The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

Urias was going through the first stage of grief — Denial.

He told himself the first was a fluke. Lucian had slipped, that was all. He would rise now and show why the odds had tempted him.

The bell rang for the second round.

Lucian stepped forward with that grin still fixed to his face.

The crowd surged again when they clashed. Bronn drove him back into the mud, each strike landing with weight that rattled the boards beneath Urias's boots. Lucian's grin stayed, as if he enjoyed the punishment.

Urias's chest tightened. "Wipe it off and fight," he thought, his teeth grinding. "Take this seriously. Win it for me."

Denial gave way to anger. Idiot. Stop playing around. His fist struck the rail once, but nothing changed in the ring.

Bronn drove Lucian into the mud again. Urias's lips moved without sound. He bargained with himself. Last time. If he survives this, I'll leave the pits for good. I'll study. I'll repay what I owe. This will be the last.

Denial gave way to anger. The round dragged worse than the first. Lucian was hit more, his guard slipping. Urias felt the weight of his coin like a hole in his chest. That was my way out. And I threw it away.

The second round ended with Lucian half-buried in the mud, Bronn's arm lifted to the roar of approval.

Urias lowered his head, shame flooding his chest. His coins were gone, his wager wasted, and his life tethered again to debts he couldn't pay. He thought of the academy. He thought of the lectures he had skipped, the friends who no longer spoke to him, the future that might have been. A normal life, ruined because he couldn't let go of the dice.

Maybe this was it. Maybe he had to change. Stop chasing the rush, stop pretending he could win it back. If he turned his back on it now, he could build something small but real. He could live without this pit, without its stench and its mud.

I'll end it. I'll walk out after this round and never return.

The bell struck again. The third round began.

He barely looked up at first. Bronn advanced, driving Lucian toward the ropes of the pit. Urias shook his head. Over. It's finished.

Then Lucian's next strike landed. Clean. Another followed, quick enough that Bronn shifted back. Urias blinked, raising his head fully.

Lucian moved sharper now. His punches and kicks connected where they had missed before. Bronn's guard broke in small gaps, and Lucian forced him to give ground.

Hope returned like a knife to the gut. Urias gripped the railing tighter. Bronn staggered under a kick. Another punch sent mud flying.

Lucian pressed forward, grin still plastered across his face as if he was waiting for this moment.

Urias couldn't breathe. His heart pounded with every exchange, his eyes fixed on the fight that twisted back in his favor.

Then it happened. Lucian struck clean, decisive. Bronn crumpled into the mud.

The crowd erupted. The pit shook with the thunder of boots and cheers. Urias stared, unblinking, at the figure standing in the ring, his arms raised high.

Urias froze. His heart thrashed. He couldn't believe it. He had won. Against all reason, he had won.

The slip in his pocket felt like freedom. An old saying came back to him, one he had heard long ago and dismissed. Most gamblers turn their back to gambling before fortune ever turns, they leave the table too soon.

Urias almost laughed again. He hadn't left. And now fortune was his.

— — —

Lucian's skin was still raw from the wash, the sting of bruises hidden under fresh linen. The bathwater had been gray by the time he left it. A cut along his ribs burned when he leaned forward, but it was nothing that would last.

The balcony was thick with wine-stained air. Smoke curled across the ceiling beams, mixing with coarse laughter as Casalus's men rattled coins and shouted over wagers. From here, the pit below looked more like a stage than a ring.

Casalus sat at the center, rings gleaming as he tapped a cup against the arm of his chair. His eyes swept over Lucian with a look that weighed profit more than praise.

"Keep this up, and you'll be drawing the fat purses before long," Casalus said.

Lucian's grin widened, and he gave a short nod. Praise meant little, but letting Casalus think it mattered served its own use.

The ringing of the bell below pulled his attention back to the pit. The gate opened. And then he saw him.

Berel. The crowd surged the moment he appeared, voices pulling together as though bound by a single thread. Among the regulars, he was already spoken of as the strongest, and seeing him in the flesh explained why. His frame filled the ring, scars crossing his body like tallies of survival.

Lucian leaned forward. Berel didn't glance at the crowd, didn't acknowledge the chants. He walked through the mud like it was his own ground, each shift of weight precise. When the first strike fell, the silence broke into roars.

The fight ended before it had time to build. Every blow Berel threw seemed prepared long before it landed. The other fighter dropped, swallowed by the pit's mud, and the crowd answered as though the outcome had always belonged to him.

Casalus leaned forward, a grin pulling across his face. "Soon, you can have your turn against him. If you are daring enough."

Lucian let out a breath of amusement, eyes still on the pit. He kept his gaze on Berel while the crowd screamed for blood. His ribs ached when he breathed, reminding him what another fight would mean.

Casalus pushed to his feet as the pit filled with noise again. "Business calls." He flicked his fingers toward the men around him. "See he is comfortable."

The room filled again with voices and smoke, Casalus's absence barely noticed. Lucian remained at the edge, gaze fixed on the churned mud below, the shape of Berel still lingering in his thoughts.

Lucian leaned back, watching the pit crew rake through the mud for the next match. His ribs still stung, but his mind circled elsewhere. The plan he had in motion was far from flawless, yet it carried enough weight to draw eyes he needed. In his current name, there were places barred to him. Someone else might open them.

A shadow broke from the entrance. Urias Daclan stumbled forward, cheeks flushed, hair damp with sweat. His clothes looked pressed hours ago, but the collar sagged open, his tie crooked.