THE TRANSMIGRATION BEFORE DEATH

The blade flashed toward him—a streak of silver heat carving through the air so swiftly that it blurred.By the time Avin registered the movement, the sword was already upon him, only an inch from his face.If the boy had truly intended to kill him, it would have been over before Avin could even think of flinching.

Instinct took command.He shut his eyes tight, every muscle locking. His lungs froze mid-breath.The sound came—whoosh—a rushing gust that bent the firelight.

And then… silence.

No sting of steel.No tear of flesh.No warmth blooming across his chest.

He waited, stiff as stone, afraid that even opening his eyes might invite the delayed pain of death. Seconds stretched thin. His heartbeat filled his ears, hammering louder than the ringing he expected from a mortal wound.

Tentatively, he lifted one trembling hand and touched his chest.Nothing.No cut, no blood—only the steady rhythm of life beating beneath his palm.

Slowly, very slowly, he dared to open one eye. The world returned as a smear of gold and shadow. Through the blur he saw a figure: small, unmoving, haloed by the forge's dim fire.He blinked again until the image cleared.

The boy stood before him, pale hair glowing faintly in the torchlight. His sword now rested lazily upon his shoulder. His expression carried neither anger nor pity—only quiet satisfaction.

Avin exhaled shakily, his voice coming out as a rasp."Why would you do that?"

The boy's lips curled into a light, smug grin. He gave a soft chuckle, the kind that sounded older than his childish face allowed."Why, to break the shackles, of course."He spoke as though it were obvious, as though slicing at someone's life was no more alarming than striking a nail.

He tilted his head. "Do things not feel different?"

Avin frowned, confused. Different?

Then, compelled by something unspoken, he looked inward—into the quiet spaces of his mind where the noise of sorrow and doubt had always lingered.What he found there startled him.

The ache was gone.The guilt that had dogged him since the beginning was gone.So was the lingering grief that was not his own—the echo of the boy named Avin whose body he had inherited.

All of it had vanished, leaving behind a vast stillness.

For the first time since awakening in this world, he felt light.The constant whisper of fear, that crawling dread that he would fail or disappoint some unseen expectation—it had dissolved.

He took a long breath, and the air felt cleaner in his lungs.He was simply himself. Not half a memory. Not the echo of someone else's will.

He was Clive.

"I feel… better?" he murmured. The words sounded small in the great emptiness of the forge.

The boy chuckled again, pleased. "Welcome back, old friend."

That phrase pulled a furrow between Clive's brows. Old friend?It was the second time the boy had said it, yet his tone carried certainty, not sentimentality.

Clive's instinct was to question him, but he let the thought drift away. Perhaps everyone in this strange place spoke in riddles; perhaps the child was only a reflection of the realm itself—odd, unexplainable, and unbothered by logic.

The boy stepped closer, his bare feet silent on the stone. In his hands he held a sword and its sheath, the metal gleaming like liquid dusk. When he lifted it toward Clive, the faint golden veins running along the blade seemed to pulse with a heartbeat of their own.

Clive hesitated, eyes flicking between the boy and the weapon."What's this for?"

The boy smiled again, as if amused by the question."Well, isn't this—"

The next sound warped, a distortion that scraped through the air.The name—whatever it was—did not exist in mortal language.

"—@$$#$—"

The noise fractured, impossible to decipher.The boy winced slightly, sighing through his nose. "Maybe you'll find it useful later."

He extended his arms fully. "Here. Take it."

Clive reached out and grasped the hilt. The moment his fingers met the cool metal, a shiver of light rippled along the runes before sinking back into stillness. The weapon seemed to breathe once, then went quiet—sleeping, waiting.

The boy took a step backward, his expression softening. "See you later, @#$_@&$."

The final word cracked again, swallowed by distortion, like a voice speaking through broken glass.And before Clive could question him, the world snapped.

Darkness consumed everything.

The sound of the forge died. The air collapsed inward, pulling the light out of existence.

And then—

A breath.A blink.Reality returned.

Stone tiles beneath his boots. The open air. The towering gates of the academy standing sentinel before him.

He had come back.

The noise of the world rushed in at once: the clash of weapons nearby, the sharp bark of a guard's command.Sylas and the other guard were still locked in struggle, frozen mid-motion, as if no time at all had passed.

And standing directly in front of him was the man—the brother of the one who had died during the Survival Challenge.The same rage still burned in his eyes, his aura flaring crimson, licking the air like fire.

Clive steadied his breath.A strange heaviness sat upon his back. He glanced over his shoulder and saw it: another sword, strapped diagonally across his spine, the very same one the boy had handed him moments—or eternities—ago.

Its sheath shimmered faintly, faint veins of dull gold pulsing beneath the leather. It felt real. Tangible. Alive.The weapon had followed him out of that place.

But that was not his concern now.

He turned his gaze back to the furious guard, who stood with blade raised, red aura spilling from his body.

"I can't believe I was scared of this guy," Clive muttered under his breath.

He studied the man more carefully this time. The stance was wrong—shoulders too tense, feet uneven. His aura roared, but it was wild, uncontrolled, the mark of someone who let anger lead instead of discipline.

Clive exhaled slowly, almost in pity.

The guard's face twisted. "Show me that you are worthy!" he shouted, pointing his sword straight at him.

Clive smiled faintly, the edge of his lips curving into something that was not mockery but quiet disbelief. He lifted his own weapon—the sword Leo had given him—resting it lazily across his shoulder.

"Why?"

The word slipped from him like a whisper, calm and dangerous.

The guard froze mid-stance. "What?"

Clive's gaze didn't waver. "Why should I show you that I am worthy?"

It was a simple question, but it landed like a blade.

The man's brows furrowed, his mouth opening and closing uselessly. "Because…" he began, but no continuation came.There was none.No one had ever dared to ask such a thing. No one had ever needed to.

His uncertainty quickly curdled into anger. His face contorted; veins stood out at his neck. He gripped his sword hilt so tightly the leather squealed beneath his fingers.

And without another word, he charged.

Thud—thud—thud!

His boots hammered against the ground, his crimson aura flaring around him in violent arcs. His sword rose high, ready to strike. His roar tore through the courtyard.

Clive didn't move.

He inhaled once, slow and even, his mana stirring in his core. The energy surged outward—through his veins, into his arms, into his eyes.The world sharpened.The wind slowed.

He could see everything: the arc of the incoming blade, the tremor in the guard's wrist, the split second before contact.

He tightened his grip on Leo's sword, planting his feet firmly against the tiled ground.

The impact came.

CLANG!

The clash shook the air. Sparks erupted where steel met steel, scattering like fireflies.

Clive held firm. The force of the strike ran through his arm, but he barely flinched. His counter-pressure sent the guard stumbling a half-step backward.

No structure. No form. No thought. Just rage.

Clive's eyes glowed faintly red as he studied the man's next movement, calm, analytical.

He remembered—not through Avin's memories, but through instinct—what battle had always been: rhythm, observation, patience.

He didn't need to recall how to fight; his body already knew.

The guard swung again, desperate. The blade cut through empty air as Clive sidestepped, almost leisurely, the edge missing him by inches.

He didn't attack back. Not yet.

He simply watched, letting the man exhaust himself in fury.

The moment stretched thin until Clive could see the futility in his opponent's eyes.

A quiet chuckle slipped from his throat. "So that's all it is."

He shifted his stance, lowering his center of gravity, his gaze locked straight ahead.

The guard lunged one final time.

Clive moved before thought could form. His blade rose, met the other's mid-swing, and turned it aside with effortless precision. The motion cracked the air.

The guard's sword flew from his hands, spinning once before striking the ground with a hollow clang.

Silence.

The man stood frozen, disbelief and fury colliding in his face.

Clive didn't spare him a second look. He rested Leo's sword back upon his shoulder, exhaled, and let the quiet sink in.

"I can't believe I was scared of this guy," he muttered again, more to himself than to anyone else.

He turned his gaze toward the looming gates of the academy, the faint light glinting off their metallic frame. His heartbeat slowed. His lips curved, not into joy, but into something darker—a smile born of clarity and release.

He rolled his neck once, loosening the last of the tension, and whispered under his breath,"Maybe that's why the universe sent me here… to keep me entertained."

A small laugh followed—low, amused, almost fond.

He looked once more at the crimson-stained tiles, at the trembling man before him, and then up at the world beyond the gate.

"From this day forward," he said softly, almost in reverence, "I'm not going to be bored."

Somewhere, faint and far away, a hammer struck metal.

Clang.

Clang.

Clang.

The sound echoed through him like a heartbeat reborn.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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