The room was silent except for the sound of Mason's shallow breaths. He knelt on the cold, bloodstained floor, his eyes fixed on Rachel's lifeless body.
His hands trembled, his fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms, drawing blood.
Edward: Congratulations on your victory Heartson, what a feat it is to defeat a captain!
Mason's head snapped up. His vision blurred with tears, and his lips parted, but no words came.
Mason: Ghi, ah.
His mind struggled to process what he was seeing, what he was hearing. This wasn't right.
He had won. They had won. Rachel had said it herself—no two captains would ever be stationed in the same fortress.
So why?
Why was she dead?
His lips moved, trying to form words, but nothing coherent emerged. Just noise. Confused, broken noise.
Edward's laughter cut in. He stood near the chamber's entrance, his white armor pristine, his posture relaxed. His icy black eyes burned with amusement as he watched.
Edward: How it must anger you. How it must burn.
He began to move slowly, his voice rising, like a conductor building toward a crescendo.
Edward: To think your ego could defy fate. That you—you—could make that leap off that cliff. Tell me, what happens when you leap? What happens when you spread your arms and defy the earth's pull? I'll tell you—you fall. You fall, and the ground is there to meet you. How laughably arrogant. What an egotistical animal.
Edward: You thought you could rewrite the rules. Did you think you were above them? Did you think you were the exception?
Edward gestured dramatically toward Rachel's body.
Edward: There she is. Your triumph. Your prize. The reward for your hard work. Congratulations.
Mason flinched. His gaze snapped back to Rachel's lifeless form. The image seared itself into his mind—the blood pooling beneath her, the frozen expression on her face, the light that had left her eyes.
Edward's voice grew louder, his tone shifting from mockery to outright fury.
Edward: A lazy child. Just flailing around. Idiotic. Stupid. Hateful. Spiteful. Disgraceful. Disappointing. Suffering, because of your ego.
He stopped moving, turning to face Mason fully. His voice rose to a shout, reverberating through the chamber.
Edward: I told you! You can't break those threads. Look where it's gotten you!
Mason didn't react immediately. His body trembled, his fists digging harder into his palms. Edward's words morphed into background noise.
Slowly, sluggishly, Mason began to push himself to his feet.
The movement was unsteady, his legs shaking beneath him. His gaze remained fixed on the ground, on Rachel's lifeless body.
The sight rooted him, grounding his swirling emotions. They churned inside him, but he let them settle into a single, burning resolve.
Edward: Never capable of achieving anything more than failure. That's what fate ordained. You can't change that.
Mason didn't look up. He took a slow step forward, then another. His fists clenched tighter, the black flames flickering to life around them.
The output was intense, too intense, charring the skin of his hands, but Mason didn't care. The pain didn't matter.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, barely more than a whisper.
Mason: Edward.
The single word cut through the chamber. Edward stopped mid-sentence, his head tilting slightly in curiosity. He watched as Mason's shoulders straightened.
Mason raised his head, his obsidian eyes locking onto Edward's. His voice didn't grow any louder, but his rage threatened to consume the room.
Mason: I'm sorry. I'm going to murder you.
The flames around his fists roared to life, the black energy twisting violently as if mirroring his fury.
Edward's smirk widened. He raised his hands, his posture relaxed, as if inviting the attack. Mason's charge didn't let up.
His fists burned brighter, hotter, as he closed the distance between them. He didn't care about the output. He didn't care about the inherit limit of his body. He couldn't care less.
He just needed to obliterate Edward Bassett.
The damn devil.
The black flames erupted violently from Mason's fist, lashing out like a beast unchained. They tore through the chamber, incinerating everything in their path.
The heat warped the air, the walls groaning under the strain as cracks spiderwebbed across their surface.
The dark fire writhed and coiled, its hunger insatiable as it devoured the stone, the air, everything. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.
Mason stumbled backward, his breath hitching as the adrenaline began to wane. He gripped his arm tightly, the skin hot to the touch, steam curling off of it. His fingers twitched involuntarily as pain shot up through his shoulder.
Mason: Damn it…
He glanced down at his arm, taking in the angry red burns and charred flesh. He could feel his body protesting, warning him that it couldn't endure another attack like that. But he pushed the thought aside.
It didn't matter.
He straightened, forcing himself to look toward the smoke-filled center of the room. His eyes narrowing as he scanned for Edward's remains.
The smoke began to clear.
At first, Mason saw nothing but shadows, the haze obscuring the far end of the chamber. But a faint light caught his eye—metal, dull and scorched.
The outline of Edward's armor emerged, the right side twisted and barely clinging to his frame. His skin, or what was left of it, bubbled and blistered, dark ash covering the surface.
And yet, as the smoke dissipated, Edward's face came into view.
He was smiling.
Mason's heart sank. His breathing quickened as his mind raced to comprehend what he was seeing.
The mangled stump where Edward's right arm had been began to bubble. Mason's gaze locked onto the grotesque sight, his stomach twisting as the air around the injury warped with heat.
Black flames ignited at the stump, writhing and shifting like liquid fire. The sight made Mason's chest tighten.
The flames grew, stretching and coiling until they began to take shape. Slowly, agonizingly, they solidified into a new arm—pitch black, with the same darkened, jagged texture that marked the skin of Mason's chest, where Victor had punctured him earlier.
Edward flexed his fingers, his smirk widening as the new arm settled into place.
Edward: Marvelous, isn't it?
Mason's body froze.
That ability.
He had seen it before. On the beasts. On himself. The black flames, the regeneration—it was unmistakable.
The Astral of Death.
Mason's lips parted, his voice barely a whisper as the realization clawed its way to the surface.
Mason: Don't tell me…
The Astral of Death had two hosts.
And Mason was looking directly at the other one.
A sharp cackle echoed in Mason's mind. The voice of the Astral stirred for the first time since he had arrived at the labyrinth. How cruel that it chose now to speak up.
Edward: Look at you—struggling just to keep those flames alive. Your body's crumbling, isn't it?
Mason took a step forward, but Edward raised a hand, stopping him.
Edward: Don't misunderstand. I'd prefer not to kill you. But if you burn yourself out? That's none of my concern. We've waited four centuries for a host worthy of the Astral of Death. A few more centuries wouldn't hurt I suppose.
He turned slightly, his hand moving to the second weapon on his back. Mason's eyes narrowed, watching as Edward unsheathed the weapon.
At first glance, it seemed incomplete—a bladeless hilt with no discernible edge.
Edward raised the hilt, holding it loosely in one hand. Mason's body tensed. His instincts screamed at him to move, to attack before Edward could use whatever weapon this was. Without hesitation, Mason pushed forward.
The black flames roared to life, however the ouput was far weaker, his body crumbling under the heat of the black flames.
After Victor's death, Mason had felt the surge of energy, a burst that reignited his black flames. But now, it was slipping. The flames weakened, sputtering as his body crumbled under the strain.
If he didn't end this now, the flames would fail.
I'll kill him.
It didn't matter if his body gave out—he would end Edward Bassett.
But just before he connected, Edward's weapon came alive.
From the hilt erupted black flames, spiraling outward in a violent burst. The flames didn't form a blade—they stretched and twisted into a whip-like structure, coiling through the air with a life of their own. Mason's fist stopped mid-swing as the whip snapped forward, wrapping tightly around his arm.
Mason: Hk—?!
The sound barely left his mouth before the whip yanked him sideways. The force was brutal, slamming him into the scorched wall of the chamber. Pain exploded across his body as the flames seared his skin.
Edward didn't give him a moment to recover. The whip lashed out again, dragging Mason like a ragdoll and throwing him across the chamber. He hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. He lay there, coughing and gasping, his body refusing to respond.
The whip dissolved, the black flames dissipating back into the hilt.
Edward: A child playing with fire, burning yourself to ashes.
The weapon in Edward's hand shifted again. The black flames reemerged, but this time they took on a new form—a massive axe, its head wide and jagged. Edward gripped it firmly, raising it high above his head.
Mason barely managed to roll to the side as the axe came crashing down, splitting the ground where he had been moments before. The shockwave from the strike sent him tumbling again.
Edward was relentless. His movements were fast, giving Mason no time to think. Another swing came, and Mason ducked, barely avoiding the blade as it sliced through the air.
The heat radiating from the black flames on Edward's weapon scorched Mason's skin, even from a distance.
Victor had fought at a range, using his territory to dominate the battlefield, forcing Mason to navigate a trap-filled arena. Rachel had been the opposite, fighting close but deceptively, her poisons and tricks creating openings where none should exist.
But Edward? Edward fought with brutalality, relying on raw power and speed to overwhelm him.
Mason dodged another swing, his body screaming in protest. He tried to counter, pouring what little energy he had left into his fists. The flames flared weakly as he lunged forward, aiming for Edward's side. But Edward's axe was there, meeting Mason's fist in a burst of black flames.
The heat seared his skin, and Mason winced, clutching his hand as he stumbled back. He felt the burn spreading up his arm, but he couldn't stop. Edward's smile didn't fade as he stepped forward, his grip on the flaming axe tightening.
With the Astral of Death, Edward was a perfect match for Mason. In Mason's weakened state, it was clear he couldn't match Edward in a prolonged fight.
He remembered Granny's words.
You want to come out on top? Then stop pretending you can do it alone.
But who else was there? Who could help him now?
The taunting laughter in his head? That voice offered nothing but ridicule.
Rachel's lifeless body? She couldn't stand beside him anymore.
No one was coming. He was alone.
Always alone.
Mason clenched his teeth, his chest tightening as the realization hit him.
He was no different than when he started.
All his efforts, all that struggling, and still he was here—alone, struggling, and failing.
Edward's axe came down again, and Mason barely moved in time, the blade slamming into the ground just inches from his feet. The force of the strike sent him flying back.
He turned.
Shame burned through him as he made the decision, but he didn't have a choice.
He wasn't enough to win.
Mason's legs moved before his mind caught up. He avoided another strike, dodging to the side as Edward's axe whistled past him. Without looking back, he bolted toward the chamber's doorway, his feet pounding against the broken stone floor as he moved straight through the doorway, and fell headfirst into the unknown.
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Mason stepped out of the car, smoothing his jacket as he glanced at the familiar sight of Brentwood, his High School.
For a moment, his head swam with the memories of something else—fragments of motion, heat, fire, pain. His mind ached with images of battle.
But then it faded.
It must have been a dream. Just a nap on the car ride there. His driver had almost made him late, after all.
That idiot had better be waiting outside when this is over.
Mason rolled his shoulders, shaking off the strange tension in his body as he approached the doors to the school.
As he pushed them open, the familiar sights of Brentwood washed over him. His classmates were everywhere, their faces bright and cheerful, all of them dressed up for the special day. Mason smiled, nodding at a group of guys who threw him high fives as he passed.
Classmate: You look sharp, Mason!
He grinned. Others flashed him quick smiles or murmured compliments, but not everyone was thrilled to see him. A few stood off to the side, dark with envy. Mason noticed but didn't care.
Who wouldn't want to be Mason Heartson? The richest guy in school, the funniest, the most down-to-earth. And tonight, he was also the luckiest.
His date.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. His pace quickened as he moved further into the building.
His date?
His hands brushed over his jacket, tugging at the lapels.
Did he overdo it with the cologne? Claire had mentioned something about that earlier, hadn't she? His tie—was it crooked? His hair—was it too much? He swallowed hard, nerves bubbling in his chest.
Relax.
He inhaled deeply as he turned the corner toward the gymnasium.
But his thoughts scattered again as he bumped head first into someone. He stumbled slightly, blinking as a voice broke through his thoughts.
Classmate: Whoa, Mason! You alright?
The classmate, eyes wide with admiration, gave him a reassuring smile.
Classmate: You look great, man. Don't overthink it. She's gonna love it.
Mason blinked, caught off guard. Then, slowly, he grinned. He gave the classmate a quick pat on the shoulder before brushing past him.
Mason: Appreciate it. I'll see you in there.
He made his way to the gym doors, pausing briefly to adjust his tie and smooth his hair. One last breath, and he pushed the doors open.
The gym was empty. Not empty in the usual sense—it was cleared out, decorated to perfection. Mason stepped inside, the sound of music filling the air as lights twinkled softly overhead.
The room was exactly as he'd imagined it, every detail falling into place. The streamers, the banners, the carefully arranged tables—it was as though someone had plucked the image straight from his mind and brought it to life.
Mason smiled to himself, taking it all in. This was it. This was the moment.
And then he saw her.
Standing in the center of the gym, illuminated by the soft lights. The most enchanting woman at Brentwood High.
Her dress shimmered faintly as she turned to face him, her smile heartwarming. Mason's breath caught in his throat, tumbling for just a second before he recovered.
He flashed her his brightest smile, the kind that always came so easily.
She smiled back, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded away. Everything was as it should be.
And so he walked forward, preparing for his dance with Rachel Parker, the most enchanting woman in the world.