THE TRANSMIGRATION BEFORE DEATH

He was just about to give in to sleep's comfortable embrace when he began hearing voices.

Faint, muffled, distant at first—like whispers swimming beneath a lake.

They drifted closer as he sank deeper into drowsiness.

At first, the words were indistinct. Just murmurs, echoing somewhere between thought and dream. But then, as his body grew heavier, the voices sharpened—became clearer, louder, angrier.

"WAKE UP AND GO TAKE A BATH!"

Avin froze, halfway between dream and consciousness.

That voice—

He knew that voice.

Every tone, every note of irritation burned into memory.

"I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO SLEEP ON THE SHEETS I WASHED WITH YOUR SWEATY BODY!"

The echo hit him like a bucket of cold water.

His mother.

Not his real one—Clive's mother. The woman who had raised the boy whose body he now wore. The one whose son had been taken, replaced by him.

Her face flashed before his eyes in a jagged rush of memory—warm eyes, wrinkled hands, and that stern frown that was equal parts love and fury.

He woke instantly.

Breath hitched. Heart pounding.

He shot upright, sweat clinging to his neck, his chest rising and falling like he'd just run miles.

"This is the worst of the dreams I've had," he muttered under his breath.

The room was quiet. Empty. The only sound was the low hum of the faint magical light illuminating the walls.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair before reaching for his suitcase at the foot of the bed. The old metal clasp clicked as he opened it. Inside was neatly packed clothing—his casual attire, folded precisely, likely by someone who cared more about neatness than he ever would.

He pulled out a plain shirt and trousers and made for the bathroom.

The floor beneath his feet was cool; his footsteps echoed faintly in the small space.

He closed the door behind him, unbuttoned his clothes, and turned on the shower.

The water flowed immediately, cascading down in a clean, even stream. He tilted his head back and let the droplets run over his face, trailing down his shoulders and chest, washing away the heaviness of the dream.

But even as the water fell, Avin couldn't help but notice—this wasn't an ordinary shower.

The metallic head was mounted directly on the wall with no visible pipe or valve. And as the water poured, a faint magic circle glowed just beneath it, spinning with slow precision.

"Magic plumbing, huh," he murmured to himself.

He reached for the soap resting on a small dish beside the basin. When he rubbed it between his palms, it foamed perfectly, as though brand new—but the block didn't shrink.

It didn't matter how much he used.

Unperishable soap.

He chuckled quietly. "Huh. They even solved hygiene with magic."

There was something comforting about it, though. These tiny, simple marvels—mundane yet mystical—made this world feel oddly grounded.

He admired the design, almost forgetting the unease lingering in his chest.

When he finally stepped out of the shower, steam rising off his skin, he dried himself and pulled on the casual clothes. His hair still damp, he walked back into his room.

He sat on the edge of his bed, leaned forward slightly, and yawned.

"I miss the peace of that place," he mumbled, looking down at the floor, his voice soft, almost childlike.

Then he lay back, letting the mattress take him. The faint hum of magic in the walls soothed him, and in seconds, his eyelids grew heavy.

Sleep took him fast.

At first, there was nothing.

No sound. No light. No sensation.

Just the clean, endless dark—the kind of stillness only dreams could hold.

Then, slowly, the darkness shifted.

It didn't rip or shatter, as it sometimes did in his nightmares. Instead, it moved, curling and folding like smoke caught in a gentle breeze.

He felt it—the pull.

It wasn't violent this time, not the usual wrenching force that dragged his soul into chaos.

This was gentler. Almost… kind.

Before he knew it, he could open his eyes.

And when he did—

The world was light.

A vast, serene field stretched endlessly in all directions, blanketed with perfect green grass that swayed without wind. The sky above was a gentle gradient of gold and white, no sun, no clouds, just calm.

Avin sat on a chair, a delicate one of pale wood, at a small round table. A teacup rested in his hands, the porcelain warm.

He knew this place.

He'd been here before.

Memory bloomed in him like recognition through fog—this serene, impossible garden, this still air that carried no scent, and the presence that lingered in it.

He knew who would be sitting across from him even before he turned his head.

And there they were.

The Primordial.

Their form glowed softly, an outline of light shaped like a person, yet more—an amalgam of presence and divinity, of voices and silence.

They smiled.

Avin blinked, slightly startled, but the tension that usually followed divine encounters didn't come. He was… at peace.

The only being he'd ever come close to trusting, even partially, was still here. Still watching.

"How are you doing, Clive?" the Primordial asked.

Their voice wasn't a single tone—it was hundreds, layered over each other, some deep as thunder, some high as wind, all harmonizing into one perfect sound that vibrated directly in his mind.

Avin leaned back slightly, lifting his cup and taking a slow sip before answering.

"I could be better," he said, the words floating from his lips with a faint sigh.

The Primordial chuckled—a sound like the echo of a chime across a canyon. "Everything could be better."

"Yeah," Avin muttered, eyes drifting down to the swirling tea in his cup.

He opened his mouth to ask something—to finally voice one of the countless questions twisting in his head—but before he could, the Primordial raised a glowing hand.

"It is not mine to answer," they said gently. "It is something you must find on your own."

Avin frowned. "Figures."

The Primordial's light dimmed slightly, as if in sorrow. "I cannot bring you back to your world, Clive. I am not as powerful as I once was. To attempt it now would harm my vessel beyond repair."

Their fingers curled lightly around their teacup. "You must help me restore my power. That is the deal."

Avin sat back, taken aback more by the inevitability of it than by the words themselves.

He had expected that answer—he just hadn't expected it to sting so much.

He sighed. "Why am I here, then?"

The Primordial placed their cup on the table and let out a sound that might have been another sigh, though it carried no breath.

"It seems you have grown stronger—stronger than I had estimated. You can now bear a little more knowledge about the power I've given you."

Avin looked down at his hand, slowly turning it palm-up.

He knew he had become stronger. He'd felt it in the way his blade moved, in the way his body responded—faster, sharper, more precise than before.

But to hear them acknowledge it—that felt… different.

"How—" he began.

"Patience," the Primordial interrupted, smiling faintly. "Is a virtue."

They chuckled softly. "I was just getting to the point about how you grow stronger."

"Ah, okay," Avin said, blinking once.

But when he opened his eyes again, the Primordial was no longer across the table.

They were right in front of him.

The sudden closeness made him flinch.

Their glowing hands hovered near his face, warm and soft without substance. One hand rose to his eyes, fingers brushing gently against the skin beneath them.

"These eyes," they said quietly. "They can see more than you imagine."

Avin's breath caught as their touch lingered. He felt—not heat, but something deeper. A vibration that thrummed through him, awakening something dormant just behind his sight.

"So utilize them," they said. "Let them open. Let them show you."

Then, in the blink of an eye, the Primordial was back in their seat.

Avin blinked again, disoriented, but said nothing. He didn't have to. The Primordial always answered questions before he even asked.

"You must use them often," they continued, raising their cup once more. "Only then will they become your breakthrough."

They took a sip, the glow around them dimming slightly in rhythm with the gesture.

Then, after a moment, they set the cup down.

"You might not remember all of this conversation when you wake," they said, voice soft but steady. "But keep my words close to your heart, Clive. Hold them tightly. They will be your salvation."

They stood then, the chair sliding back without sound.

Their light expanded, soft tendrils brushing against the grass as the air seemed to bend around them.

"Oh," they added almost casually, as if remembering something minor. "The academy may soon be in great danger. So—watch out."

Avin opened his mouth. "Wait, what do you mean by—"

But the world was already collapsing around him.

The grass dissolved into shadow. The light pulled away.

He felt himself being dragged backward, the peaceful scene folding into nothing.

"Why the hell do they always leave the important part for last," he muttered as the darkness swallowed him whole.

His consciousness sank, spinning lazily toward the quiet warmth of real sleep.

And in the waking world, his body shifted under the covers, letting out a soft, unconscious "Tch" as if even his sleeping self was annoyed.

Then he shrugged once in his sleep—just as his last thought faded.

And for the first time in a long while, his dreams went quiet.