Chereads / The Legion: Heartson / Chapter 15 - Consecration

Chapter 15 - Consecration

Mason's mind drifted between consciousness and darkness. 

He was drowning. 

The icy grip of water wrapped around him, dragging him deeper with each frantic flail of his arms. His body was heavy, unresponsive, as if the weight of his own panic was anchoring him to the depths. Water filled his lungs, burning, suffocating—each gasp only drew in more, and every struggle pulled him further from the surface. But even as he sank, a twisted sense of self-loathing bubbled up with the bubbles slipping from his mouth. 

How could I let this happen?

The ten year old Mason Heartson had never learned how to swim. He'd always had more important things to do, or so he'd told himself. Life was meant for laughter and ease, wasn't it? Not tedious lessons, not carefully practiced strokes. But now, sinking in that dark, silent world, he cursed himself. 

This is my fault.

The realization was sharper than any pain he'd felt before.

His vision began to blur, the edges of reality fading as the crushing weight took its toll. This was it. He'd always thought his life would be filled with triumph, maybe even glory. Yet here he was, drowning, dying.

What a pathetic end.

Then, just as he felt his mind slipping, something broke through the murk. A hand. Strong and warm, it gripped his wrist and pulled, guiding him through the water's depths toward the glimmer of light above. He barely registered the movement, but he felt himself being dragged up, up, until—

Air. The world burst back around him in color and light as he was pulled from the water's grip. He collapsed onto a hard surface, the sting of rough concrete digging into his skin as he gasped for breath. His lungs burned. He coughed, water spilling from his mouth.

Gradually, he became aware of the world around him. He blinked, his vision clearing, and he realized he was lying by the edge of a pool. People had gathered around him, their faces blurring into a single mass of wide, concerned eyes. 

Did I really almost…?

He lifted a shaking hand to shield his eyes from the sun's blinding glare, squinting up at the figure standing above him. And there he was, the one who had saved him—Samuel Heartson, his father. Relief, mixed with a strange sense of pride, washed over him. Of course, his father had saved him. Who else would pull him from the depths, rescue him from a death that had seemed inevitable?

A smile tugged at the corners of Mason's mouth as he looked up at his father. He reached out, hand trembling, to grasp his father's, to feel that strength pull him up, steady him. He could almost imagine it—a warm, firm grip, pulling him to his feet, telling him everything was going to be alright.

But as he stretched out his arm, the look on his father's face shifted. The warmth faded, replaced by something colder, harsher. His father's eyes narrowed, his lips twisting with a look Mason didn't recognize—disgust. Mason's heart plummeted. 

What… why is he looking at me like that?

The murmurs around him grew louder, and he glanced at the crowd of onlookers, hoping to find comfort, understanding, anything that would ease the growing knot in his chest. But they, too, wore expressions that mirrored his father's—a mixture of revulsion and pity. His fingers faltered, and his arm dropped back to his side, weak and limp.

Panic surged through him, and he tried to move, to sit up, to ask what was wrong. But his body wouldn't respond. He felt rooted to the spot, paralyzed, as if an invisible weight was pressing down on him. His eyes darted down, and the breath caught in his throat as he saw it—a gaping, bloody wound on the right side of his chest.

The edges of the wound were smooth, and blood poured from it in thick, warm streams, staining his clothes and pooling around him. He stared, horrified, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. His chest—there was a hole, a dark, empty space where flesh and bone should be. 

How… what…?

He looked up, desperation clouding his gaze, searching his father's face for some sign of compassion, a hint that this was all a nightmare. But his father's expression remained cold, that same look of disgust piercing through him. The crowd around him recoiled, some turning away, others whispering in tones thick with condemnation.

The pain was excruciating, a burning, gnawing agony that radiated from the wound and spread through his body like fire. He wanted to scream, to beg for help, but no sound escaped his lips. He was trapped, drowning once again, but this time in pain and horror. And worse than the physical pain was the look in his father's eyes, the knowledge that he had failed, that he was… 

Unworthy… pathetic… disgusting. 

And then, just as he felt himself slipping again, the world around him faded, the figures blurred, and with a jolt, Mason's eyes snapped open. 

Reality slammed into him, and he felt a sharp, searing pain in his chest. 

He screamed, his hand flying to his side as his fingers met something warm and sticky. Blood. His blood, flowing from a wound that wasn't a dream, that wasn't some twisted nightmare. The hole—the hole was real.

Another scream tore from his throat, raw and broken, as he lay there, clutching his chest, his body wracked with pain and fear. 

The memory of Victor's attack flashed vividly in his mind, the speed, the raw power, the glee in Victor's eyes as he had delivered the blow. 

How had he survived even this long?

Blood was pooling around him, his vision swaying between clarity and an encroaching darkness that threatened to consume him.

With a dull ache, he turned his head to the side and saw Rachel's motionless body beside him, dust coating her battered form, mingling with the blood that soaked her clothes. Her face, usually hardened and sharp, looked disturbingly still.

She'd taken the brunt of the attack… for him. 

The realization clawed at him, bringing a new wave of shame. 

I'm so damn useless.

He pressed his hands harder against his wound, desperately trying to stop the blood that spilled through his fingers, knowing it was a futile attempt. His body was growing weaker with every beat of his heart.

He knew he should already be dead, knew he couldn't have survived this long from sheer will alone. He spoke inward.

What's happening to me? … What's going on? Why am I still here?

A deep, cold voice echoed in his mind, freezing him with its detached boredom. 

Astral of Death: You may teeter on the edge, but you won't die as easily as the rest of your kind. Still, make no mistake—your wound is fatal. It's only a matter of time.

The words struck Mason like another blow. He was alive but doomed to a slow death, lingering on the edge just long enough to feel the agony of it. Panic clawed at him, and he screamed inwardly, desperation filling his mind. 

Then help me! Tell me how to heal it! 

But the Astral only laughed, a hollow, dark sound that felt like shards of ice stabbing into his mind. 

Astral of Death: You misunderstand. I am not here to be your savior, nor your companion. When an Astral's host dies, I am freed, unbound. Your life or death means nothing to me. I have told you this before.

Nothing… 

The word echoed, sinking into Mason like a stone dropped into the depths of his mind. He had signed a contract with this being, but what had he really expected? Support? Partnership? A twisted sense of loyalty? No, he realized with sickening clarity, he had been a fool. The Astral of Death wasn't his ally. It was a force beyond his control, beyond any sense of human attachment.

You… you don't care at all, do you? 

Bitterness creeping into his mind as he fought to keep his eyes open, fought to keep himself grounded in the present despite the pain.

Astral of Death: If you die, I am free once more to roam as I please. If you live, you fill up my lost boredom. Either way this goes, I am to be satisfied.

The Astral's words stabbed deeper than the wound in his chest, ripping through any last remnants of hope he had held onto. 

So… that's it, then.

His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, his eyes stinging with tears he couldn't contain. He'd been so naive, so blind to the true nature of what he'd bound himself to.

A dark, bitter laugh bubbled up from his throat, mingling with the agony of his failing body.

I'm sorry, then. Guess I won't be able to keep up my end of the contract after all.

The Astral remained silent, indifferent, as if Mason's apology meant nothing in the face of its own eternal existence. The darkness around him began to press in harder, his vision fading as his strength ebbed away. He had tried so hard, had pushed himself to his limits, and for what? 

Rachel… 

He glanced once more at her, her form bloodied and bruised from Victor's merciless assault. She had tried to protect him, risked herself, and now lay lifeless because of his incompetence. 

I'm so weak, aren't I. 

A sense of acceptance washed over him, bitter and resigned. The laugh that escaped him now was hollow, defeated. He'd played the hero, thinking he could defy something as monstrous as Obsidian. 

How greedy huh.

His naïveté, his arrogance, his greed—they had all coiled around him, leading him straight to this. He had refused to listen, brushing off every warning, every outstretched hand, and now he was reaping the bitter fruit of his pride.

And then, in the depths of his self-loathing, her face appeared: Claire. Claire, who had been there since his childhood, her quiet strength always so steady beside him. She was the only one who had ever expected anything of him, ever dared to believe he could be something more. 

The maid who, despite his countless failures, had continued to thrust those expectations upon him, burdening him with hopes he couldn't fulfill. She saw in him something worth molding, worth guiding. But in his carelessness, he had let her down—time and time again.

Failure becomes a pattern, doesn't it?

Her words, spoken so calmly, now echoed in his mind, cutting deeper than any wound. How often had she said that, looking at him with that knowing gaze? He'd dismissed her words every time, brushing them off, too proud to take them seriously. But she had been right. Failure was a pattern, and he was its masterpiece.

What a disgrace Mason Heartson was.

And then another face surfaced, younger, sharper, driven: Thomas Martin. The boy who had come chasing after him, even when the path grew dangerous. Despite being younger, smaller, and far less experienced, Thomas had somehow carved out a purpose, a direction in his life that Mason had never managed to find. 

Thomas, who'd risked everything to reach him, to help him. And what had Mason done? He'd dragged that boy down, put his life on the line, all because of his reckless, self-serving decisions. Thomas had deserved better, deserved someone who would have valued that determination. But instead, he'd found Mason—useless, unfocused Mason, who had dragged him into danger without a second thought.

Now, Thomas was probably dead. Along with Claire. They were gone because of him, because he had been too foolish, too selfish to realize the damage he was causing. He was the reason for their suffering. 

He was a failure through and through.

And as his strength waned, he could feel the last vestiges of pride slipping away, leaving only the raw, undeniable truth. He had failed them both. The boy with purpose and the woman who believed in him—he had let them down, just as he had let himself down. 

What a waste.

A hollow laugh escaping his lips, mingling with the tears streaming down his face. The ultimate failure, the disgrace of Mason Heartson.

Once again, that voice that he hated spoke in his mind, so clear and precise. The voice of the man who was at the root of Mason's suffering–no that's not right. That voice. 

It was himself. The man Mason Heartson absolutely detested.

How disappointing you are Mason Heartson. How disappointing indeed.

And in that moment, as he gave in, as the despair took hold, the world around him shifted. The agony, the cold, the darkness—it all faded, and he found himself once again standing in an empty, endless white room.

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Mason found himself adrift in the white room once more, but this time, he could hardly bear to lift his gaze. He knew what this was: judgment, consequence, failure in its rawest form. He must have broken the contract with the Astral, his soul forfeit for his incompetence. 

He lowered his head. He was alone, standing on a single plank of wood, floating in the vast, endless sea of silence, surrounded by the crushing emptiness.

He feared falling, though he couldn't grasp why. What difference would it make? He was already dead. Nothing mattered anymore.

But just as he sank further into despair, a sudden, sharp pain burst through his jaw. A fist—solid and merciless—connected with his face, knocking him off the fragile plank. 

He plunged deep into the freezing water, his limbs flailing as he struggled against the pull of the depths. He kicked, desperate to claw his way back up, but he couldn't swim. The knowledge struck him with bitter clarity. He had had 8 years to learn, but he'd never bothered.

Down he sank, further and further, the darkness swallowing him whole. Panic throbbed in his chest as he opened his mouth to scream, to beg for help—but only cold water filled his lungs. He choked, the reality of his helplessness tightening around him. There was no one to save him this time. He didn't deserve help, didn't earn the right to rely on others. 

His descent slowed as he hit the cold bottom, his body heavy, his mind numbing, his vision fading. He couldn't breathe. He would die, alone and forgotten. 

And then, from within the depths, a figure materialized before him—an old woman, her face twisted into a scowl. 

Old Woman: Now what's all this, then? 

The shock of her presence jarred him from his despair, even as he felt the water pressing in around him. He tried to respond, to understand her sudden appearance, but only more water filled his mouth. The old woman seemed unperturbed, even amused, her laugh bubbling through the water as if mocking his situation. Her voice echoed in his mind.

Old Woman: Why are you acting so pathetic? After everything you've been through with that Astral, and here you are, self-sabotaging every step of the way. Do you want your soul to be terminated? The way you're going, it's like you're begging for it.

Mason's chest tightened, not just from the water but from the sheer humiliation of her words. She eyed him with scorn, her gaze piercing.

Old Woman: Ought to embarrass yourself a little less, don't you think? Stop bringing shame to the Heartson name.

Those words burned him like a searing flame. All the shame, all the anger that had been simmering within him boiled over. His pride flared, the indignation eclipsing his despair.

Mason: I— There's… nothing I can do about that. 

He gritted his teeth, the bitterness spilling over. 

Mason: It doesn't matter whether I choose to stand up now or sink to the bottom. Nothing changes either way! That's just the kind of man I am. The type to fail, over and over, but still keep charging in!

He looked up, his eyes blazing with a mix of anger and despair. 

Mason: I tell myself that I'm some noble guy who wants to protect people like some hero. But it's a lie. I ignored Rachel's words, pushed her warnings aside—because I wanted this. I wanted to get what I wanted, to satisfy my own needs.

He was shouting now, his voice rising in the vast emptiness of his head, the truth spilling from him in waves of rage and agony.

Mason: I ruin everything. Everything I touch falls apart. The people I care about, the ones who believed in me—I let them down. Again and again. 

The old woman simply watched him, her expression unreadable, as if she were weighing his words, judging every crack in his facade. 

Mason: I thought I could change. I thought I could… be something, but all I've done is drag others down with me. I'm nothing. Just a failure.

The old woman's voice softened, though her words retained their sharp edge.

Old Woman: Yeah we know all that already boy. Blah blah blah, you're a failure we get it.

She muttered, watching him as he pressed his hands to his head, grappling with the truth.

Old Woman: But that's the Heartson legacy. 

Mason's mind reeled, the weight of her words pressing down on him, and he felt like he was sinking deeper, even as he struggled to make sense of it all. 

She continued, a cold smile crossing her face. 

Old Woman: Oh, we Heartsons were never saints. But we did our duty, didn't we? All of us, doing what we thought was best, pushing humanity forward… or so we told ourselves. And now here you are, my grandson, our so-called masterpiece. The last in a line of sacrifices. Makes you proud, doesn't it?

Mason stared at the woman, his mind struggling to piece together the reality before him. The weight of her words sank in slowly, unsettling him further with each passing second.

Mason: You're my…

The old woman's mouth twisted into a faint, sardonic smile. 

Old Woman: Yeah, that's right, I'm your granny, and all that. Not exactly how you expected to meet me, huh?

Her voice held a dry amusement, though her eyes remained sharp and piercing.

Mason's mind raced. He didn't have any memories of his grandparents—they'd passed before he was old enough to know them, and he'd never heard much about them. Yet, standing here, face-to-face with her in this strange, surreal place, he could feel it. Something deep inside him knew this woman was, indeed, his family.

Mason: But... how?

She let out a short, humorless laugh.

Granny: Stop asking stupid questions, boy. 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. That's step one for you—stop playing the helpless fool. You're here, I'm here, and whether you understand it or not, this isn't some little dream. This is a part of you. Now, if you want answers, it's time you face the truth.

Her words were like a slap, snapping him into focus. 

The woman's gaze hardened as she continued. 

Granny: The next step for you is coming to terms with the sins of the Heartson family. The ones your parents, Samuel and Gabrielle, made. The ones that dragged you into all of this.

Mason felt his stomach twist at the mention of his parents' names, and yet, a strange feeling washed over him—a mix of anger, betrayal, and an odd sense of clarity. His grandmother gave him a knowing look, her voice a bitter mixture of frustration and regret.

Granny: You think you're here by accident? Think again. The Heartson family has been tied to Obsidian's work for generations. Samuel and Gabrielle didn't just fall in with them. They actively worked with them, every step of the way.

She nodded grimly. 

Granny: I, too, was involved. As were your ancestors. It was all planned—each of us, carrying out our part of this twisted plan. All to create you.

Granny: Obsidian had a purpose for you, from the start, selective breeding. Manipulating choices, directing lives, all to create someone compatible with the Astral of Death. You're not just any Heartson. You're our prize. Our little masterpiece. 

A shiver ran down Mason's spine. He could hardly process it, the weight of what she was saying, the realization of what he was. 

Granny: And you think I had no guilt about it? I knew it was wrong, but I convinced myself it wasn't my problem. That it wouldn't be my children who paid for it. We all did. We thought we were preserving humanity. Being all noble and whatnot. Samuel, Gabrielle—they followed in the same path, convinced that they were doing the right thing. But they forgot their own humanity the moment they handed over their only son. That's the kind of people we all became.

Mason lowered his head, pulling his hands to his face, a cold, hollow feeling settling deep in his chest. His parents… they hadn't just abandoned him. They'd sacrificed him. And the weight of that knowledge hit him like a crushing wave.

Granny sighed, crossing her arms and giving him a hard, almost disappointed look, the kind that seemed to pierce through his every excuse, every ounce of self-pity he was clinging to.

Granny: Poor little Mason, sitting here, mourning himself like he's already dead, listen to yourself, wallowing in all that tragedy. 

She leaned closer, her gaze unyielding. 

Granny: You think you're the only one burdened by this? The only one expected to move on despite it all? We all had our sins. I've told you what we did. But do you think any of us got to lie down and give up, to drown ourselves in our self-pity?

Mason: That's so damn easy for you to say!

Mason's voice cracked, half a growl and half a sob. 

Mason: You didn't grow up in it—you didn't have to feel it!

His chest burned, his fists clenched so hard he could feel his nails biting into his palms

Mason: You really expect me to keep going, to reach the surface, and then what? Be some broken, second-rate version of everyone around me? That's all that I am. A second rate piece of shit. So why can't you just let me drown here. I'm owed at least that.

Granny let out a cold laugh, but there was no malice in it—only a weary, brutal honesty. 

Granny: You think you're owed something for your suffering? Like some reward is waiting for you if you cry loud enough? It's true, Mason. You'll always be fifteen steps behind if you keep measuring yourself against everyone else. But that's just more of your greed, isn't it? Wanting the life they denied you, wanting it without the struggle to earn it.

Mason felt himself recoil. His lips trembled, his fists shaking, but he had nothing left to shout back. 

Granny: So go on, drown here if you want. Give in and let it take you. But understand, Mason, that you are no victim. You have a choice now, even if you think it's too late. You can sink here. But if you choose to stay down here and wallow in your self-pity, then know that's on you. 

Mason: Just stop.

He spat the words out, trying to keep his voice steady, but each syllable quivered with unbearable melancholy.

Mason: Do you have any idea how hard I've tried? How many nights I've spent working, pushing myself further than I even thought I could go? Just to get some kind of life that isn't… this?

Mason: Everyone else—everyone else gets to live a life. Just live. They get people to lean on, family who actually cares, friends who are there no matter what. But me?

A harsh laugh escaped him, raw and jagged, scraping against the silence.

Mason: I don't have that. I thought if I just worked hard enough, if I put in everything I had, that maybe I'd be able to break free of it. To finally have something real.

He paused, his gaze shifting downward, a shadow passing over his expression.

Mason: But it's bullshit. There's no amount of work that's going to fix this. No amount of effort can change what I am. I am who I am, and nothing's going to change that. That foundation of failure—that's as much a part of me as my own skin. It's… it's who I am.

He took a shaky breath, his voice barely more than a whisper now, raw and vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself be.

Granny: You're so damn blind, Mason. You don't get it, do you? That right there—that's your damn problem. You're an idiot if you think you're going to get anywhere on your own. A damn fool.

She shook her head, a look of disappointment mixed with frustration.

Granny: You treat everything like it's some individual assignment. You're so wrapped up in your own head, in your own failure, you haven't even thought about what it actually takes to get what you want.

Her eyes bore into him, fierce and unrelenting.

Granny: Let me tell you something. Nobody—nobody—learns to swim on their own. It's impossible. And it's damn sure impossible for someone like you. You've convinced yourself you're alone in all this, that it's just you against the world, and you're too proud or too damn stubborn to ask for help.

Granny paused, letting the words settle, but before Mason could respond, she pressed on, her tone unwavering.

Granny: That's the Heartson way, isn't it? Always thinking you can do everything yourself, that it's weak to need anyone else. And where has that gotten you? Nowhere. Not a single damn step forward. That's because the Heartson family… they can't get shit done on their own.

Her voice softened, but it was still laced with a certain fierceness, a fierce love that refused to let him off the hook.

Granny: It's the people around you who make you strong. They're the ones who do the heavy lifting when you can't. 

She leaned in closer, her gaze locked onto his.

Granny: If you ever want to make it, Mason, you're going to have to learn that. You're going to have to learn to lean on people, to trust them, to let them carry some of that weight you're dragging around.

Granny stepped back, her expression still stern.

Granny: You want to come out on top? Then stop pretending you can do it alone.

Mason sank down onto the ocean floor, the weight of Granny's words pressing down on him until he couldn't hold himself up any longer. He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, the overwhelming ache radiating from his chest, spilling out in silent tears.

Could he… could he truly believe that there were people he could rely on? People who'd be there for him, despite all he'd done, despite all he'd failed to become?

The thoughts churned within him. To let himself lean on someone else, to admit he couldn't do it alone… wasn't that pathetic? Wouldn't that make him weak? Relying on others to achieve his goal, his purpose—it felt greedy.

Granny: There's nothing wrong with being a little greedy every now and then.

He looked up at her, confused, a flicker of defiance mingling with the tears in his eyes.

Granny: When it's for something like this, something that matters, there's no shame in wanting a little help. That so-called greed? Relying on others to get what you want? It's something your parents could never do. That greed, it's the only thing that can save you from their fate.

The final wall he'd been clinging to crumbled, and for the first time, he let it all go. The pain, the shame, the anger—it flowed out, raw and unrestrained, and he didn't fight it. His tears came harder, shoulders shaking, his breaths ragged and uneven.

Mason's sobs tore through the dark waters, deeper than even he realized. His voice broke, desperate and aching as he cried out.

Mason: Why… why did they have to do this to me? Why did they… why did they sacrifice me like this? I didn't ask for this! I never wanted any of it! All I wanted… all I wanted was a normal life.

His hands clutched at the ground, his knuckles white as he forced the words out, each one cutting through the air with a painful finality.

Mason: Why couldn't they just love me? Why couldn't they just… just be there? Why did they have to leave me, again and again, like none of it mattered? Like I didn't matter? Why me?

He looked up, his face twisted in anguish, and saw Granny watching him. Her gaze softened, filled with a pity she didn't try to hide. She knelt beside him, reaching out her hand with a quiet patience, waiting for him to meet her gaze.

Granny: It's alright, you can let it all out. But you'll have to save those questions for them. I can't answer them now, not in the way you need.

Mason's tears slowed as he searched her eyes, clinging to her words. He hesitated, his voice small and vulnerable.

Mason: Granny… is it… is it really okay to rely on others for something like this?

Granny's lips curved into a warm smile, and a chuckle slipped past her lips, low and knowing.

Granny: I wouldn't expect any less from you boy.

He took a shuddering breath, his fists clenched, his jaw set. With a grit that held all the pain and strength he'd gathered, Mason reached out, grasping Granny's hand, feeling the warmth and strength in her grip.

And with that, he pulled himself to his feet.

With a surge of resolve, Mason kicked off the ocean floor, still gripping Granny's hand as they began to float upward. Their ascent was slow at first, like moving through molasses, the water dense and unyielding around him. 

His legs strained with each kick, his strokes awkward and stiff, as if he were relearning every movement. But he held on to Granny's hand, watching her as she moved effortlessly beside him.

Mason's gaze followed her every motion—the graceful sweep of her hands, the measured kicks of her legs. The water seemed to respond to her, parting with each stroke, guiding her upward. He tried to copy her movements, letting his body mimic her motions as he felt the current shifting around him. 

His strokes became more fluid, more natural. For the first time, he sensed the rhythm of the water, the way it slid across his skin, not as an obstacle but as something to work with. He matched Granny's pace.

As they rose, their movements became faster, smoother. The water seemed to pull them upward, as though it, too, wanted them to break free from the depths. Together, they swam in sync, rising with increasing speed, cutting through the dark water with purpose. 

Mason felt the rush of exhilaration, the fierce satisfaction of breaking through his own limits, his own fears. He looked over at Granny, and for the first time, he felt like he wasn't just following—he was truly swimming.

Then, finally, they broke through the surface, the water parting around them in a shimmering cascade. They were back at the top, their heads emerging into the blinding white light that surrounded them. 

Mason squinted as he looked around, seeing the familiar, pristine walls of the white room stretching out in every direction. But he hardly cared about the room. All he could think about was Granny, standing beside him, her hand still clasped in his.

A smile spread across his face, filled with relief and gratitude. He looked at her, about to say something, but just as he let go of her hand, a sudden, hollow ache tore through his heart. It felt like a piece of him was being ripped away, an emptiness blooming where her presence had just been.

Mason: Granny!

He shouted, his voice thick with desperation, reaching out to her. But she was already fading, her form becoming transparent, her outline blurring as she drifted further and further away. The light swallowed her, and Mason's chest tightened, panic clawing at him as he tried to hold onto her image.

I won't forget you. I swear… I'll remember everything. Right here, right now… I promise, I'll start over. I'll do it better this time. I'll get it right. 

He clenched his fists, his resolve hardening as the last traces of Granny's form disappeared into the light. The ache in his chest deepened, but along with it, there was a flicker of strength, a renewed sense of purpose. 

And with that vow still echoing in his heart, Mason's eyes slowly opened, bringing him back to the present, back to the cold, stark room where he was to bleed out.

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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.