THE TRANSMIGRATION BEFORE DEATH

Avin lay flat on the bed, eyes half-open, half-closed, caught between the edge of sleep and stubborn wakefulness.After what felt like an hour of just rolling over, closing his eyes, opening them again, repeating the same motion, it became painfully clear—sleep wasn't happening tonight.

He exhaled through his nose, staring up at the empty ceiling.The room around him was dead quiet. Plain walls, one table, one chair, one bag.No window. Not even a proper breeze.

He groaned and turned over, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead."I miss my phone."

The words came out flat, a whisper half-buried in a sigh. He rolled again, staring at the opposite wall as if that would help."I miss my computer. The games. The comics." He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Boredom's gonna kill me before anything else does."

For a while, he just sat there, elbows on knees, eyes wandering around the bare room. His mind kept searching for something—anything—to do.

After a few moments of silence, his eyes flicked to where his sword and dagger rested against the table. "Well," he muttered, pushing himself up, "guess I could at least make myself a light show."

He reached for the sword first, letting his fingers brush along the hilt. The metal was cold, quiet. With a breath, he let mana slide through his veins, pooling in his palm, and feeding into the weapon.

A faint hum began. Then a pulse.

The dull steel shifted, glowing faintly with red-orange veins that branched along the blade like living circuits. The edges shimmered with faint light, the middle faintly translucent — revealing a fiery heart running through it like magma. Every few seconds, it pulsed, and the markings along its length brightened, burning brighter before dimming again.

Avin grinned. "Still the coolest part of this world."

He held it out in front of him, twisting his wrist slightly. The weapon hissed faintly, leaving streaks of embers in the air before fading. The red-orange light reflected against his eyes, casting a glow across his face.

He sheathed it carefully and picked up the dagger next. The smaller blade didn't hum — it vibrated softly, the mana resonating differently. This one didn't blaze with red, but with shifting shades of violet and deep blue, like a cut of night sky trapped in glass. Lines of azure traced along its body, each pulse releasing faint sparks that faded in trails. The glow was cold, calm, yet eerily alive.

He turned it in his hand, watching the colors dance. "Almost pretty enough to forget I could die holding you," he said quietly.

With a flick of his wrist, he let the mana fade from both weapons, the glow disappearing as metal returned to its dull, natural tone. He rested them both back against the table.

"Guess that killed about… three minutes."

He sighed and dropped back onto the bed. His hand lifted lazily, mana flickering to life once more in his palm. The air shimmered again, forming a small, transparent flame.

He stared at it, almost amused. "Didn't know I could do that," he muttered. "Manifest mana, huh. That's cool, I guess."

The faint glow lit his face in crimson, and for a moment he just watched it burn quietly above his hand before letting it fade.He flopped back onto the bed, eyes tracing the ceiling again. "I wonder if this eye thing can act like a blue light," he said, activating the mana in his eyes. His irises flared crimson. "Would like to see what these people have been hiding."

He scanned the room. The walls, the floor, the corners—nothing. He checked under the bed, behind the chair, under the table. Still nothing.

"Different world, different culture, I guess."

Then his gaze drifted back up to the ceiling—and froze.There was something there.

A small square of paper taped flat against the plaster, edges curling slightly with age.He squinted, focusing the glow in his eyes until the text came into view.

And then his heart stopped for half a beat.

It was written in English.

Not the local script. Not the stylized glyphs of this world. Plain, blocky English.

Two words stood out:"To Clive."

Avin's breath caught.It wasn't just the language. It was the name. His name—his name from Earth.

Whatever that paper was, whoever had written it—it was meant for him.

He needed it. Now.

The problem was, it was too high to reach.

He scanned the room for something to climb on. The only thing useful was the chair behind his desk. He dragged it into the center of the room and positioned it directly under the spot.

He stepped up onto it, balancing carefully, but the note was still too far away. He stretched, fingers brushing air. "You've gotta be kidding me."

With a huff, he jumped down and looked around again. His eyes landed on the bigger, sturdier chair out in the living area.

"Perfect."

He started dragging it toward his room. The legs scraped the stone floor, producing a high-pitched screech that echoed through the dorm like nails on glass.

Henry's door opened almost immediately.

He stepped out, half-asleep, blinking. "What are you doing?"

Avin turned his head, smiling faintly. "Found something in my room. Need this chair."

Henry just stared as Avin kept dragging it, screeching noise and all, until he wedged it under the paper on the ceiling.

Henry followed him inside. "You could've just lifted that up, you know."

Avin didn't even look back. "Leave what's in the past in the past."

Henry chuckled under his breath. "Coming from an Avin, that might mean way more than it should."

Avin turned his head slowly, eyes flat.

Henry met his gaze, held it for two seconds, and then raised his hands slightly. "My bad."

Avin stepped up onto the new chair. Henry stayed back near the door, watching. "What are you even looking for?"

"A paper. It's up there." Avin pointed directly at it.

Henry squinted, following his gesture. "I don't see anything."

"They're hidden perfectly," Avin said, tapping one glowing red eye. "Even I couldn't see it till I turned this on."

"…Okay," Henry said, still skeptical.

Avin crouched slightly, gauging the distance, then jumped. His fingertips barely brushed the paper. He landed back on the chair and frowned.

He jumped again. And again. Still too short.

After the fifth attempt, he stopped, panting lightly, staring at the smaller chair on the floor. Then at Henry.

"Think I can put that chair on this one?"

Henry didn't even hesitate. "No."

"I mean, I could if I—"

"If you want to die, sure. Go for it." Henry crossed his arms. "Okay, fine, it won't kill you. But I do know someone who fell from just a few meters and died, so…"

Avin stared blankly. "You never told me what to do then."

"Find a way," Henry said simply.

Avin rolled his eyes and kept jumping, each time with less enthusiasm. The sound of his feet hitting the chair echoed through the small room. Eventually, frustration boiled over.

"Alright, screw this," he muttered.

Then, memory struck—sharp and sudden.The alley. Derrick's swing. The moment before death. The move that saved him.

He bent his knees, inhaled, and pulled mana from his core, focusing it into his legs. He could feel the heat travel through his veins, pulsing with energy.

He closed his eyes, concentrated. Too much, and he'd smash through the ceiling. Too little, and he'd just look stupid again.

He pushed.

Mana burst through his legs in a quick, controlled surge. The ground cracked faintly under the pressure. Avin shot upward, arm extended—and his hand slapped against the ceiling. The tape tore cleanly, the paper came free, and gravity caught up with him.

"Oh, crap."

He was already falling.

He hit the chairs back-first, the edge catching him right under the shoulder blades before everything toppled over.

The crash was loud enough to make Henry flinch.

Avin groaned, flat on the floor, hand clutching his back. "Ugh… my back."

Henry crouched beside him. "You alive?"

"Barely." Avin sighed, holding the crumpled paper above his face. "But I got it."

Henry leaned in, curious. "What are those characters?"

Avin turned his head, staring at him like he'd just asked the dumbest question possible. "You don't know this?"

"No," Henry said, frowning. "Actually, I'm intrigued that I know nothing about this language."

Avin blinked, then opened the letter carefully. The handwriting was uneven, like it had been rushed. He read it silently, lips moving faintly.

"Hello Clive, nice for you to be back. I can't talk much, but all I can say is—look for the horned piper, and you will know way more than you are allowed to right now."

He stopped. The words hung in his mind, each one a weight.

"'Horned piper?'" he muttered aloud.

Henry looked at him sharply. "You can read it?"

Avin didn't answer right away. He just stared at the page, the faint trace of a smile curling at the corner of his lips.