The cold bit into Mason's skin, more than just a physical sting—it crept beneath his flesh, curling its icy tendrils into his very bones. His back pressed hard against the rough stone wall, the chains digging into his wrists as he tugged helplessly, for what felt like the hundredth time. Nothing.
No movement.
No hope.
The thought settled over him like a lead weight, sinking deeper and deeper into his mind, echoing with the same quiet desperation that had haunted him since they dragged him here. Every road led to a dead end. Every effort seemed pointless.
His breaths came quick, short. Too fast. Too shallow.
I'm alone... again.
Always alone.
His head throbbed as voices filled his mind, clashing with one another, growing louder and louder until he could barely hear himself think.
Why keep running?
What if they catch you again?
They'll catch you. Just like before.
It's over.
You've always been a fool, haven't you?
Mason: Shut up! Just shut up!
He screamed, his voice breaking in the empty chamber. His fists slammed against the stone floor, the pain sending jolts through his knuckles, but the voices didn't care. They never did. They were relentless. Worse than his captors. Worse than the chains.
His head dropped forward, a sharp gasp catching in his throat. He was done. His limbs ached, his mind teetered on the edge of something dark and deep.
His heart thudded painfully in his chest, a reminder that he was still alive. But why?
Tears stung the corners of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He curled in on himself, his knees pulled tight to his chest, as if folding into the smallest version of himself would somehow protect him from the world.
Always alone.
The thought circled his mind like a vulture, hungry and patient. It had always been there, hadn't it? This solitude, this weight pressing down on him, reminding him that no matter how far he ran, he always came back to this. Always.
Alone.
His breaths came faster, shallower. His heart thudded in his chest, a reminder that he was still alive, that he was still here.
Why run? Why run when it always leads back here?
Why fight? Why fight when there's nothing left?
Why live? Why live when—
His head pounded, the voices in his mind clashing, louder and louder until they were all he could hear.
Why run?
Why fight?
Why live?
He screamed again, but his voice cracked, as if even his own voice couldn't bear the weight of the lies. He banged his hands against the floor, ignoring the pain.
Failure becomes a pattern.
The words flashed in his mind, unbidden. A phrase he had come to know too well. Failure becomes a pattern. It wasn't about making mistakes or getting it wrong once—it was about the crushing inevitability of it. You fail once, and after that, it becomes the only thing you know.
Failure becomes a pattern.
How many times had he tried to break free? How many times had he struggled, only to fall back into the same cycle? The same failure. The same collapse.
Failure becomes a pattern.
Each time he tried, each time he fought, the outcome was the same. And each failure chipped away a little more of him, until there was nothing left but the broken pieces.
Failure becomes a pattern.
It was suffocating. Maddening. The idea that no matter what you did, it was never enough.
Failure becomes a pattern.
He was caught in an endless loop, and no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he pulled himself back from the brink, he always ended up here. In the darkness. In the silence.
Alone.
In the chains.
And what did that make him? A failure by nature? By habit? It gnawed at him, twisted his thoughts, until he could barely recognize himself anymore.
I'm nothing. I'm nothing. I'm nothing.
His breaths came faster, more erratic. The chains around his wrists bit into his skin, but they weren't what held him back.
Mason: Please... stop. Please.
His voice was barely a whisper, the last thread of his sanity hanging by a fragile thread. He couldn't take it anymore.
Failure becomes a pattern.
And then, just as he felt himself sinking, as the last shreds of his mind began to unravel, he fell further into the abyss.
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Mason blinked, disoriented. The biting cold, the oppressive weight of the chains, the stone walls—they were all gone. Instead, everything around him was blindingly white. A vast, empty nothingness. His heart raced, confusion seeping into every corner of his mind. Where were the chains? The cold? The pain?
What is this place?
He struggled to find his bearings, stumbling forward on legs that felt as if they barely belonged to him. That's when he noticed it.
A figure. All black. Featureless.
The man—or whatever it was—stood in front of him, completely still, lacking any details whatsoever. It was as if someone had cut out a human-shaped void from the world and left it standing there. There was no face. No eyes. No mouth. Yet somehow, Mason felt the weight of its gaze pressing down on him.
The sight sent a shiver through him.
Mason circled the figure, his eyes narrowing, trying to make sense of it. But the figure's movements followed his exactly, turning smoothly as he circled, its blank face always aimed at him. It didn't flinch. Didn't react.
Who the hell are you?
In a snap decision, Mason extended his hand toward the figure, the anger bubbling inside him demanding that he at least touch it, prove that it was real. But before his fingers made contact, the black man's form vanished. Gone.
Mason's heart jumped into his throat as he staggered back. His eyes darted around wildly, searching for the figure until he saw it—several meters away, standing as if it had never moved at all.
What the hell is this?
His voice, trembling, left his mouth before he could stop it.
Mason: What... what are you?
The silence that followed felt like an eternity, but then, out of nowhere, a voice filled the air. Cold. Detached. And dripping with disdain.
???: I suppose I am what a human calls... an Astral.
The words pierced through the haze in Mason's mind, but they didn't make sense. He couldn't wrap his head around it. His voice cracked when he spoke again, his confusion spilling out in a stammer.
Mason: You're not... you're not human, then?
The figure let out a noise—half-laugh, half-sigh—its tone soaked in sarcasm.
Astral: Oh, well done. A genius, aren't you?
Mason clenched his fists, heat rushing to his face. The sarcasm burned through the confusion, stoking the embers of his anger. This thing... was mocking him? He wanted to lash out, but something in the Astral's presence kept him from moving.
Mason: How am I here? What is this place?
The Astral tilted its head, though its expressionless face revealed nothing. Its voice oozed boredom, as though it could hardly be bothered to explain.
Astral: You're inside your own head. I suppose I'm stuck here as well, and now we're having this lovely conversation.
Mason recoiled. Inside his head? His stomach twisted at the thought, the fear crawling up his spine. This thing was inside him? Living there? He couldn't help the tremble in his voice when he spoke again.
Mason: Why... why are you here?
The Astral didn't miss a beat, its tone dripping with disdain.
Astral: Because, boy, watching you blunder through your pathetic life was getting tiresome. I got bored of watching you cower in your chains, crying to yourself. Honestly, it's pathetic. "I'm so alone, I'm such a failure." Disgusting.
Mason's temper flared. Blundering? How dare this... thing insult him, mock him like that.
I am a failure... I've always been a failure.
The thought stabbed through him, sharper than any blade. He could feel his body tremble with the weight of it. He was nothing. Always had been. Always would be.
The Astral, of course, didn't miss a beat.
Astral: You've failed. Repeatedly. Watching you waste my soul all this time, it's... infuriating. And frankly, boring.
Mason's jaw clenched tight, the hot sting of shame crawling up his neck. The Astral's words dug deep, burrowing into his chest. It was right. It was right about everything. He had failed. He'd always fail.
I'm just a coward.
He was about to lash out again, about to demand an explanation, but the Astral cut him off, its voice suddenly sharp and irritated.
Astral: Truly I couldn't care whether you succeed or fail, but watching a failure to this degree. It pains me to say but it's caused me to almost pity your existence. At the moment, I have no contracts. Whatever deal the 'Astral of Death' has with them belongs to another part of me. I feel it, in the missing part of my soul. Right now, I'm just... here. And as such, I feel almost obliged to offer you a contract, even if it's only out of disgust.
The confusion that flooded Mason's mind was overwhelming. Contracts? Another part it? None of it made sense. None of it. And it only made him feel more helpless.
I don't want this. I don't want any of this. I want to leave. I want...
He swallowed the lump in his throat and spoke, his voice weak but determined.
Mason: I don't want to be here anymore. I'm done talking to you.
The Astral's laughter cut through the silence, sharp and mocking.
Astral: Oh, now you want to leave? After all that whining about being alone? After all the crying? And now you want me gone?
Mason's fists trembled. He hated this thing. Hated how it mocked him. Hated how it made him feel so small, so insignificant. But the worst part was... it was right. He was pathetic.
I am pathetic.
The Astral's voice pierced through his thoughts once more.
Astral: Watching you stumble around has been draining at best, and I'm tired of it. So I'm offering you a contract.
Mason froze, his anger momentarily overtaken by curiosity.
A... contract?
The Astral's voice took on a new tone—still bored, still uncaring, but with a hint of something darker.
Astral: A contract. Between you and me. I'll stick around, talk to you, make sure you're never lonely again. In my current form, my soul is unable to interfere with the physical plane you understand? That's why you'll entertain me, boy. As I said, I couldn't care less for what happens in the physical world. Whether you use my power the way they intend or whether you use it for your own gain I don't care. I don't care if you win your battles or lose, I don't care for you at all Mason Heartson. I truly want you to understand that. I don't want you to think for a second that I am your guide, or your teacher. I am not your spirit that will guide you away from danger, nor am I an ally that will encourage you and lend you strength. I am an Astral. That is all. As for your part of the contract, your condition is that you'll stop being such a dissapointment. No more whining and groaning and giving up. You won't waste the soul which I inhabit do you understand? You'll fill my boredom until my heart is content.
A contract?
His mind raced.
I am a failure
The word pounded in his mind, a constant weight. Failure. He could feel it etched into his bones, woven into his very being. It wasn't just a label; it was who he was. The truth he could never escape. No matter how he looked at it, he saw the same story repeating, the same grim conclusion staring back at him.
Hadn't he been given every chance? The best schools, tutors, friends his parents arranged—all of it laid out for him. But no matter what they gave him, it all slipped through his fingers. He'd never been able to grab hold of anything, not really.
There'd always been a hollow space where his purpose should have been, an emptiness that left him grasping at the edges of things, never reaching the center. He was adrift, always falling short before he even started.
And yet he couldn't stop hoping, somewhere deep down, that things might still be different. That maybe, someday, he'd find something to pull him forward.
But he knew the truth. The brutal, undeniable truth.
When he discovered the black flame, for a moment, something stirred. Maybe this strange power was what he'd been waiting for all along. It felt like purpose, the kind he'd yearned for. He could almost see himself mastering it, finally breaking out of his hollow life and proving that he was more than just... nothing.
But even now, he kept falling short. The flame was his, but each time he tried to wield it... He'd rush in with determination only to be beaten down again.
The truth was bitter: he was still just running in circles, chasing that idea, that purpose he'd never reach. Whatever this power meant, it was wasted on him.
A worthless excuse.
It was easier to just avoid it all, to hide away from any challenge that might force him to confront what lay beneath. After all, if he didn't try, he couldn't fail, right?
What's wrong with taking it easy?
But as the silence grew, as he let himself sink deeper into that void, he knew it wasn't just avoidance.
He was afraid.
He closed his eyes, letting the weight of that realization settle over him, crushing him beneath it.
It's true.
I've always been a failure huh.
But... why?
Why had he been given this power, this cursed flame? Why him? What had he done to deserve this strange ability that seemed more like a burden than a gift? He wasn't a hero, not by any stretch of the imagination.
But isn't this supposed to be my purpose? Isn't that why I have this power?
The fear crept up his spine, cold and relentless.
If this power isn't my purpose, then what the hell am I doing here?
The question settled in his mind, heavy and unsettling. If this power wasn't some grand, cosmic design, then what was it? Just a cruel accident? Just a random twist of fate that had left him saddled with an ability he didn't understand, didn't want, and couldn't control?
Was that it? Was he just the universe's latest punching bag? Some unlucky soul doomed to carry the weight of a power he didn't ask for?
Maybe the power didn't mean anything at all. Maybe it was nothing more than a twist of fate, a cosmic joke that left him stranded in this endless cycle of failure and despair. Maybe he wasn't destined for anything.
That idea... that frightened him more than anything else.
What if I'm not destined for anything?
What if there was no grand design, no cosmic plan? What if he was just drifting, caught up in the flow of events far beyond his control? What if the universe was indifferent to him, to his struggles, to his failures?
He shuddered at the thought, the weight of it pressing down on him like a boulder he could never move.
Purpose.
Without purpose... what am I?
An accident of fate. And maybe... that meant his true purpose was still ahead of him.
Maybe his purpose—his true purpose—wasn't tied to this power at all. Maybe it was something else, something he hadn't found yet. And that thought, as terrifying as it was, also stirred something deep inside him.
Hope.
Mason: I get it. I'm a failure—maybe even a worthless one.
He nodded his head, crossing his arms before continuing.
Mason: But that's not gonna stop me y'know! Your power, your Astral, whatever the hell that is... I'll make it mine. I'll master this power, build my resolve, and beat the shit out of fate. That's the most this worthless failure can offer.
He wasn't done yet.
Astral: Is that so? Truly I can't find the effort to care about all of that. I'll ask you again, a contract?
Mason: And what happens if a human breaks a contract with an A… Astral?
The Astral didn't hesitate.
Astral: Total termination of the soul. No coming back. No second chances.
Mason's heart skipped a beat, but before he could let the fear paralyze him, he faked a confident grin, thrusting his hand forward, gripping the silhouette.
Mason: Then I better put on a damn good show for you.
For a split second, he could have sworn he saw the black figure smile back at him.
And with that, everything snapped back to reality.
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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