breath, then clapped Lucian on the back. "Your match is about to start. Time to earn your keep."

Lucian's smile thinned, but it held. He already knew this was the part where the story began for the crowd.

— — —

"Next time you crawl back here, bring coin."

The words came with a boot to Urias Daclan's ribs. He doubled over, clutching his side as the two men stepped away. One spat near his hand before leaving.

Urias tried to push himself upright. His shoulder pressed against the wall, holding him as he dragged air into his lungs. His cheek throbbed from where the fist landed earlier. His jaw tasted of iron.

He shuffled forward through the corridor, ignoring the jeers that followed. He had heard them before—spoiled, failure. Each one accurate, though none of the men who spoke them carried a family name weighted with expectation.

Viscount Daclan's fourth son—once, that had meant something. Now it meant debts piled across taverns and gambling dens from here to the coast. His father had stopped sending coin last month. "Return to Ralan. Work in the house. Earn what little dignity you can." That was the order. Urias had ignored it.

The vacation was over. He sat in this pit with his last scraps of pride beaten into the floorboards.

He touched the swelling on his cheek, winced, then stumbled on. His boots dragged through dirt and spilled drink. Around him, the corridor bent toward the bookie's alcove where men crowded to place wagers. The smell of sweat and stale ale clung to the space.

His heart should have known better, but the old pull still stirred when he heard the shouts. Coins clinked. Names carried across the room. The rush he thought broken still lingered, alive as ever.

Urias pressed through the cluster until he stood before the alcove window. The bookie behind it raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed at his appearance.

"Who's fighting?" Urias asked, his voice rough.

The man didn't bother hiding his sigh. "Lucian. New face. And Bronn Malcor."

Urias blinked. Bronn was familiar. The brawler had fought for nearly two seasons now. Unreliable, but dangerous. He'd seen him win more than he lost, though never gracefully. A safe bet for anyone with sense.

Lucian, though. He had never heard the name. An unknown in a place where unknowns usually bled once and vanished.

Urias swallowed. His pockets were near empty, but the thought struck him with painful clarity. If Lucian won, the odds would break wide open. The payout would be enough to erase everything.

Bronn was the favorite. Lucian was an unknown, a name thrown in to lose—which was exactly why the odds soared.

The bookie leaned across the counter. "Round bets or pre-match? Choose quick."

Urias hesitated. Round betting meant small gains, spread across the match. Safer, but meaningless. He had lived long enough around dice tables to know what safe meant—crawling out with scraps. Scraps didn't clear debts.

Pre-match wagers, though—that was where the rush lived. All or nothing. One outcome. The pit encouraged it, offering multipliers for bets made before the first bell. It was how they hooked fools like him.

He knew all of this, and still his fingers twitched for coin.

"If Lucian somehow wins, I'm free," Urias thought. His pulse quickened. "If not, what's one more loss?"

The choice felt inevitable. Round betting belonged to the drunks tossing coppers between bells. He was no small fish. He was a Daclan, ruined or not, and he craved the single decision that could change everything.

He slid his last coins across the counter. "Final outcome. Lucian."

The bookie smirked, scribbled the wager, and shoved the slip toward him. Urias took it with a trembling hand, his chest burning with the familiar mix of fear and exhilaration.

The fight had not begun, but already the gamble consumed him.

The roar of the pit rose as the fighters entered. Urias forced his way through the crowd until he caught sight of the mud ring below. The lanterns around it burned low, their light uneven across the surface.

Lucian climbed in first. He looked smaller than Urias had imagined. Lean, athletic, hair dark and damp from the heat of the hall. He carried himself with confidence, but against the muck and the crowd's noise, it looked more like bravado than certainty.

Then Bronn Malcor appeared. The man dwarfed him, wide shoulders and thick arms, his gait heavy but practiced. The regulars shouted his name, coins raised in approval. Urias felt the slip of parchment in his hand felt heavier.

He had wagered everything on the smaller man. Now, with them standing side by side, regret pressed in. Lucian looked like someone who could handle himself in a sparring yard, but the mud pits were a different game. Size mattered here. Bronn had both size and experience.

The bell clanged, cutting through the noise.

The crowd surged forward, voices mixing into one grinding chant. Urias leaned against the railing, throat dry. The first blows lacked commitment—both circling, testing. Mud clung to their boots, each shift sending ripples across the ring.

Urias noticed Lucian's footing—quick, balanced—but each time he pressed in, Bronn met him with a counter that forced him back.

The chants changed with the rhythm of the fight. When Lucian landed clean, the crowd burst with surprise, some even cheering the unknown name. But when Bronn answered, the familiar roar returned, stronger than before.

Urias gripped the railing harder. His mind ran numbers he couldn't calculate. Every swing looked like it might decide the outcome, but nothing ended. Bronn's bulk pushed forward, Lucian's speed cut angles. One moment Urias felt hope, the next it collapsed.

Mud coated their legs, each step heavier. In the pits, it always drained strength faster than fighters expected. Urias had seen many crumble in it.

The crowd shifted again when Lucian forced Bronn back with a quick flurry. Urias almost let himself believe. He pressed forward, lips parting with words he could not bring out.

Then Bronn answered, heavier, louder. The pit seemed to lean with him as he drove Lucian down. The crowd howled.

Urias's heart sank. He felt the slip in his pocket like a curse.

The bell rang. The first round ended with Lucian on the ground, mud streaked across his arms and face. He pushed himself up slowly while Bronn raised a hand to the crowd.

Urias exhaled, long and uneven. He had told himself this gamble might free him. Instead, it already looked like it would drown him further.

And yet, even with his stomach twisting, he could not pull his eyes from the ring.