The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

Lucian didn't know much about the man named Amadeus Navorian to convince him taking a commoner as his disciple. Using the identity of Vencian didn't seem like a smart choice either. He wanted to keep that persona as a weak nobleman trying his best to mend his family fallen to tragedy. Not to mention there were many other complication with that approach with no guarantee.

That's why he chose a different approach. A way through some kind of familiarity between them.

The persona of Lucian is based on many different people he picked carefully. And for personality, he took inspiration from the man Amadeus must have been quite familiar with.

Sarfir Navorian. Amadeus Navorian's adopted son.

Lucian felt the chills running through him despite the warmth of the room.

Amadeus looked at him differently this time. The suspicions in his eyes was evident but along with curiosity.

"Beating some nameless brawler in a muddy pit and flashing that brooch… you think that's enough to make you my disciple? Hardly."

"That wasn't the point, sir. The brooch was only meant to show I'm not a liar. As for being worthy… test me however you see fit. I'll take any trial."

"Tests mean nothing. Only time reveals a man's worth. And I am no time—just an old soldier who's already lost to it."

Amadeus's hand tapped once on the armrest of his chair. A faint, dry sound. His eyes had lost the dismissive glint, though suspicion still burned there.

Lucian kept his posture loose, casual, as if this was the exact conversation he had expected all along.

"You stopped taking disciples after Sarfir," Lucian said. The words landed like stones thrown into still water.

The servant behind the chair stiffened. Amadeus did not.

Lucian leaned forward, lowering his voice. "That wasn't because you ran out of time. It was because you buried the only one who carried it properly."

For the first time, Amadeus's gaze sharpened like a blade drawn half out of its sheath. "Careful."

"Why?" Lucian asked. "You already know I'm not here for pleasantries. If his death made you close the door, then I'm kicking it back open. That's all this is."

The silence was longer this time, the fire in the hearth snapping once before either spoke again.

Amadeus finally exhaled. "Sarfir was… not replaceable."

"Of course he wasn't," Lucian said quickly, seizing the opening. "That's why I don't want to replace him. I want you to use me for what I am, not for what he was."

A short line. A sharp turn.

Amadeus gave a humorless chuckle. "And what exactly are you?"

Lucian smiled. "A risk you can afford. You lost everything when you stopped. Keeping me outside costs you nothing. Testing me might give you something back."

Amadeus tilted his head. "You sound sure of yourself."

"I sound like a man who's already thought through your excuses."

That broke the rhythm. Amadeus laughed, low and rough, then shook his head. "You think you've figured me out in one night?"

"No," Lucian said. "But I figured out this much—your silence after Sarfir wasn't patience. It was hesitation. You didn't quit because of age. You quit because of him. And that's not an ending. That's unfinished business."

The servant's eyes flicked toward Amadeus, as if weighing whether to intervene. Amadeus lifted a hand and the man froze.

Lucian felt his pulse quicken, though he kept his smile. He had forced the blade in deep.

Amadeus drummed his fingers once more on the chair. "You talk like a gambler who thinks the dice only fall his way."

Lucian's grin widened. "Then let me wager. You want proof? Let me stand where your last disciple fell short. Give me the smallest corner of your time. If I waste it, you lose nothing. If I don't—then you know you were wrong to stop."

The fire popped in the silence that followed. Lucian knew he had pressed far enough.

Amadeus leaned back, face hard in the firelight. "You do sound like him. Same reckless edge. Same refusal to bow. But Sarfir was family. You aren't. And I don't intend to bury another son."

Lucian let the words pass without flinching. "Then test me without claiming me."

Amadeus shook his head. "I stopped training because the cost outweighed the gain. That hasn't changed. Whatever spark you carry, it isn't mine to tend."

His servant shifted slightly behind the chair, like a shadow moving with the flame. Amadeus's gaze never left Lucian's.

"You wanted my answer," he said, voice even. "That's it. I don't take disciples. Not anymore."

Lucian forced a crooked smile. "And yet you haven't thrown me out."

That drew the faintest twitch at the corner of Amadeus's mouth, gone in an instant. "Curiosity is not commitment."

The old soldier gestured faintly toward the door. "Go on. Leave. Casalus's men will be waiting. Let's see if you walk out of Deluos in one piece."

Lucian suspected as much, though a part of him had wished—if only faintly—that when he walked out of this room, it would be under Navorian's shadow. A shield that would keep every knife sheathed and every scheme at bay. That was wishful thinking. The man had cut down more desperate hopes than Lucian could imagine.

Getting turned away was the most expected outcome. But still—trying had been worth it.

Lucian rose, tightening the cord of his tunic, adjusting as if he hadn't been sitting here gambling his future. His voice stayed even.

"This isn't me giving up," he said. "I'll be back in front of you. Again and again if I have to. Until you decide whether persistence is worth your time."

Amadeus gave no reply. Only the faintest shift of his jaw, as though measuring whether the boy meant it.

Lucian bowed his head—not low, but enough to mark the end of the conversation—and turned for the door. The servant stepped aside with the stillness of a stone pillar, though his eyes tracked Lucian's every move.

At the threshold, Amadeus finally spoke.

"Casalus's men will be waiting," he said. "You left him humiliated and broke. He'll want blood, and not through formal wagers this time."

Lucian didn't look back. "Then tonight keeps getting better."

He opened the door and stepped into the dim corridor, the quiet weight of the chamber falling away behind him. The firelight was gone, replaced by the stale chill of the underground passages. Somewhere beyond these walls, men who wanted his head were gathering.

The absurdity he'd pulled in the pits had bought him attention. Now it was time to see if it also bought him survival.