The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

The cave pressed around him, damp stone swallowing the faint scrape of his boots. His hand trailed across the wall until it brushed against wood. He lifted the torch and flame caught, throwing shadows across the uneven ceiling.

The tunnel narrowed, then widened, and he stepped out onto a cliff ledge. Wind carried dust into his face. Below, the ravine gaped like an open wound. Blackness filled its depth.

Ahead of him slumped the remains of something enormous. A skeleton leaned against the rock wall, larger than any castle tower. Its ribs curved upward like broken gates, its skull tilted to the side, eye sockets hollow.

A bridge stretched from his ledge toward the giant's chest. He placed a foot on it and moved forward.

Only when he shifted his weight did he notice the texture beneath him. The surface was metal. The plank was not wood at all but a sword. Its blade pierced through the hollow of the ribcage. Whoever had fallen here had been cut down by steel despite their size.

He walked along the weapon. Its edges were dull with rust, but it spanned the distance across the gorge.

Above him, birds circled. The air pressed heavy, and the torchlight painted the bones in a sick amber.

Vencian felt the truth settle on him. This was not ground or ruin. It was a corpse turned into a monument.

Then a hand shoved him hard from the side. His balance broke. He fell.

As the cliff receded, he saw a figure leaning above him. The face was shadowed, features blurred against the dim sky.

The weightless drop tore through his chest.

He woke with a jolt.

His eyes snapped open, breath ragged. Sweat clung to his back. The dream still clung to his mind, sharper than most.

A voice sounded at his side. "Another dream?"

Quenya hovered a short distance above his blanket. Her blue eyes glowed faintly in the dark.

He nodded once. Words felt heavy in his throat.

The memory of the fall replayed in his head. The sick pull in his stomach had been real enough to trick his body into panic.

He pressed a palm to his forehead. Why these dreams?

He thought back to the few psychology books he had read on Earth. Even with his limited knowledge, he remembered one thing clearly: dreams were supposed to reflect memory or stress.

But these visions showed him places and figures he had never known. I've never seen that cliff. Or that skeleton. None of it is mine.

Am I losing my grip? The thought unsettled him more than the dream itself. Am I going crazy in this body?

His chest tightened. He pushed himself upright.

Quenya tilted her head, watching him with quiet patience.

He swung his legs off the bed. "There's no way I can find a therapist here," he muttered.

The words sounded absurd in the stillness of the room. But the idea stuck. Do people here even think about mental health? Or is it all swords and status until you collapse?

He shook his head. No answer was coming.

The floor chilled his feet as he stood. He pulled on his tunic and belted it. His cloak hung by the door, and he swung it over his shoulders. The familiar weight grounded him.

He washed his face at the basin, cold water pulling him fully awake. His reflection looked pale, eyes shadowed.

By the time dawn light reached through the curtains, he was ready.

The head maid entered when he called. Her hands folded, eyes careful as always.

"I'll be gone for a few days," he told her. "Keep the house in order. Don't send anyone after me."

Her brows rose. "Should I assign guards—"

"No. None." His voice came out flat.

She pressed her lips but nodded.

He stepped past her into the hall. The air of the manor felt heavy, carrying too many memories.

It's a village trip, nothing more. What could happen?

He almost laughed at himself for thinking it, given what his life had turned into. But he forced the thought down and kept walking.

The carriage wheels rolled over the cobbled street. Vencian sat inside with his bag beside him, cloak wrapped close.

The city was already awake. Vendors pulled carts into the open square, their voices carrying through the gaps of the window.

His driver steered into the market road. Stalls spilled color across both sides. Fabric banners hung from wooden posts.

Sky lanterns swung gently in the breeze. Their thin paper shells were painted with red and gold marks. He saw children point toward them, their parents bargaining with sellers.

The driver slowed as the street thickened with pedestrians.

It struck him how the entire quarter seemed prepared for celebration. The Festival of Solace meant food, music, and trade would last until late nights. For farmers, it marked the end of harvest. For the rest, it was excuse to feast.

Vencian leaned toward the window. Strange. They celebrate harvest as if the sky helped them. But this world's moon is always full.

He frowned. Back on Earth, crops relied on seasons, light cycles, and tides. But here the crops grew in rhythm all the same. If the moon never shifts, then the tides should freeze, or storms should dominate. None of that happens here.

He remembered lectures, gravity models, and the arguments of old professors. This world ignores all of it. Their "science" doesn't line up with reality. Yet food still grows, rivers still flow, people survive.

Maybe natural laws don't apply in the same way. Or maybe they do, but in a form I can't recognize. Could be some kind of magic filling the gaps.

The line of the street curved, and the harbor came into view. Masts rose above warehouses, sails furled.

The driver halted near the stone steps leading down to the docks. Vencian paid, gathered his pack, and stepped out.

The sea breeze smelled sharp. The noise here was different, more focused. Men shouted across the piers, ropes creaked against wood, and gulls wheeled overhead.

He dismissed the carriage with a nod. The driver left, wheels rattling away.

Vencian scanned the open area. Merchants oversaw barrels rolled onto ships. Passengers queued for vessels heading along the coast.

Then he saw her.

Roselys stood apart from the crowd near a row of crates. Her posture was upright, her hands loosely at her sides.

She wore an outfit meant for travel: a fitted coat with reinforced seams, trousers tucked into boots, and gloves that matched the muted blue of her cloak. Nothing about it was heavy. It allowed movement while still appearing refined.

What drew his attention most was that every part of her body was covered except her face. Her hair, usually loose when they were within the academy, was tied in a low bun at the back of her neck. The style looked functional, holding strands secure against wind.

Her gaze shifted when she noticed him approaching.

Vencian adjusted his pack and crossed the pier. She looks prepared. Almost professional. She always does.

"Lord Vicorra," she greeted. Her voice was quiet but clear above the noise of the dock.

"Roselys," he returned. He noticed how easily the name left his mouth now. At the start, he had held a guard against her. That habit had weakened, though he still measured her words in his head.

She studied him once, perhaps checking the equipment he carried. Her eyes flicked to the sword at his side, then back to his face.

"You're ready?" she asked.

"As ready as I can be," he said.

They fell into silence for a moment, both watching dockhands heave bundles across the planks.

Vencian's thoughts returned to the dream. The skeleton, the bridge of steel, the figure that pushed him. He kept it to himself.

He pulled the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder. Dreams aren't what matter right now. Reaching Coriel does.

Roselys tilted her head toward a ship tied nearby. Its sails were bound, crew waiting for departure.

"That's our vessel," she said.

Vencian nodded. He moved to follow her. At least the trip is short. A few hours of travel, a village visit, some investigation and, then back. Simple.

The thought made him pause. When did I start getting so pessimistic as if no success is already guaranteed?

With a quick shake of his head Vencian followed as Roselys walked toward the ship. The crew parted for her without question, their attention fixed on ropes and cargo.

The ramp to the deck swayed slightly.

The vessel was a medium trader, built for both cargo and passengers. Its deck smelled of salt and tar. Ropes hung coiled against the rails.

Roselys led him past the sailors to a narrow passage.

They reached the cabin area beneath the deck. The space was cramped, but two bunks and a small table filled the room. A single porthole let in the sea air.

"This is ours," she said.

Vencian set his pack down on the lower bunk.

He glanced toward her. She placed her bag neatly against the wall, then pulled her gloves off one finger at a time. Her expression gave nothing away.

The ship shuddered as ropes were untied above. Crew shouted, and the faint roll of waves hit the hull.

Roselys sat at the table. Her eyes met his.

"Now," she said. "Let's discuss the plan for what to do there."