The Legion: Heartson

A fowl taste pervaded Mason's mouth as he woke up. His mind swam, thick and sluggish, the world around him hazy and warped. He blinked, the motion heavy and slow, as if even his eyelids refused to cooperate. Everything was blurry, disjointed, like a bad dream.

Alright, let's try this again.

His hand drifted to his chest, pressing against the wound that had brought him to the brink of death. A wave of pain shot through him, sharp and hot, and he nearly let go, his fingers trembling against the torn, blood-slicked skin. He could feel the weakness spreading, the warmth of his life slipping through his hands like sand through a sieve. He was barely holding on—any more time like this, and he would slip away entirely. That much, even The Astral of Death had said.

Mason: Damn it…

The words were barely a whisper, but the desperation in his voice was unmistakable. He had to think, to come up with something—anything—to keep the life within him from fading completely. And then, through the haze of his mind, Granny's words echoed.

You're not a fool anymore; not after everything you've been through. You know about the Astral inside you, so start putting it together.

The Astral of Death. The power coursing within him, bound to him in ways he still barely understood. Death. His Astral controlled death itself. If that was true, then the black flames he'd summoned—they weren't flames in the literal sense, were they? They were something more, something rooted in the energy of death itself. 

The Astrals drew power from the universe. That meant… those flames were manifestations of death, drawn into a force he could wield.

It was a theory. A desperate, half-formed idea, but it was all he had.

Is that line of thinking correct?

He directed the question inward, reaching out to The Astral of Death itself. But the Astral remained silent. There was no answer, no guiding hand to pull him through the darkness. But for some reason, a faint smile crossed Mason's face.

Are you smiling, too, Death?

He knew what he had to do. There would be no waiting for a sign, no assurance of safety. He was going to gamble everything on this moment, to pour out every last piece of himself in one final, desperate attempt. If this was truly the power of death, then he would use it not to take life—but to cling to his own.

With a sharp intake of breath, he focused inward, feeling the faint pulse of energy that still lingered within his soul. Summoning every ounce of willpower, he poured his own essence, the last fragments of his life, into that source, merging it with the Astral's energy, drawing deeply from the well of death itself. 

The pain exploded within him, searing through every nerve, a torrent of raw energy tearing through his body like wildfire. He gritted his teeth, his whole being straining against the overwhelming sensation. His body, already battered and broken, screamed in protest, but he refused to stop. He couldn't stop. Not when he was this close.

Just a little more…

The agony intensified, the flames of death scorching him from the inside, a force that no mortal body was meant to contain. It felt like he was unraveling, his very soul fraying at the edges as the energy poured through him, wild and untamed. His vision darkened, the edges of the room blurring into nothingness, but he clung to his resolve, forcing the power to obey his will, to mend the wound that threatened to claim him.

Just as he thought he'd reached his limit, as his strength began to waver, Mason looked down and saw it—the black flames flickering away, leaving behind charred, blackened flesh where the gaping wound had once been. He let out a shaky breath, his body collapsing inward, drained, yet alive. Against all odds, he had done it. He had used death itself to keep his own life.

What a gamble…

The thought drifted through his mind, tinged with a mixture of relief and disbelief. He had risked everything on a theory, a leap of faith that could have just as easily killed him as saved him. But he'd won. 

Breathing heavily, he turned his thoughts inward once more, his mind reaching out to the silent presence that lingered within him.

I don't know if you care, but I'm not done here. I don't intend to die. Not yet. There are things I need to know, things I need to accomplish. This… this is my restart y'know. So don't count me out just yet.

With that promise, he felt a quiet resolve settle over him. This was his true starting point.

Mason forced himself up, his limbs heavy and aching. He gritted his teeth, determined not to falter, his focus narrowing to one thing—the spot where Rachel lay. Her body was crumpled and covered in dust, streaked with dark patches of blood. For a terrifying moment, he feared the worst, but then he noticed her chest, faintly rising and falling. She was alive. Barely, but alive.

Ignoring the protest of his own muscles, he knelt down beside her, carefully lifting her onto his back. The strain was immediate; his injuries flared with a vengeance, his vision swimming at the edges as he adjusted her weight. But he steadied himself, exhaling slowly.

It's fine. Everything's fine.

He kept repeating it, a fragile mantra that he clung to, if only to keep himself from collapsing. He took a step forward, just beginning to plan his next move, when a low, guttural sound echoed through the hallway. He froze. The unmistakable growl of animals—deep, menacing, and drawing closer with each passing second.

Turning slowly, Mason's heart pounded as he spotted them—a pack of creatures slinking into view around the corner. They looked like hyenas, but the resemblance ended there. These beasts were twisted, unnatural, their bodies studded with jagged spikes and gnarled claws. 

Lumps and deformities marred their skin, giving them a grotesque, almost otherworldly appearance. They were wrong in every way, existing outside the boundaries of anything natural or sane. And they had their eyes locked on him, their growls rumbling as their bodies tensed, ready to pounce.

Mason's heart hammered, his pulse deafening in his ears as he stared down the beasts. He could feel Rachel's faint breaths against his neck. In the silence that stretched between him and the creatures, his mind raced, weighing every possible option.

But he didn't get the chance to think any further. With a snarling chorus of growls, the creatures leaped, lunging toward him, their claws outstretched, fangs bared, ready to tear him apart.

Reacting on instinct, Mason's eyes flared with determination as he activated his Astral ability. Black flames burst from his core, surging around him as he directed the energy into his legs, propelling himself forward.

In an instant, he crashed through the wall beside him, sending debris flying as he barreled into the next corridor, his only thought to put as much distance between himself and the beasts as possible.

The maze of hallways stretched before him, twisting and turning with no end in sight. His legs burned but he didn't stop. With Rachel's weight pressing down on him, he pushed himself harder, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he dodged obstacles and broke through walls in desperate bursts.

He glanced back, catching sight of the creatures bounding through the rubble in relentless pursuit. The walls blurred past him, the corridors twisting in every direction, trapping him in a maze of cold, sterile halls. 

Maze?

A memory surfaced, Rachel's voice echoing in his mind.

Once we reach the third floor, we'll hit the Labyrinth.

It clicked. If Victor had thrown them down from the fourth floor, then this maze of corridors… this had to be the third floor, the labyrinth she'd mentioned. Mason's heart surged with a fierce, determined energy.

Throw whatever the hell you want at me, I'm not done just yet, fate.

Nothing—not these creatures, not the twisted corridors, not even fate itself—was going to stop him now.