The Legion: Heartson

Mason's consciousness stirred slowly, his mind swimming through a fog as he blinked groggily. His face pressed against the cold stone floor, a thin trail of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth. His entire body ached, and his head throbbed as if it had been stuffed with cotton. How long had it been? How much time had passed since... since he spoke to it?

The Astral.

The Astral of Death. That's what it called itself. That's what Edward had said too.

He groaned softly, pushing himself up onto his elbows. His muscles felt weak, shaky, as if they'd forgotten how to support him. But he forced himself to stand, ignoring the protest of his bones. He had to get out of here. He had to live on.

His body screamed in protest, but he was determined now.

Reaching deep inside himself, Mason tried to summon the black flames like before. He focused, trying to find that feeling—the raw, untamed power that had flickered just beneath his skin.

For a moment, he could feel it—a faint spark, a flicker of heat at his fingertips—but it was weak. Faint. 

Astral of Death: You're doing it all wrong

What the hell do you mean? I'm trying—

Astral of Death: You're failing. An Astral's power doesn't come from brute force. It comes from the soul. You're exhausting yourself, pulling from every port in your body. And you wonder why you're so weak.

Mason clenched his fists, biting back a retort. The soul? What the hell did that even mean? He had no idea how to access his "soul" or whatever this thing was talking about. He could barely summon the flames as it was—now this creature was telling him he'd been doing it wrong the entire time?

Astral of Death: Of course you don't understand. You're too busy flailing about like a child to actually listen. The Astral is connected to your soul. You don't draw power from your muscles—you pull it from the core of your being. The flame comes from me, but you're the conduit. If you want control, you'll have to start there. 

Mason swallowed his frustration. The Astral's words, however cruel, carried a truth he couldn't deny. He had no control over the flames—he had been lucky to even produce them in the first place. 

Maybe... maybe there was something to what it was saying. 

He closed his eyes, letting the tension in his body release. 

Fine I'll listen this time.

Although he had never believed in something like the soul, Mason forced himself to look inward. He focused on every inch of his body, searching for... something. He didn't know what, but he felt the need to find it, like a switch he had yet to flip.

At first, there was nothing. Just the quiet hum of his body, his breath, the faint thud of his heartbeat. But then, at the very back of his mind—no, deeper than that—he felt it.

There.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but the moment he honed in on it, it was like a light flickering to life. A presence. A pulse of energy. The soul. The place where the Astral of Death dwelled, tethered to his very being.

He focused on that feeling, that tiny spark, and reached for it. The moment he did, something clicked. Like a lock springing open, the power flooded through him, igniting his hands in black flames. This was different. The flames were stronger, fiercer than anything he had managed before—but the increase in power came with a sharp, searing pain.

Mason winced, the pain biting at his skin like a thousand needles, but he refused to let it stop him. He gritted his teeth, slowly lowering the output of the flames until they reached a more manageable level. The pain dulled, though it didn't disappear.

He raised his hands, the black flames licking at his skin, crackling with dark energy. This was power he could control. 

His power.

Without hesitation, he slammed his flaming hands against the steel chains that bound him. The metal groaned under the heat, then snapped apart with ease, falling to the ground in a heap. He was free.

But as Mason stood there, staring at the broken chains, a thought crept into his mind. 

It can't be this easy. 

The voice in his head returned, its tone almost amused.

Astral of Death: Now, what about them?

Before he could ask what The Astral meant, the door to the chamber burst open. Several armed soldiers stormed in, their guns raised, pointing directly at his chest. 

A setup. They had been waiting for him to break the chains.

Mason's heart raced, but he forced himself to remain calm. His hands still flickered with flames, the heat pulsing through his veins. The soldiers didn't speak. They didn't have to. Their message was clear: Give up now, or die.

But Mason didn't feel like giving up anymore. He let his thoughts flow freely, his lips curling into a grim smile.

You wanted entertainment, didn't you?

He closed his eyes, reached deep inside, and pulled. 

Hard.

The power surged through him, an abundance of energy pouring from the Astral of Death into his very core. His body vibrated with it, his muscles tensing as he directed the flames not into his hands, but into his feet.

In an instant, Mason moved.

He launched himself at the first soldier, his feet blazing with dark fire. The man barely had time to register the attack before Mason was upon him, a blur of motion and flame. His fist, coated in searing black fire, connected with the soldier's chest, sending him flying across the room.

There are fifteen of them...

It was reckless, diving in headfirst like this. Completely unexpected.

But Mason merely smiled.

He was no longer the boy who had cowered in chains. He could feel his mind calculating, his brain processing their movements in slow motion. This is what power felt like. Pouring the energy into his mind, his processing speed, his movement, everything was amplified.

They don't stand a chance.

The second soldier moved to draw his sword, but Mason was already there, his body moving faster than the man could react. He knocked him down with a single blow before bouncing to the third, flames trailing in his wake. Mason grabbed the man by the throat, lifted him with ease, and hurled him into another soldier nearby, the two bodies colliding with a sickening crunch.

Mason: My name is Mason Heartson...

He leaped toward the next group, a wicked grin on his face as he poured even more flames into his fists. The soldiers barely had time to raise their guns before Mason was upon them, a whirlwind of fists and fire. 

Mason: Know the name...

He punched straight through one soldier's sword, his hand searing with black flames as he grabbed the man by the throat. Crush. His grip tightened until he felt the soldier's windpipe collapse beneath his fingers.

Mason: ...of the failure who kicked your asses.

One by one, he tore through the remaining soldiers, each move faster, more precise, than the last. They were nothing to him now. Fodder. Obstacles. And he was unstoppable.

The final soldier stood in his way, gun trembling in his hands, but Mason didn't even give him a chance to aim. He lunged forward, his fist colliding with the man's face, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap.

It was over.

Mason stood amidst the wreckage of soldiers, panting, his chest heaving as the black flames slowly flickered out. His body ached, his hands throbbed with pain, but he didn't care. He had won. He looked down at his hands, his lips curling into a smile.

I can do this. I can get out of here.

For the first time, he believed it. He was stronger now. Stronger than he had ever been. And with this power... he would survive.

But then, that voice in his head broke the silence.

Astral of Death: How entertaining indeed...

Mason frowned, the elation draining from him as the Astral's words echoed in his mind.

What's it talking about?

His hand drifted to his chest, an unsettling feeling creeping over him. And then—he felt it.

The cold.

His fingers brushed against the cold steel of a blade, a knife, buried deep in his chest. Blood. His blood. It seeped through his shirt, warm and sticky, pooling beneath his hand.

What...?

His body went rigid as the realization hit him, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head, and saw her.

An armored woman, standing behind him, her lips curved into a mocking smile.

Woman: Nice to meet you... Mason Heartson.