THE TRANSMIGRATION BEFORE DEATH

Avin didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but when he finally opened his eyes, he felt—different.

Not just rested.Repaired.

He blinked at the ceiling, inhaling deeply. The air was crisp, cool, and carried that faint metallic freshness of magically cleansed spaces. His whole body felt lighter. No soreness. No bruises tugging at his muscles when he moved. The faint scars that had scratched along his arm from the last fight—gone.

He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. No stiffness. No pain. It was as though the last several days had been erased from his body.

He flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders. Nothing. Just the smooth, fluid motion of someone who hadn't fought a single battle in months.

"Huh."

He tilted his head, curious, and then muttered under his breath, "Must be the Primordial."

The name came naturally, like a quiet acknowledgment of divine maintenance.

He stretched his legs, rolling off the bed and reaching toward the small table where he usually kept his alarm clock. His hand patted the surface once—twice—then found nothing but air.

His brows furrowed. "What the—?"

He leaned forward, glancing down. The table was there, sure enough, but it was bare. The clock that should've been on it was gone.

He frowned deeper. "Where the hell…?"

He looked around the room, scanning corners, floor, shelves—nothing.

Before he could reason it out, the door burst open with a bang that made him jump.

"WHAT—"

He snapped his head toward the doorway, heart still pounding—and instantly deflated when he saw who it was.

Henry.

Fully dressed. Fully alert. Radiating that unbearable, early-morning enthusiasm of someone who'd clearly been awake for far too long.

Avin groaned audibly, running a palm down his face. "Of course," he muttered. "Just when I thought I could have a peaceful start."

Henry stepped in briskly, his cloak swinging behind him as though this was some grand military march rather than an intrusion.

"What are you doing?" Avin asked, still half-asleep.

"It's time," Henry said simply.

Avin blinked. "Time?"

Henry nodded, serious. "Yes."

"Time for what?"

"The thing."

"The thing?" Avin echoed blankly.

"Yes."

Avin stared at him. Henry stared back.

"…Sorry," Avin said after a long pause. "You can tell time?"

"Yes?" Henry answered, his brows furrowing.

"With what?" Avin asked, eyes narrowing.

Henry raised his wrist. "A watch."

Avin's eyes widened slightly. "Oh."

He blinked again. "Ohhh."

It finally clicked. Right—he was so used to thinking this world ran on magic and instinct that he kept forgetting it was also weirdly modern in its own way. Maybe Miranda's gun hadn't been such an anomaly after all.

Henry looked at him like he was the insane one. "I know you Chronos can just sense time or whatever mystical nonsense you do, but we also need tools for it," he said dryly. "Hence—the watch."

Avin squinted. Henry's tone was different—sharper, a little more sarcastic than usual. Almost like he was annoyed.

"You can go on ahead—" Avin started.

"No," Henry interrupted sharply. "We're already late. We have to go before the prince and princess get there. They'll be furious if we aren't."

Avin raised an eyebrow. "And why, exactly, should I care?"

He swung his legs off the bed, lazily standing.

"Let's go!" Henry suddenly shouted, startling him. His voice was loud, urgent, almost unhinged—like a cornered boar trying to sound brave.

Avin took a step back, blinking. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"LET'S GO," Henry repeated, glaring.

Avin sighed. He could already feel the headache forming. "At least let me brush my teeth," he muttered.

Henry stopped dead.

Then slowly turned his head, giving Avin a look so confused—and so judgmental—that it could've peeled paint.

"What?" Avin asked, uneasy.

"You… brush your teeth?" Henry said, voice full of disgust and disbelief.

"…You don't?" Avin asked back.

Henry sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Every normal person doesn't."

Avin froze. "…Excuse me?"

Henry shrugged, as if explaining to a child. "I've heard the people of the North refuse to adapt to modern conveniences, but I didn't think it was that bad. Not brushing? That's ancient."

Avin stepped back slightly, suddenly aware that his breath might not be… ideal.

Henry continued, arms crossed. "We use cleaning bubbles now."

"Cleaning… bubbles?" Avin repeated.

Henry clicked his tongue and turned toward the door. "Wait here."

Avin blinked as Henry disappeared into the hall.

He muttered to himself, "He doesn't brush his teeth, and I'm the weird one."

Moments later, Henry returned, holding something small in his palm. He tossed it at Avin, who barely caught it in time.

Avin looked down. The object sat light and soft in his hand—green, small, slightly squishy. It looked like a translucent jelly pillow.

"What's this?" he asked.

"A cleaning bubble," Henry said, deadpan.

Avin stared at it. "…What does it do?"

Henry paused for a few seconds, as though gathering the patience of saints, and said simply, "Clean."

Avin tilted his head. "How—"

"Just squeeze it," Henry cut in before he could finish.

Avin blinked again. "Everyone's interrupting me today," he muttered, but did as told.

He squeezed the bubble.

Immediately, it burst—not violently, but with a soft pop that released a swirl of shimmering green mist. The mist spun around his body like a whirlpool, and within seconds, it solidified into a fine layer of translucent gel that clung to his skin before dissolving completely.

A faint coolness swept over him. His skin tingled, clean and refreshed. He felt his teeth—smooth. His hair—soft. His entire body—lighter.

"What the—"

"Yeah," Henry said from the doorway, smirking slightly. "Cool, right?"

Avin nodded, still processing. "I'll admit, that's… something."

"Now get dressed. We need to move."

Henry turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Avin sighed deeply, shaking his head. "I'm beginning to think he actually likes being yelled at by that prince."

He tossed the broken remains of the bubble into the small bin in the corner, then went to his suitcase.

He picked out his normal attire—the one that didn't restrict movement. He remembered what the prince had said about "training." Best not to wear anything that could tear or suffocate.

He strapped on his sword sheaths—the one Leo had given him on his right hip, and the one from the boy in his dream diagonally across his back. The hilts gleamed faintly in the light, crossing perfectly to his dominant hand's reach.

He tightened the last strap on his boots, exhaled, and opened the door.

Outside, Henry was waiting. Arms crossed. Foot tapping impatiently against the floor.

"Finally," he said, tone sharp as a whip.

Avin rolled his eyes. "You act like you've been waiting an hour."

"Feels like it," Henry shot back as he turned and strode down the hall.

Avin followed silently, not in the mood for another back-and-forth.

They walked side by side through the corridor, their footsteps echoing softly off the polished floor.

The long hallway curved gently before opening up near a set of wide windows.

Avin glanced out.

Through the glass, he saw the outer walls of the academy's south wing—familiar, but now lined with faint morning fog. He could see the south gate below, its iron surface gleaming faintly under filtered light.

He remembered that spot—the one where the hooded man had once stood. The memory itched in the back of his mind as they passed it.

They branched right into another hallway, narrower this time. Only one door waited at the end.

Henry stopped in front of it.

Without hesitation, he gripped the handle and pulled it open.

Beyond was… nothing.

Just a white void.

Avin blinked. "You sure this is safe?"

Henry didn't answer—he just walked in confidently, like he'd done it a hundred times before.

Avin sighed and followed.

The air changed the instant he crossed the threshold. It wasn't heavy, but it felt charged—like the hum of static before a storm.

All around them was pure white, marked only by faint black grid lines stretching infinitely in every direction, giving the illusion of a vast 3D plane.

It was surreal—like standing inside a sketch that hadn't yet been painted.

Suddenly, from the center of the space, a mechanism rose from the ground.

A solid platform—smooth, silver, and inscribed with shifting runes.

Henry approached it without hesitation. He tapped a few symbols on the glowing surface, muttering numbers under his breath.

The runes lit up.

A deep mechanical thrum pulsed through the room, and before them, a rectangular outline formed in the air—crackling softly before solidifying into a door.

Henry glanced back once at Avin, then stepped through.

Avin stared at the glowing frame for a second longer. "Sure, why not," he muttered, and followed.

Light rippled as he crossed the threshold—

And suddenly, they were standing in a completely different space.

A massive open room—stone walls reinforced with dark metal, high ceilings laced with magical light fixtures. The air smelled faintly of ozone and burning mana.

Avin barely had time to take it in before a familiar voice greeted them.

"You're late."

The prince stood near the center of the room, arms folded, that same calm superiority radiating from every inch of him.

Avin sighed under his breath.

Here we go again.