THE TRANSMIGRATION BEFORE DEATH

Chapter 81: The Golden Command


"STOP."

The word rang through the courtyard like a divine decree.And the world obeyed.

Avin's sword froze mid-arc, locked in place just before it could finish its deadly journey. It wasn't that he'd stopped himself—his reflexes, sharp as they were, could never have halted such a strike. The weapon had simply listened to the voice. The motion died where it stood, as if every particle of steel recognized its mistress.

The recoil of his own halted momentum shuddered back through his arms, a violent tremor that made him wince. His wrists ached, the shock of stopped force rattling up to his shoulders. The blade rested still against the guard's neck, pressing only deep enough for blood to pool along its edge and trail down like a thin crimson ribbon.

Avin exhaled slowly and turned his head toward the source of the command.

She stood near the gates of the academy—poised, statuesque, radiant with a kind of effortless dominance that needed no aura to announce itself. Her long blond hair shimmered in the afternoon light, swaying gently with the breeze that dared to touch her. Her uniform was the same as any other academy student's, yet on her it seemed almost military: the jacket drawn tight to her frame, the silver buttons aligned perfectly, trousers instead of a skirt, practical and severe, showing the strength of her form rather than softening it.

And her eyes—those eyes—glowed with an unmistakable light.Not the red of rage, not the blue of focus, but gold, bright and commanding.

Avin met that gaze. For an instant, the world was reduced to that single connection—the unwavering line between his stare and hers.

Her expression did not shift as she looked from him to the man still on his knees, the one whose life hung from the still edge of Avin's blade.

"What are you doing, Derrick?" her voice came again, calm but resonant, cutting through the ringing air like a clean blade. She began to walk forward from the gate, each step precise and controlled, boots tapping softly against the stone. "Why are you fighting with people who are not even part of the academy?"

Her tone did not rise, but something in it carried weight enough to bend the space around her.

She stopped for a heartbeat, her golden eyes narrowing—not just anger, not just disappointment, but something colder that contained both. "And why," she added, her gaze hardening, "are you losing?"

Avin followed the direction of her glance.Sylas stood not far away, his sword lowered, breathing heavy but victorious. His opponent—the second guard—was on the ground, weapon discarded, his face pale with exhaustion and fear.

A shadow of distaste passed over the woman's face. She turned her eyes back to Derrick.

The man's aura broke instantly. His breath slowed; the red faded from his eyes, the bulging veins retreating beneath his skin. He dropped his gaze to the ground, trembling faintly, as if the fury had been burned right out of him by her presence alone.

Avin could feel it too—that raw pressure that seeped into the air when true strength approached.Even without her releasing mana, he could sense it: she was stronger than all of them put together, stronger by a distance that couldn't be measured by ranks or aura color.

Still, he wasn't the kind of man to bow anymore.

He stepped back slowly, letting the tension ease, and withdrew his sword from Derrick's throat. But he didn't look away. As he sheathed the weapon slightly, his eyes remained fixed on the guard's—calm, confident, defiant.

Then, leaning in close enough for his voice to crawl straight into the man's ear, he murmured with a smirk, "You're far weaker than your younger brother."

Derrick's jaw tightened, but before he could speak, Avin's other hand reached for the black sword still lodged through his palm. Without hesitation or pity, he yanked it free. Flesh tore with a wet, ugly sound, and Derrick's strangled groan echoed softly in the silence that followed.

The woman's footsteps grew louder. She had closed the distance now, stopping only a few paces away. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes—those golden eyes—spoke clearly enough.

She didn't need words to remind Derrick of his place. Her gaze alone sent him stumbling backward, his entire body shaking like that of a man standing before a beast he knew could end him with a flick of its claws.

Then that same gaze turned to Avin.

For a moment, the air between them thickened. She was the immovable wall; he, the rising storm. Neither bowed, neither spoke.

Avin felt the weight of her presence pressing down on him like invisible chains—but those shackles, the ones that once bound him to fear and submission, were gone now. He had broken them. He had earned his own defiance.

So he stared back, expression unflinching, eyes bright with the crimson reflection of her gold.

The energy in his enhanced sword faded gradually, the radiant halos dissipating until it returned to the dull silver of its ordinary state. Avin exhaled, spinning both swords effortlessly in his hands. The motion was almost playful, a dancer's flourish to end the duel. The blood whipped from the blades in fine arcs before he slid each weapon back into its place—the black one into the sheath across his back, the golden into the one at his hip.

"Sorry for all this," the woman said finally, her tone softening just slightly as her gaze rested on him again.

The words caught him off guard.

She looked over at Derrick. "Clean up this place. And yourself." Her voice turned sharp again, cutting through the silence like frost. "Just because you're serving as a guard for punishment doesn't mean you get to punish others… and fail at it."

The man stiffened, nodding rapidly, too afraid to answer.

Avin tilted his head, studying him, then her, his curiosity stirring. Whoever she was, even the so-called guards of the academy bowed beneath her shadow.

He sighed dramatically, dragging one hand through his hair and looking up at the clouded sky. "He suddenly attacked me," he said, voice carrying that casual arrogance that only someone who'd already survived too much could afford.

The girl turned her head toward him, her golden eyes catching the light again. "Sorry for his misbehavior," she said quietly, inclining her head ever so slightly.

Avin grinned. "I might need compensation."

Her brows arched faintly. "Compensation?"

"Yes," he said, still smirking. "I'm sure it wouldn't be ideal for people to hear that I was attacked before I even made it to my dorms."

Her expression flattened into neutrality, as if she genuinely didn't know whether to be amused or offended. She said nothing, so he continued, his tone mock-serious. "I would like to have some foo—"

A sudden laugh cut him off.

"Hahaha!"

The sound startled him. It was bright, melodic, and entirely out of place on her otherwise composed face. Avin blinked, staring at her, unsure whether to be confused or impressed.

"You don't look like one that laughs," he said slowly.

She kept laughing for another moment, a hand over her stomach, her shoulders trembling. Then, gradually, she regained her composure, wiping a faint tear from the corner of her eye.

"I'm not," she said between soft breaths, her lips curling into the faintest smile. "You were just very funny there."

He frowned, bewildered. "What?"

But she was already turning toward the gates again. "Let's go, joker."

He followed, still frowning, his confusion only half-masking his intrigue.

When they reached the center of the courtyard, Sylas was waiting. His sword was already sheathed, his chest rising and falling with calm rhythm. The guard he'd defeated had retreated several paces, keeping his distance from the golden-eyed girl as though her very shadow burned.

Sylas glanced at Avin and chuckled, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"Ow, ow, ow!" Avin winced, pulling away instantly. The adrenaline was fading, and the pain rushed in to take its place—bruises, cuts, exhaustion. His body was screaming about all the limits he had ignored during the fight.

"My bad," Sylas said quickly, raising a hand in apology as he fell into step beside him.

Together, they followed the golden-haired woman toward the gate.

When she reached it, she paused, placing one gloved hand on the handle. The air around her seemed to shift again—lighter now, though still carrying the same authority as before.

She pushed the gate open, and the heavy doors groaned softly. The path beyond glimmered faintly under the afternoon sun.

"Welcome to—"

To be continued.

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