The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

What the fuck is going on here?

That was the first thought played in Lucian's mind upon hearing Abnet's word.

Wasn't he rejected? Why is this man offering his hand to him now.

"You know Gravhen's code?"

"If you're talking about how to use it to fight, then yeah. I know more about it than average fraudsters"

That doesn't make any sense. Amadeus would never teach someone who wasn't his direct disciple. And there was no record of this man being one.

"How can I believe that you're not lying?"

To that Abnet pulled out a similar brooch that Lucian had shown to Amadeus that day. The four clover embedded into a small ring.

"As you may know, Sarfir was the adopted child of my master. But master the day master picked him, he was not alone. I was picked together with him. We grew together, trained together. Due to some reasons master never gave me the status of his son but he never treated me less than one."

This… it was Lucian's turn to be silent. He didn't know there was such a story.

"Why?"

"Why not? I just know you're desperate. And I'm willing to teach."

"I mean why would you—" Lucian cut himself off. His mouth curved into something like a question and something like a threat. He had rehearsed every insult, every sting he could use, but the simplest question still hit the hardest: why would anyone risk Amadeus's anger for him?

Abnet smiled without humor. He held the clover brooch between thumb and forefinger, the metal catching the room light. "Because I see where Amadeus looks wrong," he said. "Because Amadeus throws talent away like old rope. Sarfir got the name, I got the work — and I learned he misjudges talent more than he admits."

Lucian's throat felt empty. He wanted to argue about loyalty and oaths and honor. He wanted to fling back the accusation that Abnet was a traitor. Instead he let the silence do the work. The silence made Abnet continue.

"When I saw you at the hall, I saw something he misses. You move like someone who will break rules when rules are failing him. You fight like someone who would rather burn a ladder than climb it. That kind of chaos is dangerous to someone who has nothing to lose. It is also useful."

Useful. Useful to what? Lucian pictured himself on a board as Abnet had said, a pawn with potential. The idea irritated him more than any insult. He had no title, no name to barter with, yet here he was being appraised like meat.

"You're saying I'm an investment," Lucian said. He kept the humor thin. He wanted to see how Abnet handled a mirror.

Abnet did not look offended. He relaxed his wrist and set the brooch on the table between them. The metal lay flat against the wood, catching only a sliver of light.

"There is no price," Abnet said. His voice was even, not defensive. "I have no goal to chain you with."

Lucian narrowed his eyes. "No goal? That's impossible. No one gives away something like Gravhen's code for free. You don't hand blades to strangers unless you expect them to point the edge where you want."

"If this world were only about profit and bargains," Abnet replied, "then everything would be simpler. Men would trade in contracts alone, and the strong would tally ledgers instead of scars. But the world isn't that clean."

Lucian leaned forward, almost scoffing. "Then why give me what your master gave you? How can you just throw it to someone outside his line?"

Abnet's eyes hardened, but there was no malice in them—only certainty. "Because like any warrior, I have the right to choose who I teach. A master takes disciples, and so does his servant if he wills it. I am choosing you, Lucian. That's all. My master gave me the code, but he did not forbid me the act of passing it on. He knows what I do now. This is no secret from him—nor will I make it one."

Lucian blinked. That admission stung more than denial would have. "So I can accept or refuse."

"You can," Abnet said. His tone was final, unbending.

Lucian sat back. A thought curled inside him, dangerous and tempting. His reason for seeking Amadeus had not only been about the code—it had been about the arkspren, about facing the kind of enemy Amadeus himself embodied. If he could learn even part of that training, he would gain ground. And if he could surpass Abnet, perhaps Amadeus would take notice.

So be it. A free gift from Amadeus's servant. A chance to show worth. A win-win.

"All right," Lucian said, a smile twitching at his lips. "Show me the Gravhen's code."

Abnet's gaze lingered on him, measuring, then he rose from the table.

"Prove it," Lucian said, smile gone hard. "Don't tell me you can teach — show me you can teach. Show me you know Gravhen's code."

Abnet's mouth quirked, not with amusement but with the approval of a man offered exactly the thing he wanted: a measure. He stood, moving to the corner where the training implements hung. He selected two short staves and handed one to Lucian without ceremony. The wood was warm from long use, the grain polished where fingers had worn it smooth.

"This isn't a demonstration for your entertainment," Abnet said as Lucian took the staff. "It's a test. Watch, and then we'll see if you can follow."

He set his stance with a single economy of motion — feet angled, knees soft, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. Nothing ornamental. Lucian recognized the posture from glimpses of masters in halls: readiness disguised as stillness.

Abnet struck.

It was a compact motion, a slice of intention rather than a blow. The tip of his staff skimmed Lucian's shoulder, a redirection that pulled at balance and forced the smaller man to shift his feet. Lucian answered with a block he'd used a thousand times, the movement muscle-true. Abnet only smiled and changed the rhythm.

The second action was a feint: a low cut that promised ribs but ended as a tap near the inside elbow — a place meant not to hurt but to teach. Lucian moved to intercept, and Abnet increased the pressure, the butt of his staff finding Lucian's forearm with a hollow thud. Pain flared sharp and immediate; coppery taste rose in Lucian's mouth. He tightened his grip, annoyance and respect mingling.

"That's the first lesson," Abnet said, voice even. "Economy. The code wastes nothing. It uses what the opponent gives you — motion, expectation, overreach — and turns it into leverage."

Lucian breathed through it and replied with a counter that would have broken a lesser practitioner's stance. He spun the staff with a practiced wrist, aiming to unbalance Abnet. Abnet yielded the centerline, then folded the moment like a page and turned Lucian's answer into a trap: a light, calculated redirection that guided Lucian's momentum away from its arc and into the space Abnet wanted. Lucian stumbled a hair, footing rearranging.

"You move like a man who learned by copying," Abnet observed, not a taunt but an assessment. "You strike for shape. Gravhen's code fights shape by erasing it."

"That was cheap," Lucian muttered through clenched teeth, tasting the salt of exertion.

"Cheap works," Abnet said. "The code is a map of pressure and promise. It ends conflict before it becomes costly."

He stepped in close, close enough that Lucian could smell the dust and oil on his sleeves. The next move was subtler still: a sequence of angles that taught redirection — push, parry, rotate — all delivered as if Abnet were describing a tool rather than wielding it. Lucian tried to mirror him, to trap the pattern, to force the teacher into predictability. He failed twice. On the third attempt he managed a legitimate counter; his staff met Abnet's with a ringing collision that vibrated up his arm.

Abnet's eyes flicked, approving. "You can follow. You have the hunger. But hunger alone is not enough. Precision is."

He increased the tempo for a breath, then slowed so abruptly that Lucian overcommitted. The butt of Abnet's staff slid along Lucian's ribs and there, with a clinician's knowledge, struck an angle that made the younger man fold inward, breath stolen. Lucian sucked in air, the world narrowing to pain and the rhythm of his pulse. He could think now only of one fact: Abnet had choices, and in that moment, he had shown them.

"You were saying this was a test," Lucian said as he steadied himself, voice lower, edged with something like respect.

"It was," Abnet replied. He did not let his guard down. "You wanted proof. You have it. If you want to learn, you will learn how to make your opponent hand you the fight. If you don't, you will leave with bruises and a lesson you already knew — that copying only goes so far."

Lucian looked at his own hands holding the staff, at the faint smear of blood along his thumb where the strike had nicked skin. He thought of Amadeus, of the arkspren, of what mastery could mean in a single clean move when life and death hung on the precision of a wrist.

"All right," Lucian said, softer this time and with the edge of a challenge now returned. "Teach me Gravhen's code."