THE TRANSMIGRATION BEFORE DEATH

They left the coliseum with that weird, satisfied ache fighters get in their bones — the kind that says you survived and you learned something. They had a rough idea now of what everyone else could do, a working average of strength and skill. It made the rest of the day feel... measurable, in a way. Predictable.

The marketplace hit them like a second wave. Stalls pressed into each other, covered in cloth and shouting; carts bumped and squealed; hawkers hawked as if they had to sell life itself before sunset. People threaded the lanes in loud, sloppy patterns: some walked, some ran, some carried crates that smelled like spice and sweat. It was chaos with an order you never asked for but learned to move inside of.

Then, in the middle of that motion, Avin saw a hood.

At first it was just another silhouette in a sea of cloaks. But the hooded shape moved differently — direct, not distracted by the bustle, a line cutting through noise. For a second Avin thought it might be his imagination. Then the memory of the man in the hood earlier — the one he'd noticed before — clicked into place. The shape registered. That small recognition twisted into something sharp and personal: he needed to know if it was the same person.

It was out of character. Avin didn't chase shadows. He didn't pursue hunches. He kept his curiosity measured and his risks calculated. But whatever tug pulled his sleeve that afternoon wasn't reasonable. It was insistent.

He grabbed Henry by the back of his shirt and yanked. Hard.

"What the—?" Henry sputtered, nearly stumbling.

"Just follow me," Avin said, already moving.

Henry didn't argue. He hustled, breath loud and quick. They weaved through the crowd, elbows and shoulders and cart wheels, knocking and apologizing and forcing a path. The hooded figure stayed ahead, a steady pace that kept a small distance between him and the rest, as if aware of being watched but not caring.

Then the hooded man ran.

Not a casual jog. A sudden sprint, like someone who'd expected pursuit and was testing the seekers. Avin cursed and pushed himself faster. Henry's face tightened when he saw the figure bolt; recognition finally hit him too.

"Shit," Avin said, and sped up.

The man cut a sharp corner into narrower, denser market lanes. The new section was packed; people leaned shoulder to shoulder and voices layered into a wall of sound. Avin didn't hesitate — he swung around that corner like a knife.

The crowd there was thicker. They began losing ground. Bodies closed in; the cloak vanished into the press.

Avin barked across the noise, "If we wanted to speed up through this crowd, what would we do?"

Henry, panting, glanced back, wiping sweat from his forehead. "We would just use mana."

Avin stopped mid-step, annoyed at himself. "And you couldn't suggest that until I asked?"

"What?" Henry said, offended. "How is that my fault? I thought you knew, but wanted to do some normal, physical training or something."

Avin opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn't have the energy to argue tone. He forced out, "Just show me."

Henry cut in front of him and did exactly that.

It was abrupt: a blue shimmer threaded itself along Henry's calves, like light painting muscle. The aura hugged his legs, then — with a motion so clean it looked like someone had pulled a string — Henry accelerated. Four times his walking pace, then more. Man turned into blur, and he threaded through gaps Avin had thought impossible to fit through.

Avin felt something like a punch of jealousy and wonder both. He'd never considered mana could be applied that way. He'd always thought of mana as for spells, for attack or shielding, not for the simple, elegant push of speed.

His heart thudded like a drum. He imagined the mana chamber near his heart — the place he'd heard about in lessons and rumors — and focused. Slowly, a rhythm built: inhale, gather; exhale, push. The mana moved, obedient, through the channels he'd never paid close attention to. He poured it down into his legs, into the muscles and joints, into speed. It felt weird and right, like slipping into a second skin.

The world blurred. Feet drummed faster than thought. Avin ran like he'd found a new gear. The market became a smear of faces and color and the sound of Henry's breath behind him. He pushed until the gap closed and he caught Henry at the mouth of the alley the hooded figure had disappeared into.

"Wow, you are a fast learner... the rumors do lie," Henry teased, breathless.

Avin ignored him and focused on the target. The hooded figure had cut into a wider alley — something less market, more service-way — and they followed immediately. The alley narrowed into a funnel; crates and refuse framed the route. They were close. So close Avin's hand could have brushed the cloak.

Then something stopped him.

An arm — solid, sudden — hit him like a wall. It came out of nowhere and knocked him forward with brutal force. Momentum folded awkwardly; his head clipped the cobbles with a sound that made his ears ring and stars sprint behind his eyes. He hit the ground hard and lay there, dazed, the world a smear of sky and brick.

Henry ran up and crouched, eyes wide. "What happened?"

Avin blinked, taste of stone and dust in his mouth. At the end of the alley he watched the hooded figure vault a wall and disappear into the maze beyond. He groaned, sitting up, rubbing at the stinging spot on his head. "Ugh. What the hell was that?"

A voice cut through the alley like someone throwing a stone in a quiet pond.

"Hello, asshole."

Avin looked up.

Derrick stood there, like he'd been waiting in shadow. Same sneer, same cocky tilt. Memory flashed — the man who'd made their first day a nightmare.

"What are you doing here?" Avin asked, getting to his feet slowly.

Derrick's laugh was thin. "You fell for a simple enchantment spell," he said. "I always knew you were incompetent."

Avin narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about, Derrick?"

"You got sold," Derrick said, as if stating a fact about the weather.

A chill crept up Avin's spine. "What?"

"You think you'd randomly follow someone into a suspicious alley?" Derrick continued. "I know you're not dumb enough for that."

Avin pushed himself up, shoulders rolling. "Aww thanks, Derrick," he muttered. He tried for lightness, the kind of deflection that buys a second. "So you're telling me you enchanted me into coming here so you could beat me up? I thought enchantments were for people you fancy." He took a step forward and fake-gripped Derrick's shoulder, adding, "I don't swing that way, friend."

Derrick's amusement snapped. He shoved Avin back. Avin stumbled, two steps, caught himself. Derrick's voice dropped low. "You're going to die here."

Avin looked over his shoulder. "What are you talking about? There's two of us." He pointed to Henry, who was standing nearby.

Derrick's smirk widened. Then — a dull, heavy thump landed to Avin's side, reverberating off the alley walls. He turned. Henry was on the ground, face pale, breathing shallow. Unconscious.

"No," Avin said, the word small but raw.

He stumbled forward, hand going to Henry's shoulder, checking for pulse and breath. Henry was limp. The small panic in Avin's chest was hot and fast. "What did you do to him?" he spat, fingers twitching toward the hilt of his sword.

Derrick shrugged, almost bored. "You two are really gullible to these magic tricks. And you think you're academy material." He drew his sword with a lazy, cruel flourish.

Avin's hand went to his own blade without thinking. The metal felt like an answer in his grip.

Derrick took a step forward, eyes cold. "We will end this here,"