The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

The crowd had turned restless by the time the fourth round ended. Their chants rolled like thunder from the stands, but their faces showed the same demand: blood.

Lucian stood in his corner, ribs aching, one eye swelling shut. Sweat dripped from his chin into the mud. His grin was still there, though it felt more like a mask holding him upright than anything else.

Berel hadn't slowed once. Every swing carried weight meant to crush bone. Lucian had spent most of the round circling and without engaging. Each dodge bought him a breath, but his lungs only burned hotter.

"Coward," Berel called across the pit, voice booming over the noise. "Run more. That's all you're good for."

Lucian spat blood into the mud, wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm.

The bell rang.

Berel charged in again, swinging a heavy hook meant to drop him outright. Lucian ducked, felt the rush of air against his ear, and slammed a straight right into Berel's chin. It landed clean. The sound cracked above the crowd's roar.

For the first time, Berel's head snapped back.

The pit held its breath—then tore loose.

Casalus leaned on the rail above, face pale, eyes locked on the fighters. Albor stood beside him, nodding once, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. Lucian had proven he could drag the fight into the fifth.

The round reached its conclusion. Lucian took a knee after a brutal combination, but rose before the count finished. Blood smeared his face, but his legs held firm.

The fifth round began with the weight of inevitability pressing down. Everyone knew how these matches went — Berel breaking men apart piece by piece, dragging them to the edge of hope before crushing them flat. Lucian wasn't here to change that. He'd been bought for a role, and the script said he should already be unraveling.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, legs heavy, ribs raw with pain. The crowd watched not to see if he would fall, but when. Even Casalus above had stopped pretending to cheer, his silence betraying the certainty of the outcome.

All muscle and force, Berel came forward again. Lucian met him head-on. The big man swung, wide and punishing, the kind of hook that should have finished the story right there.

Instead, Lucian slipped inside, smooth as if he'd been waiting for that exact moment, and drove an uppercut straight into Berel's chin.

The strike cracked through the pit, snapping Berel's head back. For the first time, surprise crossed his face.

The crowd's roar stumbled, confused at its own noise.

Lucian pressed forward, steady, precise, as if he'd been waiting for this moment.

The crowd's roar grew uneven, some cheers faltering as Lucian landed hits. Berel swung a wild hook, but Lucian's reflexes kicked in, letting him slip under and counter with a sharp elbow to the temple. Berel staggered slightly, his balance faltering.

Lucian's chest heaved, sweat stinging his eyes. He wanted to end it, but his body protested, muscles heavy from the beating he'd taken. Berel wasn't Kair—less speed, but heavier, every blow like a hammer.

"Still running, coward?" Berel bellowed, lunging forward. His fist grazed Lucian's cheek, splitting skin. Lucian stumbled, catching himself before he hit the mud.

He retaliated with a quick combination, two jabs to Berel's chest, then a hook that glanced off the bigger man's guard. Berel absorbed it, stepping in close to grapple. Lucian twisted free, but not before a knee thudded into his thigh, sending a jolt of pain.

From the balcony, Casalus gripped the rail, his jaw tight with displeasure. Albor stood nearby, his lips pressed thin, eyes flicking to the crowd's shifting mood. They exchanged a sharp glance, both clearly unhappy with Lucian's refusal to fold.

Lucian's mind raced. He remembered Kair's lessons—speed was his edge, not raw power. He ducked another heavy punch, using Berel's momentum to land a sharp kick to the knee.

Berel stumbled, cursing loudly. "Yellow-spined dog! Stand and fight like you've got a backbone!" His voice carried raw frustration now, the taunts less confident.

Lucian pressed the advantage, throwing a flurry of punches to Berel's midsection. Each hit landed, but his arms burned, the earlier rounds sapping his strength. He couldn't finish it like this.

Berel caught him with a glancing blow to the ribs, forcing Lucian to backpedal. The pain was sharp, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to let it slow him. He had to keep moving, had to outlast Berel's power.

Lucian fell back on the fundamentals—the basic Vicorra stance Kair had drilled into him. Weight shifted to his back foot, he waited. When Berel lunged forward with another wild swing, Lucian executed a simple redirect, using the bigger man's momentum to guide the punch past his shoulder while driving an uppercut into the exposed ribs. Clean. Textbook.

The crowd's noise dulled, a hush spreading as Lucian landed another solid hit. Berel roared, charging forward. Lucian sidestepped, landing a blow to Berel's ear, but the effort cost him, his legs wobbling.

From the balcony, Casalus muttered a curse under his breath. "This isn't how it was supposed to go," he hissed to Albor, who nodded grimly, his fingers drumming against his arm. The betting pools were slipping, and their pockets with them.

Lucian's frustration grew. He was landing hits, controlling the fight, but Berel wouldn't go down. His body screamed for something more, something to tip the scales.

Well, this much cheating is allowed I guess.

Reluctantly, he tapped into the pact, feeling the familiar heat flood his muscles. Heat coursed through his limbs, raw power threatening to spill past control. His vision sharpened, the pit narrowing to Berel alone. He tackled Berel, driving him into the mud with a heavy thud.

"Who's the coward now?" Lucian growled, straddling Berel and pinning his shoulders. He slammed a fist into Berel's nose, hearing a wet crunch. "Keep talking while you're choking on dirt."

The crowd fell nearly silent, the air thick with disbelief. Berel thrashed, nearly throwing Lucian off with a buck of his hips. The pact's boost steadied him, letting him hammer another punch into Berel's cheek, swelling it instantly.

Lucian grabbed Berel's hair, dragging his face through the mud, grinding it down. "Call me spineless again," he said, voice low and tight. He bashed Berel's head into the ground once more, the impact dull against the wet earth.

Berel's struggles weakened, his breaths ragged. Lucian hauled him up by the collar, mud dripping from Berel's swollen face. He drove a knee into the big man's gut, doubling him over.

One final punch to the temple sent Berel crashing face-first into the mud. He didn't move. The signal rang out, ending the fight.

Lucian stood, chest heaving, the pact's energy draining away. His body ached, bruises pulsing with every heartbeat.

Silence pressed down, heavy with shock. The referee had ended the fight, yet dozens of faces still stared, some slack with disbelief, others pale.

He spread his arms wide, blood still dripping from his fists. His voice carried across the pit without effort. "You got what you paid for. You entertained yet?"

The silence broke. Some cheered, others shouted in anger. Coins clattered against the railing as gamblers hurled them, some toward Lucian in triumph, others toward Casalus in demand. The pit had turned restless, voices clashing without rhythm.

Casalus forced himself to lean forward on the railing. His mouth twisted into a grin that did not match the tension in his shoulders. "A fine upset," he shouted above the noise. "But one win means nothing. The house always wins."

He left the balcony. Guards cleared the way as he descended toward the ground floor, Albor following with a thin smile that looked forced. Both men tried to hold their dignity, though the sound of the mob pressed hard against them.

Lucian remained in the center, still grinning, waiting. His expression taunted Casalus more than words.

Before Casalus could reach the pit's edge, one of the bookkeepers rushed to him, face wet with sweat. He pushed through the guards, clutching a ledger slip.

"Sir," he said in a rush. "The hedges. They've been claimed."

Casalus scowled. "Claimed? What are you talking about? That was insurance."

The man shook his head. His voice broke as he tried to speak. "They were collected already. Every outside house paid out. All of it. Not to us."

Casalus froze mid-step. His lips moved without sound.

Albor's eyes narrowed. His jaw worked, but he stayed silent.

Casalus grabbed the ledger slip and read it once, then again. His breathing turned rough. The numbers refused to change no matter how many times. "Impossible," he muttered.

The crowd screamed louder. A chant started, demanding their winnings. Shouts turned to shoves, the press of bodies heaving against the railings.

Casalus felt his stomach drop. The smug act fell away. The pieces connected, and the truth hit him.

This wasn't chance. Someone had scripted it long before the first bell.