The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

Amadeus Navorian.

The name is as infamous as his legends in the Airantis-Sedron war 30 years ago. Most people know him just because of that. However, in high society, he's also famous for sponsoring the biggest underground fighting pit of Ralan, Deluos.

Lucian remained in the center of it all, arms relaxed, that infuriating grin plastered across his bloodied face. The mud clung to his skin like war paint.

Then the wheel stopped turning.

The sound came first—the rhythmic squeak of wheels against stone that somehow cut through the commotion. Conversations halted. Heads turned toward the main entrance where a figure emerged from the shadows beyond the lantern light.

Amadeus Navorian appeared in his wheelchair, pushed by a silent servant who guided him down the ramp with practiced ease. Even seated, the man commanded attention without demanding it. The crowd didn't fall silent all at once—it was more like a wave rolling backward from his presence. Voices dropped to whispers, then to nothing.

Even from the pit floor, Lucian could see why. Amadeus' face remained neutral, but his eyes swept across the scene with the calculating gaze of someone who had commanded armies.

"Casalus," he called, his voice carrying easily across the now-quiet arena. "It seems your evening has taken an interesting turn."

The broker scrambled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Lord Navorian, I can explain—"

"No need." Amadeus raised one hand, and Casalus fell silent. "I observed the final round from above. Quite the performance." His gaze shifted to Lucian. "All of it."

Lucian felt the weight of that stare. It gave him the feeling the old soldier knew exactly what happened. The theatrics that worked on crowds and desperate gamblers would mean nothing to this man.

"You," Amadeus continued, pointing his cane toward Lucian. "Stay where you are."

The crowd began to stir, sensing drama, but Amadeus's next words cut through any murmurs. "Everyone else, collect your winnings and leave. Casalus, your clerks are to honor all legitimate bets placed before the final round began. Any disputes will be settled tomorrow during daylight hours."

"But Lord, the money is too much. I can't possibly—"

"That was your fault for putting trust in someone else. I was never in favor of the way your bookkeepers have been rigging matches. Now go before I never let you in Deluos again."

It was not a request. The authority in his voice brooked no argument, and the crowd knew it. Even those who had lost significant sums seemed to accept that this was how things would be handled. They began to file out, some grumbling but none protesting openly.

Lucian watched Urias slip away with the others, his face still pale but his purse considerably heavier. The young noble cast one last glance back at Lucian—a mixture of betrayal and something that might have been fear.

Within minutes, the arena had nearly emptied. Only Amadeus, Casalus, a few clerks, and Lucian remained. The sudden quiet felt heavier than the chaos had.

Amadeus approached the edge of the pit in his wheelchair, the servant positioning him carefully near the low wall. The man's hands rested on the arms of his chair, but there was nothing diminished about his presence.

"Climb out," Amadeus said simply.

Lucian pulled himself up over the low wall, wincing as his ribs protested. Blood still seeped from the cut on his cheek, and his left eye was swelling shut, but he managed to stand upright.

"An impressive victory," Amadeus continued, his tone conversational. "Though I suspect victory was always your intention, regardless of what agreements you may have made."

Casalus started to speak, but Amadeus silenced him with a look.

"Tell me," the former High Marshal continued, studying Lucian's face, "how does a fighter skilled enough to dismantle Berel in the fifth round manage to look so thoroughly beaten in the first four? That level of acting requires either exceptional discipline or exceptional motivation."

Lucian met his gaze steadily. This was the moment—the opportunity he had orchestrated through pain and deception. "Both, my lord. Though I suspect you already know that."

A slight smile tugged at the corner of Amadeus's mouth. "You speak well for a pit fighter. Better than most nobles, if I'm being honest." He paused, letting his eyes sweep over Lucian's battered form. "You also fight with technique that suggests formal training, despite your... unconventional methods tonight."

"I've had good teachers."

"Have you?" Amadeus leaned forward slightly in his wheelchair, and Lucian caught the scent of expensive tobacco and sword oil. "And which teacher taught you betray your broker and cause a commotion in a well known establishment?"

Lucian considered his words carefully. "That wasn't my intention, sir. He was just caught up in the collateral damage. Still, my teachers made sure I learned one thing clearly."

"What's that?"

"If betrayal hasn't found you yet, it's just running late"

Amadeus nodded slowly. "Sound lessons. Though I notice you didn't learn them from anyone currently teaching in this establishment." His gaze sharpened. "So the question becomes: why is someone with your obvious intelligence and training wasting time in underground fighting pits, arranging elaborate schemes to fleece bookmakers?"

The moment stretched between them. Casalus shifted nervously nearby, clearly wanting to interject but not daring to. Lucian felt the weight of everything balanced on his next words.

"Because I need to learn from someone better than my previous teachers," he said finally. "And sometimes the only way to get a master's attention is to prove you're worth their time."

The silence that followed was broken only by the distant sound of the crowd dispersing in the streets above. Amadeus studied Lucian's face, and Lucian had the uncomfortable feeling that the man was reading far more than he intended to reveal.

"Interesting," Amadeus said at last. He turned to Casalus. "Clear your remaining debts and close the books for tonight. We'll discuss the future of your betting arrangements tomorrow."

Casalus nodded frantically and began gathering his clerks, clearly eager to escape before worse consequences materialized.

When they were alone, Amadeus gestured to his servant, who began wheeling the chair toward a side passage. "Come with me."

It wasn't a request.