THE TRANSMIGRATION BEFORE DEATH

The guard charged—boots pounding against the tiled floor, each thud echoing like a heartbeat carved into stone.

Avin exhaled.

From the core of his body, mana surged upward, spiraling through his veins like a living current. It burned cold through his chest, slipped into his arms, and spread like liquid fire to his eyes and ears.

And then the world… slowed.

The pounding footsteps dulled into muffled drums, drawn-out and heavy. He could hear everything—the grind of the man's boots, the tremor in his breath, the faint thrump of a heart swelling with rage.

Time rippled.

Red translucent silhouettes began to appear in the air—afterimages of the guard's movements, stretched and stacked one after the other, fading toward Avin like echoes through glass. They flickered at first, but each flicker felt like a heartbeat of the universe, mapping every future step.

Avin's lips parted. His voice came out a whisper, tinged with disbelief and awe."…Chrono."

He had heard of this only in whispers—a god that toyed with the flow of seconds, an existence beyond mortality.But to see the world like this, to witness moments before they happened—this was acknowledgment.

The god of time was watching him.

The man lunged.

A flash of steel tore through the space where Avin had been standing. He moved aside a heartbeat early, the motion effortless, guided not by instinct but by inevitability. The enemy's sword sliced the air vertically, its trajectory already mapped by those red echoes.

The blade struck nothing but wind.

The guard's momentum carried him forward. He stumbled, crouching low, exposed. Avin's boot pressed lightly into his chest and gave a push—firm, dismissive.

The man toppled backward, boots scraping, his sword arm flailing as he caught his balance again.

Avin's smirk was sharp, almost playful.

The guard saw it and something inside him cracked. Veins bulged across his temple, his teeth grinding audibly. His breathing deepened, animalistic, rage flooding out of him in visible waves.

He clenched his sword with both hands, and his pupils ignited blood red. Blue veins lit beneath the skin of his face, glowing faintly as his weapon began to vibrate—fast, violent, like a beast fighting its leash.

Avin tilted his head."Oh… shit," he muttered, then chuckled."He's mad."

The ground trembled beneath the guard's aura. The vibration from his sword hummed through the tiles, small fragments of dust rising.

Avin centered himself. The air around him shimmered faintly as mana coursed through his sword. The steel responded, glowing softly at the edges, reshaping itself in rippling motion—its form elongating, the flat of the blade stretching thinner and longer. Rings of pure light began to spin up and down its flat surface, silent but ceaseless, like miniature halos orbiting the weapon.

He hadn't even said a chant this time. There was no incantation, no ritual phrase—only intent. The magic flowed like it had always belonged to him.

The guard roared and lunged again, this time blindingly fast.Avin could still see the silhouettes—the red frames tracing his every motion—but the speed was unreal, blurring even the afterimages together. He passed through one before Avin could acknowledge the next.

The sword came down vertically, a strike meant to split him clean in half.

Avin reacted on reflex. He brought his blade up horizontally, both hands gripping tightly—one on the hilt, the other braced under the flat side for support.

The collision was cataclysmic.

CLANG!

A shockwave rippled outward from the point of impact, sending cracks racing through the ground beneath Avin's feet. The force drove him to one knee. Wind exploded outward in a perfect circle, kicking up dust and dirt like a storm unleashed from the earth itself.

The boom carried through the courtyard—even to Sylas and the other guard, who both recoiled at the wave of pressure, staggering backward several paces.

Sylas gritted his teeth, digging his heels into the ground to steady himself. The moment he did, his opponent—a tall, sharp-eyed guard wielding a long spear—took the opportunity to dive at him.

Sylas spun mid-step, cloak whipping around in a blur of motion. The spear barely missed his ribs, slicing only fabric. The guard rolled across the floor, using the momentum to plant his weapon into the ground and vault to his feet again.

Sylas's own sword was stuck in the tiles from the shockwave's impact. He darted toward it, fingers closing around the hilt just as the guard lunged again.

The spear came sweeping across. Sylas ducked, sparks flying as metal grazed the wall behind him.

The guard snarled and drove his weapon down into the ground again, the spearhead glowing yellow. Energy crackled along its length—and then the weapon split in two.

The upper half detached smoothly. He caught it mid-air, his movement seamless. The lower half, still buried in the ground, pulsed once, the runes etched on its shaft flaring with golden light.

Sylas's eyes widened.

The guard smirked and threw the detached half like a javelin. It sliced the air, aimed directly for Sylas's face.

The world seemed to lurch forward—time, light, sound—everything pulling tight around the flying spear.

But just before the weapon could strike, it stopped. Dead still.

The tip hovered mere inches from Sylas's right eye. A thin emerald glow surrounded it, humming softly, freezing it midair.

Sylas's eyes burned bright green, reflecting the same light that coated the spear. The veins around his pupils glowed faintly, threads of magic pulsing like circuitry. He turned his gaze sideways—only slightly—and the spear obeyed.

It whipped away from him in a burst of green energy, flying across the courtyard like a streak of light.

It tore toward the other side of the battlefield—toward Avin and his opponent.

Avin caught sight of it instantly, the gleam of green slicing through the air.

The man before him shifted his gaze at the last possible second, eyes widening as the weapon screamed toward him. He jerked backward, barely dodging the projectile as it whistled past his cheek, carving a shallow line of blood.

The opening was instant.

Avin's eyes flashed red. He released his hold on defense and widened his stance. His right hand shifted the grip of his blade while his left pulled the hilt back.

He swung.

Steel cut through air with the sound of a scream.

The guard's sword, mid-swing from his parry attempt, drove into the ground instead, carving a shallow trench.

Avin pivoted, his body turning with a dancer's precision, and thrust his sword forward—aiming for the man's face.

But before the strike could connect, the man caught it.

Both hands snapped up, clapping the flat sides of Avin's blade in perfect synchronization. The sound was sharp, final. The sword stopped inches from his skin.

Their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, the world was silent—no clashing, no shouts, only the crackling tension of mana between them.

Avin could see it again—those faint red silhouettes branching from the man's body, one after another, movements yet to come.

Chrono's presence was still there. Watching. Testing.

Avin's smirk returned, subtle and dangerous."So you can stop a strike," he murmured, low enough that only the man could hear. "Let's see if you can stop time."

And as the words fell from his lips, the air rippled again, the faint hum of Chrono's laughter—or perhaps approval—folding into the wind.

The fight was far from over.