The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

Vencian's senses dulled. Every emotion that once belonged to the sacrificed flooded through him. The fear, the pain, the final moments of countless voices tore at his mind. On his knees, he pressed his palms against his ears, trying to silence the cries. The sound only grew clearer, rising inside his skull.

He shouted to drown them out, but his own voice vanished under the screaming. His throat burned. He screamed again until his lungs ached.

"Stop it! Stop it!" he cried. His body trembled, sweat rolling down his face. "Why are you showing me all these? Why are you making me feel this?"

Have I not suffered enough? His thought came weak, nearly broken.

"What do you want from me?"

But no answer came.

He tried to reach for Quenya through their bond. The thread between them had always hummed, faint but constant, a pulse that told him she was near.

Nothing answered.

The silence where her presence should have been felt wrong, like a tooth pulled from his jaw. He grasped at the space, searching for that familiar warmth. The fog pressed closer instead, filling every gap.

The flood returned. Fear came first, sharp as glass in his throat. Then pain, the kind that lived in bone marrow, that turned his spine to wet clay. Anguish followed, thick and choking. Anxiety crawled through his ribs like insects.

Something else came after. He had no name for it. It felt like drowning in air, like watching his own hands dissolve.

The voices screamed louder. His palms pressed harder against his ears, but the sound lived inside his skull now, rattling his teeth. His throat burned raw from shouting. His lungs ached, muscles clenched so tight they might snap.

"W…hy…?"

The fog thickened, then split. A shape stumbled forward, its form half-collapsed.

Rust-red runes crawled across its skin, etched deep like scars that had festered for centuries. Where a heart should have beaten, there was only a hollow cavity. Cracks webbed across its chest, and pale radiance seeped through them, stuttering like a dying candle.

Dust spilled from its mouth as it spoke. The voice ground through its own decay, words scraping against the ruins of a throat.

"The wound that sings in you..."

The tone was hollow, unhurried, and clear enough to cut through the chaos. Vencian froze. He knew that voice. He remembered it from the temple—the one he heard when the serpent's fangs sank into his arm.

The fog stirred. Its shape quivered as if it meant to form something, then fell apart again. The voice drifted from one side, then another. Every time he turned, the mist moved, slipping away.

"You have a stubborn soul," the voice said. "Since you stepped into this village, I have tried to cut you from yourself. Yet you endure. You are inconvenient."

Vencian rose slowly, his hands shaking. "Who are you?"

"I brought you here. You followed my design. You walked into the cave so I could draw you into my domain. I let you fight your inner shadows, and still you prevailed. Tiresome. If my body still remained, I would have crushed that will long ago."

The fog vibrated with faint color, as though faint shapes were trying to emerge. Then they sank again into gray.

Vencian's voice cracked. "What are you talking about?"

"It matters little. You will yield regardless." The voice seemed to come from within him now. "Now give it up. That thing. That taste of genesis in your veins."

Pain shot through his chest. His body convulsed. He fell forward, catching himself with one hand. It felt like something inside was being pulled away—a part that had always been there, breaking loose.

He gasped, clutching at his side. What are you taking from me? The pain spread through his arms and legs until he could hardly see.

The voice grew clearer. "Submit. The mortal form is not meant to carry it."

Vencian pressed his forehead against the cold surface beneath him, fighting to stay conscious. Every nerve screamed. He could not breathe.

Then a sound broke through—a distant cry that cut across the fog.

"Get your hands off him!"

The mist cracked. A burst of force swept across the space. Vencian lifted his head. Through the split fog, Quenya stepped forward, her eyes bright with fury. Her hair floated around her like pale strands in water. She glared at the haze that filled the air.

"Take your hands off Lucian," she repeated.

The fog recoiled slightly, its surface shivering under her voice.

— — —

Blades collided through red threads and bursts of dark mist. Roselys moved by instinct, breath uneven from frustration rather than fatigue. The Coriel village square had half sunk, sea-mist creeping across fractured stones. Thin crimson lines glimmered beneath the surface, holding the ground together.

Her thoughts hissed between movements.

Third arc and I still can't get free. She parried another sweep, sparks scattering from her blade. Didn't think that unstable Anchor would become a problem here.

An unstable Anchor meant the conduit kept slipping, arc-light leaking where it should flow clean.

Red filaments shimmered between the man in the sash and the dying villagers... thin lines of fear, thick strands of hunger. The threads on her wrists throbbed with heat and urgency.

Her core burned beneath her ribs... bright energy churning wildly inside the vessel her Archean had shaped in her chest. The link began to weaken at the edges.

The enemy's outline wavered through the haze. A sash soaked with seawater clung to his waist. Each of his steps made the ground ripple as though it floated.

Neither had drawn blood. The air itself tore each time their weapons met.

She sensed his presence through Thread-Sight... a void where emotional filaments should have formed their strands.

His threads twisted in the wrong way... black when they should have glowed red, devouring instead of linking. The emotional strands near him came apart at the edges, fading into nothingness.

His Domain Signature dragged at perspective, warping brightness inward like water bending around a stone. Arche of Devouring Absence… same arc, maybe. Just like her. But he moves like water, never where you expect.

Her threads twitched, ready to anchor. They found nothing solid to grip.

He lunged. The sword in his hand broke apart into black liquid mid-swing and coiled around her guard. Roselys snapped her wrist, and her filaments flared. The red lines hardened and sliced the flow apart.

The crimson tether stretched between them... trembling like a plucked string. One rule held them both. She felt its pull in her chest... delicate yet undeniable. Her father's lesson echoed in her mind.

She thrust her blade into the cobblestone... crimson threads flaring from the hilt. It was a Minor Binding, a thin tether stretched between them like a tripwire. The air vibrated with energy.

"You cannot advance," she whispered, "until you shatter it."

He paused. Tilted his head, amused. Then stepped through.

The thread broke. A surge of feedback struck her mind... psychic whiplash that blurred her vision. She stumbled, jaw tight against the sting of the thread's burn.

He's feeling the rhythm… not pushing yet. They wear you down first.

She blinked forward, activating a Stitch.

She triggered Tether Step... pulling herself sideways through the fading emotional thread of a dying villager. The force dragged her over the slick stone. His black-flamed hand sliced through the air where she had just stood.

Her blade came up mid-slide, struck his thigh.

He caught the steel. Cold spread from his palm, creeping up the metal, black, and brittle. The wound in his leg leaked heat instead of blood.

She'd burned a quarter of her arc-light already. Maybe less. The reservoir scraped bottom with every weave, her Archean's voice a distant hiss of warning.

Her weapon's edge glowed red, metal softening under his grip. She wrenched it free, gasping.

The threads along her pulse tightened too fast. A flash of warmth crossed her memory—a smile, then static. Her Anchor faltered. The next weave failed; filaments snapped halfway through.

A cut opened across her shoulder. Salt burned inside it. She hissed through clenched teeth. Her threads folded inward to patch the wound but faltered without full focus.

She targeted the faint thread connecting him to his hunger. It was weak, barely visible, but real.

His fire sputtered. One heartbeat of imbalance.

She lunged. Her rapier carved toward his ribs. He parried barehanded, but she planted another Minor Binding on contact. "You cannot drain me again," she hissed, "until you break this thread."

The tether glowed between them.

Sweat traced her temple. The arc-light sputtered, half-empty and draining fast. She had minutes left, maybe less, before the arc-light ran dry and her threads collapsed completely.

She stumbled back, breathing hard. Bought herself seconds, maybe less.

Her anger steadied her. For a second, her mind cleared. Crimson lines rose around her, spiraling from blade to air. "Crimson Thread—Loom phase." The words came low, meant only for herself.

The threads around her hands grew in number, spreading from her fingertips like glowing veins. Each strike left a strand behind... faint echoes that surged forward a moment later.

Her movement turned smooth, exact. She pushed forward. Threads lashed behind each swing, a half-beat delay that made the attacks overlap. Each contact burned faint orange where heat met water.

Black tendrils uncoiled from his palms, slithering toward the last firelight. They drained brightness from burning beams, from embers, from the air itself. The square darkened.

Tendrils lashed toward her.

She connected her life-thread to his... Echo Entanglement, wild and swift. She caught the thread between them and tied it tight. His pain flowed into her; hers flowed into him.

His drain hit her, but half the damage rebounded. Both staggered, coughing ash.

She severed the link before it consumed her whole. Sweat dripped into her eyes.

There is no way I'm winning the battle of attrition. His reservoir stayed full while hers emptied with every breath. Sink or swim. She had to force the choice, drain him dry before her own light guttered out.

He's running on hunger. If there's nothing left to take… he'll turn it inward.

He pulled at the terror soaked into the square, drawing from corpses and ash. The tether around his skin smoked, crumbled under emotional weight. Thread broke.

Nausea hit her. Her filaments vibrated, unraveling at the edges.

A golden thread flickered behind his ribs, pale and vital. Fate itself, wound tight around living flesh. One pull could twist his luck, make him stumble at the killing moment. She'd tried it before— in practice, in real fight— and failed more times than she'd succeeded.

Living threads thrashed when you grabbed them, refused to cooperate during the split-second windows that mattered.

She pushed her guilt into Emotional Leash instead... a frantic surge of emotion directed at his mind. His head snapped to the side. The silence lingered only for an instant.

Sink or swim. She would burn everything that remained in one surge and pray his reservoir failed before hers.

She thrust her hand forward. Crimson filaments spread outward, anchoring to walls and broken rooftops. The net formed tight lines across the square. Arc-light poured from her chest in a flood, the reservoir screaming as she forced it wide open.

He leaned back, impossibly far. He shot backward as the air exploded, and her body was hurled into the burning wreckage.

"Threads burn easy underwater." His voice was calm, almost amused.

Roselys slid her heel across the wet stone. Threads burn brighter when they're strained. So strain it—make it fight back.

When the next surge came, it tangled. Steam burst as red and black collided.

Her vision blurred. Her grip on the weave weakened. Sweat traced down her neck. Hold. Don't let go. Just a few more breaths.

The man smiled faintly. The mist thickened until even outlines vanished. The ground cracked as both Domains expanded. His aura swept outward, a ring of devouring tide and heat that turned stone to ash.

Roselys felt her Domain react, threads converging around her. The red glow wrapped her body in a woven cocoon that spun with every motion. His consumed; hers created. Creation against consumption. I can feel him trying to pull the world inside out.

The square began to collapse. The center sank first, dragging everything toward it. Roselys leapt, her threads catching midair. One snapped. Her eyes widened. The thread moved on its own… no, that was him.

A burning beam cracked overhead.

She spotted the fate thread holding it, pale gold and fraying fast. One sharp pull. The thread snapped, beam plummeting between them in a spray of embers and splinters.

Dust choked the air.

Through the debris cloud, she cast The Red Mirage. A false image of herself retreating left while she darted right.

His black fire sliced through illusion. Missed. He inhaled ash—coughed—body trembling as Void Fever stirred from overfeeding. His breath steamed. Hallucinations of deep water flickered behind his eyes.

She emerged from the side. Drove her blade through his shoulder, hilt glowing from absorbed heat.

He seized the steel. His palm turned it molten, metal running like wax. He wrenched the dissolving blade free. His backhand struck her ribs, and cold spread through the bone.

She fell. Her weapon gone. Threads unraveling. Vision fading at the edges.

He stumbled as frost spread over his skin. The ground twisted beneath him. Black-blue fire built in his chest, the last surge pulling everything inward.

She clutched her anchor thread. One last Echo Entanglement.

The blast split between them and the world went white, then silent.

When the dust settled, the sashed Man knelt in molten cobblestone. His breath came shallow, void-fire flickering faintly in his chest. He looked across the wreckage.

Roselys lay beside a ruined well. Her threads had stopped glowing. Blood pooled beneath her, mixing with ash.

Her chest lifted. The movement was weak and uneven, but it still lifted.

The final question that drifted through the distant edges of her mind was whether Vencian and Reine were safe.