The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master-Chapter 139: Out of Pattern

Vencian closed the door and stepped into the corridor. The house had settled into its evening shape. Voices drifted up from below. The passage held a hush as the lanterns burned low along the walls.

The black-haired maid appeared at the corridor’s bend. She turned as he approached, hands folded, posture easy.

"Good evening." Her voice carried practiced warmth. "Are you searching for supper?"

"Perhaps," Vencian said. "I thought I might walk first. Clear my head after the road."

"Of course." She gestured toward the passage ahead. "The hall lies this way. I can show you."

She began walking. Vencian fell into step behind her, close enough to mark how her skirts shifted when she turned corners.

They moved through the narrower sections where lamplight thinned. Her pace stayed consistent. She knew these halls by counting steps rather than looking.

"The baron keeps the place well," Vencian said. "For a house of this age, it carries itself."

"The staff takes pride in it."

"I imagine some wings need more attention," he said. "Older stone, older repairs."

"Some sections require more care than others."

Her answer came smoothly. She turned left at a junction, leading him deeper.

"The lower cellar stairs, for instance," Vencian continued. "They looked worse than I remembered."

She slowed half a step, then recovered. "That section sees little use now. Supplies arrive through the newer access."

"That makes sense." He kept his tone easy. "I visited the barony once before. Years ago, on family business. I recall being led through that section."

She turned another corner. The passage narrowed further here. Fewer lamps. More shadow pressing in from the walls.

"I wondered if the staff still remembered my stay," Vencian added.

Her stride faltered.

Brief. Barely there. Her shoulders drew up, and when she spoke again, the warmth had thinned.

"Of course," she said. "I remember it clearly. As if it were yesterday."

"Oh really," Vencian said.

He let his stride break, bending slightly as though adjusting his boot. His fingers found the knife strapped to his ankle. The blade came free in silence. He straightened, the weapon concealed against his forearm as he closed the distance between them.

She turned her head slightly, confusion surfacing in the angle of her neck.

Vencian moved.

He caught her shoulder and drove her forward into the wall. Stone met flesh with a dull, final sound. His forearm locked across her back, pinning her flat. The dagger pressed cold against the side of her throat.

She went still. Breath trapped. Body rigid against stone.

The corridor held its silence. Lamplight barely reached them here.

Vencian leaned closer, mouth near her ear.

"I have never been here before tonight," Vencian said, quiet. "So whatever you rehearsed, it missed its mark."

The words dropped between them, quiet and exact.

Her breathing hitched. Realization arrived in the tension that spread through her shoulders.

"Say who you serve." His grip shifted just enough to bare her upper arm, fingers pinning muscle and cloth together as his eyes cut for a mark that was not there.

She breathed once, slow. "You got me good."

The words landed wrong. No shake. No rush. His instincts surged, sharp and immediate, telling him to pull back before his fingers paid for the mistake.

Her weight shifted.

The lantern slid from her hand and struck the wall, glass chiming once before going dark. In the same motion she dipped, shoulder rolling under his arm. The dagger kissed air. Her elbow snapped back into his wrist, precise, angled for bone.

Pain flared. He released and stepped aside as her heel skimmed his knee. She came up facing him with a knife already in hand, grip reversed, blade short and practical.

They circled in the narrow passage, boots whispering over stone. Vencian tested distance. She matched him, eyes steady, breathing unchanged. Her stance showed training stripped of flourish.

He feinted high. She cut in, blade aimed for tendon. He turned the strike, steel ringing once as knives met. The sound carried. He shifted left, drove his shoulder, tried to crowd her. She slid past and scraped his sleeve, a warning line burned into fabric.

Vencian pressed, footwork tightening the space. She gave ground in measured steps, then snapped forward with a quick pair meant to split attention. He took the first on the flat, twisted, felt the second skim close. The exchange left them both marked and breathing harder.

She smiled, teeth showing too much.

"I was right about you," she said. "You fit better than I hoped."

"Perfect," she added, breath light, meaning unclear.

"You’re trained," Vencian said, eyes tracking her feet. "And you’re doing it well."

This needed to end fast. Elias and Aline were still somewhere inside, and the house had already turned hostile.

She answered by lunging. He caught her wrist, torque sharp, and felt her yield before the joint reached its limit. She dropped the knife to her other hand mid-turn and raked for his ribs. He jumped back, shirt parting, skin spared by luck and timing.

Enough.

Vencian opened his palm. Space folded. Cold weight slid into his grip. The sword came free in a clean line, steel whispering as it cleared the air.

Her eyes flicked once, fast. She reset, knife low, stance narrower now.

"Say who you serve," he said again.

A flicker passed through her mouth that could have been a smile.

Her eyes emptied of white. Black swallowed them whole.

Shit. Vencian coiled, weight shifting, ready to finish it in one motion.

Quenya’s warning hit him like a tug at the spine. Behind.

He started to turn.

The blow landed high and hard, a blunt force that drove light across his vision. Sound flattened. Stone rushed up. His knees failed, strength draining away as the corridor tipped and darkened.

-- -- --

The dining hall filled from the sides rather than the doors.

Students gathered along the long serving arrangement set against the wall. Platters sat uncovered. Steam lifted faintly from several dishes.

No one had started eating.

Only two servants were present. One stood near the food, hands folded until needed. The other waited by the main doors, posture straight, eyes forward.

Elias entered and slowed without meaning to. He did not take a plate. Habit guided him instead. He walked the length of the serving table, eyes moving from card to card, reading without appetite. His gaze caught on a spiced lentil dish near the center, prepared the way Vencian preferred it, heavier on the oil, less restraint with the herbs.

He probably won’t come down, Elias thought.

The idea settled quickly, without weight. Vencian had skipped meals before. Tonight felt like one of those nights.

He lingered a moment longer, then considered the dish again. If it was still there later, he could take some back. The thought felt practical rather than indulgent.

Behind him, plates began to scrape softly as students started serving themselves. Conversation rose a fraction. The sound stayed contained, as if the room had agreed on a limit.

The servant at the food station moved with familiar economy. Ladle lifted. Platter shifted. A plate was steadied with two fingers.

Then the motion paused.

The servant’s hand hovered over a serving utensil. Just long enough to notice. His eyes flicked toward the hall, as if awaiting instruction that did not come.

A breath passed.

He resumed. The ladle dipped. Food landed on porcelain.

A student near the end of the table rubbed at his temple, brow tightening. He leaned his weight against the wall, plate untouched. Another student laughed under his breath and muttered something about feeling worn down all of a sudden. The comment drew a few nods, more out of politeness than concern.

A plate slipped.

The sound cut through the room, sharp against stone. A student collapsed near the serving table, body folding fast, shoulder striking wood on the way down. The plate shattered where it landed, fragments skidding.

The room jolted.

Chairs scraped back. Voices rose, overlapping. Someone called a name.

Elias moved at once.

He knelt beside the fallen student, fingers already at the pulse, eyes checking breath. The boy’s chest rose and fell. Skin warm. No response when Elias spoke his name.

Alive.

Elias looked up. "Medic," he called, voice carrying. "Now."

The servant near the doors did not move.

Elias stood halfway, sharper this time. "Get a medic."

The servant turned slowly. His expression was empty, eyes unfocused, as if his attention had been pulled inward.

"Where is the baron?" Elias asked.

The reply came at once, clean and unbroken.

"The baron is busy sleeping."

The words landed wrong. Like someone had instructed him to reply with those same words.

Elias did not argue or repeat himself. Whatever lay behind that answer was not going to open for him here.

He straightened and turned away from the hall. Something feels off.

Behind him, the room swelled with confusion. Students clustered. Someone tried to give instructions and failed to hold the floor. The servant by the food stood still again, hands slack at his sides.

The corridor outside was quiet.

The change felt abrupt rather than relieving. Sound dropped away as Elias moved toward the ground-floor rooms set aside for the professors. His pace stayed even.

He reached the door and pushed it open.

Professor Marothil lay on the floor. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

The cut across his throat was clean. Blood had spread beneath him, dark and settled, seeping into the grooves of the stone.