The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

Vencian's breath came in bursts, the sound raw in his throat. His arms ached from the weight of the machete, the blade still slick in his grip. He stared down at his hands, at the trembling that wouldn't stop. The last few minutes existed like smudges in his mind. The fight. The blood. The sound of tearing. He couldn't tell which parts he remembered and which his mind filled in.

What did I do?

His body felt hollow. Each heartbeat struck dull against his chest. The smell of burnt soil still clung to him.

Then came her voice.

"Vencian," Quenya said from somewhere deep in his mind. The tone was softer than the usual sharp pulse she carried. "Are you stable again?"

He closed his eyes. The voice steadied him and reminded him he was still alive.

Stable? I don't know what that means anymore.

When he looked again, the man who had appeared from the blast stood a few paces ahead. His clothes were too clean for the battlefield. The way he held himself—upright, effortless—belonged somewhere far from this place. Behind him, the sashed man lay on the ground, one arm gone, eyes glassy but burning with hate.

The wounded man spoke first, voice shaking from blood loss. "Jerenir, what are you doing? He's the chalice itself. We should kill him and take him back. Before it's too late."

Vencian's muscles tightened. Chalice? What are they talking about?

The one called Jerenir didn't turn. His voice came calm, precise. "You should have killed the girl faster if you wanted that. Look above."

The sashed man's eyes shifted upward.

Vencian followed the movement. Through the drifting ash, Roselys stood at a distance, her stance rigid, eyes fixed on them. Her crimson threads flickered faintly around her arms. She looked like she was waiting for a signal, ready to reach them the instant one came.

Jerenir glanced back toward his companion. "She's watching. Recovering faster than I expected. We are out of time."

The sashed man cursed under his breath. "You can't leave him here. You know master wants—"

"I know," Jerenir interrupted. "But someone strong is approaching. I can feel it."

His words were simple, yet the calm behind them carried authority. He turned toward Vencian, meeting his gaze for the first time. His face was pale, refined, untouched by sweat or dirt. "Lord Vicorra," he said quietly. "I didn't know you had this side. You've struck your own feet by what you did tonight."

Vencian stared back, chest tightening. He speaks as if he knows me.

Jerenir's eyes narrowed slightly. "I wanted to talk longer, but time is short."

Vencian's breathing slowed. The adrenaline that had carried him through the fight now left him empty, the tremors in his arms worse than before. Yet his focus sharpened on the man in front of him.

"Same here," Vencian said, voice rough but clear, "though I wonder whose reflection you'd see in a mirror right now."

For the first time, Jerenir's calm wavered. His brows drew together, confusion flickering across his features.

"What does he mean?" he murmured, half to himself.

Vencian shook his head, saying nothing.

Jerenir studied him for another breath, then exhaled. Whatever conclusion he reached, he kept it to himself.

The air around him rippled once. His outline blurred, and in the next moment, both figures vanished—Jerenir upright, the sashed man dragged from the dirt like smoke pulled into a draft.

The space they had occupied remained scorched, the ground marked by the faint shimmer of heat.

The silence that followed pressed against Vencian's ears. The fires still burned, but they felt distant now.

He looked down at his hands again. Blood, dry and wet both, caked his skin. The machete slipped from his grip and landed with a dull sound beside him.

Roselys hadn't moved closer yet.

Vencian's body swayed. His shoulder screamed, every cut catching up now that the rush was gone. His pulse hammered inside his skull.

They called me the chalice.

The thought repeated itself until it lost meaning.

He dropped to his knees, one hand clutching his shoulder, the other pressed against the ground to hold balance. The pain from every wound sharpened at once, a flood replacing numbness. His breath hitched as he tried to keep upright.

Quenya's voice came again, quieter this time. "Vencian, hold still."

He couldn't respond. Pain clouded everything.

His shoulder burned, blood soaking through the torn fabric. His breaths came shallow. Through the haze, he saw Roselys moving toward him. Her stride was uneven, but her eyes locked on him.

Why did I come back here?

The thought surfaced through the blur of exhaustion. His body wanted to fold, yet his mind pressed on, clawing for reason.

Vencian had returned to the wasteland for blood, not survival. The ache that had followed him since the ritual came back to him now, along with the hunger that wasn't his own. A kill had seemed the only way to silence it, to replace it with something else.

Something that thing made me feel.

Roselys was closer. Her crimson filaments still flickered faintly around her.

She revealed that she's an Arkspren. The memory pushed through, sharp and cold.

But her name isn't in any registry. I've read every one of them since the reforms. She's rogue.

The realization struck hard. That meant she carried a secret she couldn't let anyone know.

She wouldn't risk exposure. Not after what happened here. The most predictable way to silence me would be to kill me. Now. While everything burns and there's no witness left.

His pulse raced. His body screamed at him to move. Get up. Run before she decides it. He tried pushing himself up, but his vision blurred into pale outlines.

The world around him had already turned monochrome. His illusion reserves were dry.

I can't use it again. My veins will tear apart if I try. How far can I even run like this?

She was almost upon him. His heartbeat filled his head. Too late.

Vencian shut his eyes tight. Do it fast.

But what came next was not pain. It was touch. Hands pressing against his chest, shoulder, and jaw.

He opened his eyes, confusion cutting through the panic. Roselys crouched beside him, her fingers running over his injuries. Her face was pale, streaked with soot, but her focus sharp.

Right, she revealed her identity and told me to run. She wouldn't have done that if she wanted to kill me in the end.

He studied her face. Her eyes have reverted back to their usual color that he has managed to get used to.

Is she feeling guilty?

"I'm fine," he managed, voice hoarse.

"You're not fine," she said, gripping his shoulders hard. "You're bleeding. You could have died. What were you thinking?"

Her anger wasn't cold. It was loud, almost trembling.

He turned his face away. The motion hurt, but it spared him her stare.

Her voice lowered. "Where's Reine?"

He didn't answer. His eyes drifted toward the charred ground beside them. That was enough.

Roselys's lips parted slightly. "It's not your fault."

He almost laughed, but the breath came broken. She's wrong. Everything that happened circles back to me.

He wanted to say something, to push back, but words caught behind his teeth. His mind went elsewhere—to the gray fog, to his other self's words. Every inconvenience in this world exists because someone was too weak to act.

Weakness. That was the constant. Every time something went wrong, it was because he hesitated. Because he wasn't enough to stop it.

Reine's death. My fault again. Not because I cared, but because I failed.

He hadn't realized how quickly the child's presence had settled into him.

There had been something familiar in her quietness, in the way she hid fear behind stubborn defiance. The same look he once wore. He saw the same reflection in both sisters—one gone too soon, the other lost to blood.

Maybe that's why it hurts. Because they reminded me what I was before all this began.

Roselys sat back slightly, her breathing rough. She glanced at the corpses scattered across the ground, then back to him. Whatever words she had left, she swallowed them.

Vencian rested his head against the dirt. The world had stopped spinning, but every breath still cut through him.

He wanted to believe her when she said it wasn't his fault. But his mind refused. The image of Reine's blood pooling while he held her in his arms replayed each time he blinked.

The sound of crackling fire faded into the distance. Then came a new noise—measured footsteps on burned ground. Vencian turned his head slightly.

Roselys froze, then straightened. Her eyes flicked toward the slope.

From the haze of smoke, a man emerged. His presence carried quiet authority, his clothing immaculate despite the ruins around them.

Vencian's breath caught. He had seen the man only a few times before, most notably at the academy's opening ceremony.

Larion Marendil. The High Preceptor.

Roselys's father.

And he was walking straight toward them.