《The Legion: Heartson》


 Prologue

    The night air was thick with the promise of death. James felt it in his bones. Clasped in silver armor and a ruby sword strapped to his waist, James Albin looked ahead at the two similarly dressed men before him. Wiping the sweat from his sleek black hair, he took a step towards the knights, making sure to keep one hand near his blade.


    Knight 1: Yield, James. The odds are in our favor; victory is beyond your reach.


    James looked down on the man who had spoken and acknowledged his words. The two did, indeed, have the advantage in this fight when he considered the facts. The trees seemed to foreshadow the ambush that was about to unfold.


    Knight 2: We know what you¡¯re up to James. This is reckless. You¡¯ve already taken the power of two astrals; there''s no telling what will happen if you take more.


    For a second, James was caught off guard, surprised that they knew so much about his plan. The knight''s voice was cold and sharp, far different than how James remembered it. He supposed he was also quite different from how they remembered him, but he didn¡¯t dwell on these thoughts.


    James: If you know my plans, then why do you oppose me?


    James already knew the answer to this question. The dread of the fight that was to come was beginning to overwhelm him. His mind raced as he tried to stall longer, but there was nothing else.


    It was inevitable.


    Knight 2: Grief and a thirst for vengeance have clouded your judgment, James. Our hearts may ache for your cause, but what you seek now... it''s beyond our oath to uphold.


    A sigh fell over James as he came to reality. There was no running from this fight.


    James: So, our paths diverge here. William, Alexander, fate demands its duel.


    The two knights nodded their heads in agreement, signaling the start of the fight between the three brothers.


    The shorter of the two brothers, known as Alexander, immediately backed up and clasped his hands together. His eyes turned a violent shade of dark green and the branches in the surrounding area seemed to come alive, shaking and growing unnaturally. William Albin, the oldest of the three, turned back and ran for the trees. His eyes turned stormy gray, and in a single bound, he was able to jump into the mess of leaves and branches created by his younger brother.


    James had been in enough fights with his brothers to understand the strategy taking place. Alex was to act as bait, while William attacked from the safety of the leaves, changing positions and striking whenever he saw an opening. It was the most intelligent tactic considering the abilities William possessed, and it left James with a level of uncertainty as to when he could expect an attack.


    Keeping up with his role, Alexander raised one hand in the air and charged his brother, simultaneously calling forth a single branch from a nearby tree and shaping it into a thorny blade. James unclasped his own sword and stood guard, ready to defend a strike from his brother. However, Alexander feigned his attack, getting close enough to allow James to get into a guard position and then stepping back. Raising his sword into the air, Alex beckoned forth a flurry of branches at James who had only moments to react.


    James dropped his guard as soon as his brother stepped backward, and his eyes suddenly turned blood red. Right before the branches could gouge through his flesh, James summoned forth a wall of jagged crimson crystals around his feet, stopping any incoming branches. At the exact moment the crystals stopped the branches, James created a single crystal with a sharp point and sent it at his brother''s chest. Alexander was only just able to move out of the way in time, and the crystal grazed his stomach, leaving a trail of blood. James prepared to use this opening to strike his brother¡¯s chest with his sword; yet, a gust of wind immediately blew him backward, knocking him off his feet.


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    William: So this is the power of the Crystal Astral. May I ask who you stole it from?


    James: Honestly I¡¯m a bit offended that you think of me as a thief. We¡¯ve known each other our whole lives but now you both look at me like a stranger.


    William: The man before me now bears little resemblance to the brother I once knew. Given what whispers carry, to call you a thief might not be so far-fetched. There''s no reality where the James that I knew would use such an astral, considering the hell it put us through.


    James''s focus drifted from William''s accusations, his senses straining against the howling wind that twisted his brother''s voice. As James tried to stand another gust of wind struck him in the back, and then another in the side. Soon James was being bombarded with slices of wind from every direction, tearing gashes into the armor that James wore and cutting into exposed pieces of skin.


    Irritated, James placed both hands on the ground, and once again, his eyes turned red as crystals formed in a circular pattern around him, destroying every tree in the vicinity.


    William abandoned his position in the fallen trees and placed a hand on the floor. His left eye suddenly became brown, and the ground began to violently shake. The crystals that scattered around the entire forest sank under the earth and William rushed over to retrieve Alexander, who had been caught in the wave of crystals.


    James used this moment to breathe and give himself time to think. William¡¯s abilities allowed him to take long-range fights with ease, meaning his best bet would be to engage him in a close-range fight. However, William¡¯s wind astral prevented James from getting within striking distance. Closing his eyes for a second, James pondered what to do, and within seconds he formulated a plan. His eyes turned red once again and crystals formed around his body, repairing the armor that had been damaged. William, who had safely rescued his brother, turned back to face James.


    Putting one hand on the ground, the terrain began to change. Pillars and prisms began to form from the dirt and stone around him, all of them speeding towards James. James didn¡¯t move a muscle as a massive wall of crystals formed around him, protecting him from the attacks.


    James understood what Williams'' strategy in this fight was. As long as William held James back, he could win, so he would use the wind and earth to keep his distance until James runs out of energy and becomes unable to defend himself. However, something James noticed while he was being bombarded by the wind was that his sword, despite being hit many times, remained in perfect condition. Using this fact to his advantage, James raised his sword and rushed at William with blinding speed.


    At once, William summoned forth another powerful gust of wind, but this time, crystals protruded from the tip of James¡¯s blade, protecting him like a shield and deflecting the wind. The strategy worked perfectly and James was within striking distance.


    The second James withdrew his crystals and raised his blade to strike his brother, William''s left eye changed color again, going from brown to blue. Shards of ice suddenly arose from the ground in all directions leaving James with barely enough time to summon his crystal wall defense again.


    As James recovered, William backed away, creating a gap between him and his brother. Once again, William put his hands to the ground, this time summoning ice spikes all around his brother. James defended with crystals once again but this time, William saw through the defense and crashed his ice shards into James'' wall of crystals while simultaneously charging at his brother using the wind to propel his motion.


    William knew that with his strategy he was unbeatable, however, James¡¯ defense was stronger than he counted on. The only way to win this fight would be to destroy James¡¯ defense and deliver a killing blow before he can recover.


    As soon as WIlliam got within striking distance, he raised both hands in the air, and swords made of solid ice appeared at once. Before he could deliver the final blow, James recovered from William¡¯s previous assault and raised his own sword to defend.


    The two remained locked together in a clash for several moments until William finally released his trump card. His right eye changed from gray to brilliant orange and the swords of ice erupted in flames.


    James immediately backed off as the flames began to burn the exposed parts of his body, but William blitzed James once again. The two engaged in a glorious sword duel, with William slashing away, trying to use his swords to pry through James, and James blocking William¡¯s attacks while simultaneously suffering burns all over his body.


    With every strike that James blocked, the fire from William¡¯s swords burnt through parts of his armor. The duel lasted several moments, with both sides pouring all their strength into each swing. William kept his strong momentum up as he swung with killing intent, however, James found his opening. William¡¯s sword strikes landed in a pattern, and James simply waited for William to lift his swords up, which indicated a heavy attack.


    Mustering the last of his strength and pouring all his energy into his arms, James drove his sword through William''s stomach before he could deliver the blow.


    In the silence that followed, James gazed upon his brother, a pang of sorrow piercing through him. The weight of his actions, the finality of a bond severed by his own hand, settled heavy upon his soul. However, these thoughts quickly faded as he realized it was necessary. This was the path he had chosen for himself.


    This was the only way.


    James attempted to find a way out of the forest so that he could meet with the rest of his knights and recover. With the battle ensuing at full throttle, he would most likely be needed in order for his men to win. With the burns and injuries he had taken from his duel with William, he wasn¡¯t in the best shape to travel or fight anyone else.


    However, before James could figure out a way to escape, a thorn pierced his chest, cutting straight through his armor and crushing his heart. As James fell to the ground, coughing up blood, he saw Alexander limping towards William while clutching his chest.


    As James¡¯ vision became blurry, he reached a hand out to his brother, thinking back on everything that led to this moment.


    James: I promise you. One day, I will get you all back.


    And with that, James¡¯ vision went dark.

 Chapter 1: Purpose Part 1

    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.


    Mason: What... happened...?


    His limbs felt heavy, his body burning, as though his skin had been set aflame. The heat was unbearable, searing him from the inside out. Was he sick? No, this wasn¡¯t sickness... It felt worse. Much worse. For a moment, he wondered if he was still asleep. He had to be. This had to be some terrible dream.


    But then he blinked again, and his surroundings came into a focus. This wasn¡¯t his room. No soft mattress beneath him. No familiar walls. No... He was sitting¡ªsitting?¡ªin a narrow, damp alleyway. The rough, cold ground bit into his skin through his clothes. His mind reeled, trying to grasp at something, anything that made sense.


    Mason: A... kidnapping?


    It was the first thought that surfaced, weak and shaky. Someone had taken him, right? That¡¯s the only explanation. People get kidnapped all the time in movies. But where was the kidnapper? Shouldn¡¯t there be ropes or a blindfold? He tried to reach for his phone, but the moment he stretched his arm, every muscle in his body screamed, pain coursing through him like wildfire. He gasped, choking on the agony as if his flesh were melting under a burning stove.


    What the hell is going on?


    He rarely left the manor in the winter. He hated the cold, the way it bit into his skin, numbing him to the bone. And he had been home last night. Hadn¡¯t he? Yeah, he¡¯d gone to bed, snug and warm under his blankets in his room. There was no way he could have ended up outside. None of this made sense.


    The pain flared again, a hot, stabbing sensation that refused to let him think clearly. Mason lay still for a moment, the world around him spinning. His breath came in shallow gasps as he fought to make sense of what was happening. Stay calm, stay calm...


    But how do you stay calm when everything feels like it''s falling apart?


    Then, in the midst of his panic, things began to change. Slowly, like fog lifting after a storm. His vision cleared, sharpening.


    Oh. Oh, he could see now. That was good, right? His nose, which had been assaulted by that awful stench, cleared, and the burning in his body¡ªthe fire in his veins¡ªfaded away. Just like that. Gone. As if it had never been there in the first place.


    A strange, almost euphoric sense of relief washed over him, and for a split second, Mason thought maybe it really was all in his head. Maybe he¡¯d wake up, laugh about it later, and go back to normal life.


    Normal... That¡¯s what he wanted, wasn¡¯t it?


    But then, as his eyes finally took in the scene around him, the real source of the putrid smell hit him.


    Mason: Oh God...


    Lying at his feet were three grotesque, dead creatures. They weren¡¯t just animals, they were something... else. Twisted. Wrong.


    Their bodies were large, unnaturally large, like something out of one of those old monster movies he used to sneak into. Their fur¡ªif it could even be called that, was burnt, charred, with deep, jagged scratches running across their flesh. Spikes, unnatural and jagged, jutted out of their backs, twisting and curling in ways that made his stomach churn.


    The sudden, searing pain in his hand cut his thoughts short. He yelped, clutching his left hand as a burning, intense heat ripped through his palm.


    Was his hand melting? Was it going to fall off? He squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the worst, for his skin to slough away like wax under a flame.


    But when he opened his eyes again, what he saw was far worse than anything he could have imagined.


    He held the palm of his left hand out in front of him, and watched as a flame, black as night, danced across his palm.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Mason Heartson was found passed out in an alley on December 12th. Cold, alone, unconscious¡ªjust another boy who had wandered too far after a reckless night. That¡¯s what they said. That¡¯s what everyone assumed.


    Too much to drink, they whispered.


    Another rich kid with too much freedom and not enough sense. And maybe, just maybe, that would¡¯ve been easier to believe. But the truth? The truth was far less convenient.


    After all the tests, after every question, even after he told them everything¡ªno one listened. Not really. His parents, the doctors, the police, even his own mother, they all wrote it off as nonsense.


    And why wouldn¡¯t they?


    It sounded absurd, like something out of one of a comic or movie.


    Gabrielle Heartson: Whatever¡¯s on your mind, Mason, we¡¯re here. You know you can tell us anything, right? No judgments.


    No judgments. But the way she looked at him... her eyes, soft but distant, her voice too careful, like she was speaking to a fragile thing that might shatter under the weight of reality.


    She didn¡¯t believe him.


    Not really. And that stung. More than he wanted to admit. She was his mom. Wasn¡¯t she supposed to believe him no matter how crazy it sounded?


    It¡¯s fine. It¡¯s fine... Of course, she doesn¡¯t get it. No one would. If I were her, I wouldn¡¯t believe me either.


    But the hurt still simmered, a small burn in his chest that he couldn¡¯t quite shake. It was the same thing, over and over, people not believing him, brushing off what he knew was real, turning him into the punchline of some joke he wasn¡¯t in on. Maybe that¡¯s why he stopped explaining it. Stopped trying to convince them. They¡¯d already made up their minds.


    Lying in his hospital bed, the sterile white walls closing in, Mason felt the weight of their disbelief, heavier than any test result or doctor¡¯s conclusion. He nodded when his mother left, the barest movement, his throat tight. He didn¡¯t know if he could explain it to anyone. Not anymore.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Again.


    The thought barely registered before Mason felt his body slam against the unyielding wall of the gym. Pain shot through him like a live wire, rattling every bone and stealing the breath from his lungs.


    How¡ªhow did she do it so easily?


    His mind reeled, struggling to keep up with the ache and the humiliation as he slumped to the floor. But he forced himself to look up, to take in the maid¡¯s stance, calm and unbroken, like his effort was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.


    She tilted her head, her gaze softened with a distant concern.


    Maid: Young Master, perhaps that¡¯s enough for today


    Her voice even and measured, as though she hadn¡¯t just thrown him like a ragdoll.


    But Mason pushed himself to his feet, the dull throb in his limbs reminded him of how far he still had to go. He clenched his fists, forcing his breaths into a steady rhythm as he steadied his footing.


    Mason: Shut it.


    The words laced with defiance, his lips curling into a smug grin that didn¡¯t quite mask the frustration beneath it.


    Mason: I¡¯m not done yet.


    He forced himself into a low stance, feeling the tension in his legs, his muscles taut like over-wound springs. She didn¡¯t understand. He was pushing closer to something greater. And today, he¡¯d prove it.


    He lunged forward, launching himself at her with reckless abandon, the familiar burn of exertion spreading through his limbs. But she sidestepped with ease, her movements almost leisurely as she twisted out of his reach.


    Before he could react, her foot hooked behind his ankle, sweeping him off balance, and in a heartbeat, she had him pinned to the floor. He struggled, but her grip was  like iron.


    Mason¡¯s chest heaved as he lay on the cold ground, feeling the bruise blooming across his back where he¡¯d landed. A wry smile twisted his lips even as he winced.


    Mason: I¡¯m not stopping.


    The maid hesitated, her brows drawing together in a faint frown.


    Maid: Young Master, you¡¯ve pushed yourself enough these past days. There¡¯s no need to¡ª


    Mason: Enough talking!


    He didn¡¯t need her sympathy. His fists clenched tighter, knuckles whitening.


    With a grunt, he launched himself at her again, ignoring the sharp protests of his battered muscles. His vision narrowed, his focus tunneled on one thing¡ªto land a hit. This time, he moved faster, weaving, dodging.


    But she moved even faster, sidestepping his every strike with an ease deepened his gnawing frustration. Her counterattacks were fluid, even her blows were calculated to push him back without causing any real harm¡ªa reminder of the gap between them. He didn¡¯t care. Even as bruises blossomed along his arms and legs, even as his breath came in ragged gasps, he threw himself at her, inching closer each time, until¡ª


    Mason''s foot snagged on the edge of the mat, and his balance wavered, his own body betraying him in that crucial moment. The maid''s hand shot toward him, a blur of precision closing in fast. He braced, muscles tensed for the impact, but¡ª


    It never came.


    Mason blinked, his gaze lifting to see Claire, the ever-dutiful head maid, her expression as unreadable as ever, standing between him and his opponent, her hand raised having caught his opponents blow with ease.


    Claire turned her gaze down to him.


    Claire: Young Master, continuing would be pointless. This exercise serves no purpose if all it does is exhaust you.


    Mason struggled to his feet, his jaw clenched as he forced himself to stand tall, ignoring the ache that gnawed at his bones.


    Mason: I was doing just fine until you decided to interrupt.


    Her expression remained impassive as she met his gaze.


    Claire: If fine means blindly throwing yourself into failure, then yes, you were.


    The words stung, but he masked it with a defiant scowl, turning his back on her.


    What did she know?


    He muttered under his breath, though he wasn¡¯t sure if he was trying to convince her or himself.


    Mason: I¡¯m getting stronger. I¡¯ve improved. I know I have.


    But as he walked away, her words followed him, unrelenting.


    Claire: Arrogance dressed up as determination is just denial you know.


    He paused, his hand on the doorframe, but he didn¡¯t turn around.


    Claire: You want to prove yourself? Then learn patience. Right now, you¡¯re just fighting for the sake of fighting, swinging wildly, hoping something sticks. But true strength doesn¡¯t come from pretending.


    Mason pushed through the door.


    Claire: Arrogance only leads to hollow victories. Build a foundation before you stack all your pride on top of it, or you¡¯ll find yourself standing on nothing. Without that groundwork, failure becomes a pattern, a cycle you¡¯ll never break.


    He ignored her, letting the words slide over him like water, refusing to let them sink in. She was wrong. He knew he was getting stronger. He could feel it, each bruise, each ache was proof of the progress he¡¯d made.


    But as he stood under the stream of water, the sting of her words settled in, echoing louder than any physical pain.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Mason rubbed a towel through his damp curly blonde hair as he emerged from the bathroom, the steam trailing him like a mirage.


    He moved through his room¡ªif it could still be called that¡ªmore like a cluttered battlefield of half-formed ideas and discarded thoughts. His foot knocked into something solid, and he squinted down at a stack of old, glossy magazines, half-open on the floor, the pages crinkling under his weight. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    Dirty dishes cluttered the desk, bits of old food sticking to their edges, a smell just on the edge of unpleasant lingering in the air. Gadgets, long-forgotten projects, even wrinkled sketches of creatures with twisted bodies and flames sprouting from their skin, lay strewn across the room.


    He stepped carefully through the mess, hopping over a pile of old snacks, and finally reached his laptop, still open, screen littered with tabs and internet searches.


    Black flames, one read, followed by endless variations of ¡°mysterious alleyways¡± and ¡°unexplained creatures.¡± His fingers hovered over the mouse, and he shut the tabs one by one until he reached his email inbox.


    The unread message sat there like an accusation: Brentwood Graduation Ceremony. His school was moving on without him, leaving him behind without so much as a second glance. His classmates would be standing in their crisp, new gowns, receiving diplomas, shaking hands with faculty, taking photos with proud parents. They didn¡¯t care.


    Why should they?


    He stared at the email, feeling something sour and hot rise in his chest before he muttered under his breath.


    Mason: Who needs it?


    His voice sounded too loud in the quiet, an echo that felt false even to him. His gaze drifted to the cluttered room around him, and his lips twisted into a bitter smile. He could coast forever, couldn¡¯t he? Take it easy¡ªwho would care? Who¡¯d notice if he slipped off the map entirely, or if he stayed holed up here, buried under his piles of...nothing.


    But then, as the thought settled, a flicker of something colder twisted in his chest.


    Nah.


    He shut his eyes, almost willing himself to believe in the lazy comfort he was painting.


    No.


    The ache was sharper, pricking at him from somewhere deeper than his idle thoughts. He couldn¡¯t just vanish.


    He didn¡¯t want to.


    He closed the email, slamming the laptop shut with a flicker of irritation. It was fine. He¡¯d come up with something to tell the maids later if they asked. His parents wouldn¡¯t even bother.


    A knock on his door jolted him from his thoughts, echoing through the thick walls of his room. Mason flinched, stumbling back and landing knee-deep in the mess under his desk, his hand grazing against a half-finished sketch of something monstrous. He scrambled through the piles of clutter to the door, muttering curses under his breath as he pulled it open.


    The maid, in truth he couldn¡¯t remember which one, stood there, her face carefully blank but her eyes slipping past him, widening as she took in the disaster of his room. She seemed almost afraid to step closer, her gaze moving over the scattered articles, the drawings that looked as though they¡¯d been scratched out in desperation, the layers of dust settling over everything.


    Maid: Young Master. you¡¯ve been summoned downstairs. I¡¯m afraid the matter is urgent.


    Mason felt his stomach lurch. He didn¡¯t need to ask why.


    They must¡¯ve found out.


    His little habit of disappearing from classes had finally caught up to him. Still, he threw on an air of indifference, crossing his arms with a huff.


    Mason: I¡¯ll be down in a minute.


    But she wasn¡¯t finished. Her eyes flicked again to the room, and she added.


    Maid: Shall I call for a cleaning service, Young Master?


    The question struck him like an insult, his face flushing as he slammed the door shut with more force than he¡¯d meant to. He pressed his back against the wood, breathing hard, feeling the weight of her judgment hanging in the air. She was gone, but the shame lingered.


    He reached for a shirt¡ªa crumpled, worn one from a heap on the floor¡ªand tugged it on, barely bothering to smooth it out before he headed toward the staircase, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. He was still thinking about her look, that careful concern, the way she¡¯d regarded him as though he were a child in need of help.


    It burned.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    The familiar sound of his footsteps accompanied him as he descended the grand spiral staircase. The Heartson Manor stretched out below him, vast and opulent, every corner of it carefully crafted and polished. The grand chandelier hung like a frozen mound of diamonds, the lights glinting off the marble floors that shone under layers of polish.


    He walked slowly, his fingers trailing along the smooth wooden banister, but there was no comfort here. The polished wood and the gleaming surfaces seemed dull and lifeless.


    The manor was a beautiful cage, filled with the kinds of luxuries most people would envy. But it was a cage all the same, a hollow monument to a family that dealt in facts and figures, who saw the world in black and white, leaving no room for shadows.


    His hand combed through his hair, nervously smoothing out the strands as he tried to prepare himself for whatever lecture was coming his way. He mumbled under his breath, half-formulating excuses, half-wondering if he could spin some story to soften the blow.


    As he approached the foyer, his eyes found Claire and three other maids standing near the entrance, all poised and serious. His heart skipped, the thought of his cover being blown prickling his nerves. But the instant Claire spoke, her words derailed his spiraling thoughts entirely.


    Claire: Your parents, Gabrielle and Samuel Heartson, will be returning to the manor tonight.


    Mason froze, the carefully constructed excuses in his head dissolving instantly. For a beat, he could only stare, caught between surprise and bewilderment.


    What? They were coming back?


    Claire continued, her voice as steady as ever.


    Claire: They¡¯ll be gone for an extended period¡ªseveral more months than they¡¯d planned. Something¡¯s come up with their company. As such, they¡¯d like to have one more dinner with you before heading out.


    Mason blinked, trying to process this strange twist of news. Relief washed over him, realizing this was not the confrontation he¡¯d braced himself for, but his mind quickly filled with questions.


    What could be so important that it demanded their absence for months on end?


    Mason barely held back a scowl.


    What kind of parents leave for that long, anyway?


    He let out a short, annoyed sigh.


    Mason: Whatever.


    He muttered under his breath, a frown tugging at his face. But he barely got a few words in before Claire held up a hand, cutting him off mid-complaint.


    Claire: I''m not finished. Your parents will also be taking all of the manor¡¯s staff with them. Every maid, butler, and servant. They¡¯ll all be needed to attend to their needs while they¡¯re away.


    He blinked, his frustration giving way to confusion. The idea seemed bizarre, even for his parents¡¯ usual antics. Why would they need an entire household¡¯s worth of help for a business trip? What kind of company did they run that required such an entourage?


    But before he could delve into his questions, Claire continued.


    Claire: I¡¯ll be the only one remaining here. Of course my glorious self was entrusted to look after you in their absence.


    The room seemed to hang in silence. Mason¡¯s mind whirred with the strange implications of it all. He¡¯d never much cared about his family¡¯s business, never asked about the specifics of where all that wealth came from. And yet, a trip this... elaborate, one that took everyone, even the staff, was a curiosity he couldn¡¯t ignore.


    Still, he wasn¡¯t about to let Claire see any hint of curiosity or worry. He shrugged, tossing her a scoff and a roll of his eyes.


    Mason: It hardly makes a difference if you¡¯re here or not.


    He stepped past her with a forced smirk, aiming for the front door.


    Mason: In fact, I was planning to head out on my own today, anyway. So don¡¯t think I need any company.


    Claire didn¡¯t react, her expression as poised and unfazed as ever. Just as he reached for the door handle, her voice cut through the silence one last time.


    Claire: Oh, and one more thing.


    Her voice held a faint note of amusement, as though she¡¯d been waiting for this exact moment.


    Mason¡¯s hand hovered over the door, tension tightening his shoulders. He glanced back, and there was Claire, watching him with that knowing, almost infuriatingly calm smile.


    Claire: Perhaps you should worry less, and try controlling your heartbeat. You needn¡¯t be so worked up. I couldn¡¯t care less about your lack of a school diploma. But if you don¡¯t learn to hide that fear, it will catch up with you sooner or later.


    Mason¡¯s heart thudded painfully in his chest, his pulse betraying him even more under her perceptive gaze. For a moment, he could only stare, feeling exposed. Heat crept up his neck, and he yanked the door open, stumbling outside in a hasty bid to escape her piercing observation.


    The doors of the manor closed behind him, leaving him alone, but her words lingered, haunting him with their quiet precision. He scowled, pushing the thoughts away. It was just Claire being... Claire, he told himself.


    Mason stumbled his way down the winding forest path, branches snagging at his shirt, tugging at his unkempt hair. He pushed them away absentmindedly, his gaze fixed ahead, jaw clenched. As he neared the edge of the forest and stepped onto the street, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched as he merged into the city.


    His clothes, still wrinkled and a bit stained, felt conspicuously out of place here. And of course, he¡¯d barely run a comb through his hair; it stuck up in haphazard directions, catching glances from passersby. A girl and boy around his age walked by, laughing about something he couldn¡¯t hear, and he caught their quick glances.


    What are they laughing at?


    It¡¯s not like I care what people like them think.


    But despite himself, his gaze lingered on them a moment longer, the easy way they moved together, their hands brushing now and then. He felt a slight twinge and quickly shook it off, looking away.


    Just extras. They probably robably can¡¯t imagine anything beyond this place.


    His lips twisted into a smirk.


    The streets began to change as he continued his path. The city bright lights and well-dressed people gave way to cracked sidewalks, peeling walls, and faded shop fronts. A few people lingered by doorways, slouched on benches, some stretching out empty hands, eyes hollow and pleading. One man¡¯s hand reached toward Mason as he passed, a wordless request, but Mason barely gave him a second glance.


    What do they expect? If they have no direction, no purpose or reasoning, why bother at all?


    The thought left a strange taste in his mouth, but he pushed it down, walking faster as the distant hum of the city faded into silence. Ahead, the familiar alley loomed, looking just as it had every time he¡¯d come here.


    This alley, this one, was different.


    This was where it had all started.


    He crouched down, eyes scanning the cracked pavement, fingers tracing over it as if it might somehow reveal a clue he¡¯d missed before. His hand scraped against the cold ground, every corner of it as empty as the last time.


    Nothing.


    Just the same dirty, forgotten alley. A place as meaningless as all the others.


    His chest tightened, his fists clenching as he felt the anger boil up again. The creatures, the black flame, the proof of his purpose. The thought of them disappearing, of it all meaning nothing¡­


    Mason took a shuddering breath, trying to calm the twisting feeling in his gut. He couldn¡¯t let that idea creep in. This¡ªthis was real. It had to be. He held onto that thought, clinging to it with everything he had, even as the empty alley seemed to stare back at him, indifferent.


    Just then, a strange sensation crept over him, prickling at the back of his neck. He froze, his head snapping up. Something was wrong. His eyes darted upward, to the roof above. For a second, he caught what looked like a shadow, the faintest flicker of movement. Someone watching him? He stared hard, eyes narrowed, but there was nothing there, just the empty skyline and the faint hum of the distant city.


    He forced a laugh under his breath, trying to brush it off. But his heart pounded faster, and he felt his fists tighten again.


    Who¡¯d waste their time watching me, anyway?


    With a deep, shaky breath, he rose, brushing his hands off and forcing himself to turn away from the empty rooftop. The thought still lingered in the back of his mind, gnawing at him as he stuffed his hands back into his pockets, his footsteps echoing down the alleyway. Nothing here today, same as every other day he¡¯d come here.


    Today didn¡¯t produce any results so I¡¯ll just I¡¯ll just have to take it easy and relax for now.


    Tomorrow, I¡¯ll find something.


    Tomorrow.


    And so Mason Heartson shoved his hands into his pockets and began his march back down to the gates of the colorless Heartson Manor.


    Alone.


    Always alone.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Samuel Heartson: Claire tells me you¡¯ve been working hard


    Mason didn¡¯t bother looking up. He grinned as if the words bounced off him, shoveling food into his mouth, chewing slowly. It had been almost two months since his parents had bothered to sit down for dinner with him, and five months since the night that changed everything. The air between them was thin, stretched, like they were tiptoeing around something none of them wanted to acknowledge.


    Gabriella Heartson: What have you been doing lately dear?


    The question hung in the air longer than Mason liked. He considered his options, fingers twitching against the cold fork in his hand. He could tell the truth... but that seemed impossible now. He never liked lying to his parents¡ªdespite everything, they¡¯d never kept secrets from each other before.


    Before.


    Mason: Oh, just buried in homework, you know.


    He forced a casual shrug, the kind you give when you want someone to stop digging. His mother¡¯s eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of disbelief in her gaze. She always saw through him. But Mason couldn¡¯t meet her eyes. Not this time.


    He stabbed at his food, chewing with a deliberate slowness, hoping she wouldn¡¯t press further. His father¡¯s silence was heavy, Samuel¡¯s presence always felt like a shadow in the room. His mother, however, was persistent.


    Gabriella Heartson: Mason... it¡¯s the summer.


    There it was. The disbelief she didn¡¯t bother to hide. Summer. There was no homework.


    Mason: Yeah, well... just trying to get something off the ground, you know? It¡¯s not exactly going as planned.


    He heard the lie in his own voice, but he could convince himself it wasn¡¯t completely untrue. The black flame... figuring out what was going on with that counted as ¡°something,¡± didn¡¯t it? He was working on it, after all. The words tasted bitter, though, even to him.


    Gabriella: You know, if you''re having any trouble, you can always ask us for help sweetheart.


    Her hand stretched across the vast dining table, her fingers wrapping gently around Mason¡¯s arm. The touch was light but it felt wrong¡ªlike she was trying to ground him when he was already slipping away.


    Mason: I''m not a child anymore mom!


    He forced a playful tone, even flashing her a quick grin. But the smile didn¡¯t reach his eyes, and hers didn¡¯t return it. She looked at him with that same worried expression, and Mason¡¯s irritation grew. Why couldn¡¯t she just drop it?


    Gabriella: I know you''re not, we know, but still, your father and I are worried about you. First, we heard you stopped attending your classes last semester¡­


    Mason bit his lip and made a mental note to chew Claire out the next time he saw her.


    Gabriella: ¡­And then of course there was the incident in December.


    There it was.


    Mason: What does that have to do with anything!


    His voice was sharp, harsher than he intended, and he saw the way his mother flinched ever so slightly. Just a twitch of her fingers against his arm, but it was enough. Enough to make him realize.


    She was afraid.


    Gabriella: Your behavior has been odd these past few months and I just need to make sure everything is alright with you. You¡¯re our only child and you know we would do anything to keep you safe, so if there is anything bothering you, please tell us.


    Her voice was soft again, pleading, but all Mason could hear was the accusation beneath it. She didn¡¯t believe him. She never did. How could she ask him if something was bothering him?


    Mason: If you actually cared, maybe you¡¯d have tried to help me instead of leaving me in this place with nothing but servants to babysit me! Maybe if you took five minutes out of your precious day, you¡¯d know how I felt!


    Mason slammed his hands on the table and stood up.


    Mason: Do you have anything to add, father?


    Mason glared at his father who was now wearing an uncharacteristically grim expression on his face.


    His voice shook, his anger bubbling over, but Samuel didn¡¯t respond. He just shook his head, barely looking at Mason. Instead, he glanced toward his wife¡ªhis expression uncharacteristically grim, a shadow of something Mason couldn¡¯t place behind his eyes.


    It was subtle, just for a second, but the way they exchanged that look¡ª


    Mason¡¯s stomach churned. He didn¡¯t wait for an answer. He stomped up the stairs, the echoes of his footsteps bouncing off the walls of the manor. When he reached his room, he slammed the door behind him, the force of it rattling the frame.

 Chapter 2: Purpose Part 2

    Thomas knew he was in serious trouble as he peered at the amazing view below him.


    Despite the sixteen year old¡¯s distaste for America, he couldn¡¯t deny that from above, the country was simply beautiful in the nighttime. Shimmering lights shined from every window and building, creating the image of an entire city, living and breathing right below him. Each building, each light, contained another person, simply living their life. Each person had a loved one, a story, a life.


    For a brief moment, Thomas allowed himself to admire the scene. It was rare¡ªtoo rare, that he had the luxury of time to take in such beauty. And yet, as much as the lights below entranced him, his mind refused to settle. He wasn¡¯t here to admire the view. There was work to do. Important work. And when he finished he would have to deal with the consequences from his father.


    The city below seemed to darken, and in that moment, the world didn¡¯t feel beautiful at all.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Two months earlier.


    A harsh barked order dragged Thomas from his drifting thoughts back to the stuffy, cramped classroom.


    Professor: Mr. Hunter, perhaps you¡¯d care to actually attend class today?


    Thomas, seated near the back, shot the man a winning grin, giving a lazy salute in response. But in reality, he was only half there. Today was the last day of term, and he was already mentally halfway out the door. He had something big lined up, something that made all of this, the lectures, the exams, the endless rules, fade into background noise.


    As soon as class ended, he was off, sprinting down the hallway with a reckless abandon that had other students stumbling aside, some of them barely avoiding his path as he whipped past. He skidded around the corner, nearly plowing straight into two figures heading the opposite direction.


    ???: Whoa, watch it!


    The boy in front, Leo, grabbed Thomas by the shoulders, steadying him with a half-exasperated look.


    Leo: What are you, training for the Olympics?


    Thomas blinked, then burst out laughing.


    Thomas: Oi, didn¡¯t see you there, Leo! And Megan too!


    He scratched the back of his head, eyes closed in a mock-apologetic smile, before popping them open again with a mischievous glint.


    Thomas: Just call it¡­ ¡®speed coursework avoidance¡¯ training. Pretty sure I¡¯ll qualify for the finals.


    Megan raised an eyebrow, her mouth curving into an amused smirk.


    Megan: So, what¡¯s the plan now, Mister Speed Demon? Freedom¡¯s right there, don¡¯t you want to celebrate a bit?


    Thomas hesitated, glancing down at the phone clutched in his hand. A text flashed on the screen, one he¡¯d been waiting on for what felt like ages.


    Right. Just go.


    Thomas: I¡¯d love to, honestly.


    He said, giving them a dramatic sigh.


    Thomas: But I¡¯ve got¡­ you know, things. Very urgent, very mysterious things.


    He leaned closer, lowering his voice with a conspiratorial wink.


    Thomas: Dangerous things. Probably illegal. I¡¯d tell you more, but then I¡¯d have to¡­ well, you know.


    Leo rolled his eyes, crossing his arms with a knowing smirk.


    Leo: You¡¯re full of it, Thomas.


    Thomas: Completely. And proudly. But don¡¯t say I didn¡¯t warn you. I¡¯ll send you both postcards from the underworld.


    Leo and Megan shared a look, exasperated but undeniably amused. Leo threw an arm around Thomas¡¯s shoulders, leaning in as he said.


    Leo: At least let us in on it before you go gallivanting off on whatever adventure you think you¡¯re on. Let¡¯s do something stupid together, like we promised.


    Thomas laughed, peeling himself away.


    Thomas: Trust me, mate, this is the height of stupidity. But next time, yeah?


    And before they could respond, he spun on his heel, giving them a lazy salute as he took off once more, his laughter trailing behind him down the hall.


    There won¡¯t be a next time.


    Next year, his father would send him somewhere else. Probably somewhere further. He¡¯d never see them again.


    The smile lingered on his face as he left, though it dimmed a little.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    As Thomas arrived, huffing and puffing, he glanced around at his chosen meeting spot¡ªa dimly lit, abandoned garage on the far side of town, a place he¡¯d come across a while back but never expected to actually use.


    The lights overhead flickered, casting long, eerie shadows over the walls, making the space feel almost like it was breathing, as if it too knew how shady this meeting was. Clutching his suitcase tightly, he took a deep breath, steeling himself. His provisions were packed, his outfit switched to something a bit more ¡°business-professional,¡± and, most importantly, he¡¯d arrived just barely on time.


    As his footsteps thumped against the cold concrete floor, Thomas''s eyes fell on the man seated in front of him. He was alone, in the middle of the room, perched on a single foldable chair, an envelope resting in his lap. His small, gray hairs and wrinkled face gave him an air of weariness, but the look in his eyes was cold.


    Thomas: Real cozy. How are you today.


    The man didn¡¯t even blink. Instead, he looked at Thomas with a mixture of irritation and pity, as if he were watching a child about to touch a hot stove. Silence stretched out, thick and uncomfortable. Thomas fidgeted, the grin slipping ever so slightly from his face.


    Finally, the man spoke, his voice low and gravelly.


    Negotiator: You realize it¡¯s impolite to begin negotiations without a proper greeting?


    Thomas¡¯s heart thudded in his chest, his bravado wavering. He quickly straightened, forcing a bit more formality into his tone.


    Thomas: My apologies, Thomas Martin.


    The man stared at Thomas''s hand but made no move to shake it. Instead, he scoffed, his eyes narrowing.


    Negotiator: Showing up here alone, with that¡­is dangerous, especially for what you¡¯re here to get. What does a boy like you need with information like this?


    He nodded toward the suitcase Thomas clutched.


    Thomas: I¡¯m afraid that¡¯s not really any of your business is it?


    The man¡¯s eyes darkened, his lips curling into a frown.


    Negotiator: You truly don¡¯t understand a thing about negotiation, do you?


    Swallowing, Thomas let out a shaky breath, deciding to drop the pretense.


    Thomas: I need that envelope, I have things to do. People to help. Is that really such a crime?


    The man¡¯s lips twitched into a bitter smile.


    Negotiator: Helping people, is it? Tell yourself that if you want. But you¡¯re lying, and you know it. Beneath that noble nonsense, there¡¯s something more.


    Thomas: Maybe you just don¡¯t get the concept of nobility. Maybe that¡¯s why you¡¯re so set on tearing me down.


    The man let out a deep, rumbling laugh, as if Thomas had just told the world¡¯s funniest joke. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Negotiator: Boy, you haven¡¯t the faintest idea how this works.


    He shook his head, muttering something under his breath.


    Negotiator: Doesn¡¯t matter, I don¡¯t care what you do with it. I want my pay.


    Thomas: ¡ê10,000.


    Thomas said confidently, believing it more than fair. He waited for the man¡¯s nod, but instead, he got another scoff and a raised eyebrow.


    Negotiator: ¡ê50,000.


    The man replied smoothly, a faint, smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.


    Thomas froze, his mind racing. But he needed that envelope¡ªdesperately. He pushed down his pride, the anger simmering in his chest, and forced out the word he knew the man wanted to hear.


    Thomas:  Deal.


    The man¡¯s grin widened, dark amusement filling his eyes.


    Negotiator: Maybe I should¡¯ve asked for 100,000.


    Thomas¡¯s lip curled in irritation, but he didn¡¯t argue. He pulled out the briefcase, opening it to retrieve the necessary amount. As he counted, his focus broke as he heard a rustle of fabric. He barely had time to process before the man lunged, pressing a cold knife to Thomas¡¯s throat, his voice a low snarl.


    Negotiator: Last rule of negotiation, boy. Never walk in blind and alone.


    His grip tightened, eyes glittering with cruel satisfaction. He expected Thomas to panic, to beg. But Thomas¡¯s expression remained calm, his scowl barely shifting.


    Thomas: Who says I came alone?


    A sharp crack split the air, and the man screamed as a bullet tore through his arm. Blood spattered across the ground as he fell back, clutching his wounded limb, his face contorted in agony. As the man writhed on the floor, Thomas barely glanced his way, instead taking a measured step forward to grab the envelope, now within his reach.


    From above, a figure dropped down from the rafters, landing heavily beside him. The dark skinned girl looked barely older than Thomas, but there was something in her posture, her gaze, that was anything but youthful. Her arm, mechanical, glinting in the dim light, shifted back into place, the muzzle still smoking slightly from the shot.


    Thomas: Thank you, Olivia.


    Thomas said casually, as if they were simply wrapping up a transaction at a shop. His voice held no trace of fear, only quiet confidence.


    The man on the floor struggled to sit up, his eyes wild with terror as he took in the mechanical girl and her transformed arm. He could only manage a strangled gasp, horror distorting his features.


    Negotiator: What¡­ what are you?


    But Thomas didn¡¯t spare him a second glance, envelope now safely tucked under his arm. He turned back to the man, his tone formal, almost pleasant, as he gave a short bow.


    Thomas: And with that, our negotiation is complete. Thank you for your service.


    As he walked away, Olivia beside him, he didn¡¯t look back. The man¡¯s desperate curses followed him, but Thomas¡¯s mind was already on the envelope in his hand.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Thomas barely hid a scowl as he approached Hunter Tower, a looming fortress that seemed to drink in the London night rather than reflect it. The lights from other buildings were muted against its dark facade.


    ???: Ah, Mr. Hunter! Back so soon?


    A staff member at the front entrance greeted him with a too-wide smile, his eyes gleaming with a forced enthusiasm.


    Thomas raised an eyebrow and returned a slight smirk.


    Thomas: Missed me, did you?


    He continued his way through the lobby, meeting more smiles and nods, and, for each, he had a quip ready. But his mind was elsewhere, on the envelope in his pocket, on the burning questions that wouldn¡¯t let him rest. This was no time for banter.


    Finally, he and Olivia made their way to the elevator, only to find it already occupied. Zachary, the man in the wheelchair, raised an eyebrow when he saw them.


    Zachary: Thomas. Olivia. So, how did your little¡­ outing go?


    Thomas gave him a lopsided grin, trying to keep the mood light.


    Thomas: Olivia only had to fire one bullet this time. That¡¯s progress, isn¡¯t it?


    Zachary¡¯s frown deepened.


    Zachary: You take these situations too lightly, Thomas. You think just because you get through them unscathed, you¡¯re invincible.


    Thomas shrugged, unfazed.


    Thomas: Well, I¡¯ll be heading to my room. I have some information to go through.


    Zachary, however, wasn¡¯t done.


    Zachary: Before that, there¡¯s a letter from your father. He¡¯s expecting you. I can take you up myself, or you can go and see him directly.


    Thomas scoffed, making no attempt to hide his disdain.


    Thomas: As tempting as that is, I¡¯ll pass. Whatever the old man has to say, I doubt it¡¯s anything I¡¯d care to hear.


    Zachary watched him for a moment before sighing, letting the matter drop. Thomas pressed the button, and the elevator doors slid shut, whisking him and Olivia up through the dozen floors separating him from his study.


    Once they reached his floor, Thomas stepped into the hallway, his steps growing quieter as he neared his private study. The room felt like his only real sanctuary, a place where he could think, a place where everything made sense¡ªat least in comparison to the chaos that had taken over his life.


    Inside, he took a quick, appreciative glance at the meticulously organized shelves, each one lined with books, files, and supplies. No chaos here. This was his space, his order.


    He sat down at his desk and, almost reverently, unfolded the envelope. As he read, his eyes widened, absorbing the details for his newest investigation.


    Game start.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Thomas''s investigation began with the painstaking task of combing through police reports, autopsy findings, and witness statements. Each victim bore peculiar, localized burn marks¡ªa detail both intriguing and baffling.


    Burn marks¡­ but no cause. How?


    Forensics had no answers. No logical explanation. But Thomas knew better than to rely solely on logic. He wasn¡¯t the brightest, no¡ªbut he was relentless.


    Weeks of investigation turned up little in the way of leads. The breakthrough came unexpectedly one late, coffee-fueled night at his cluttered desk. Sifting through the witness statements again, Thomas noticed a pattern he had previously overlooked. Somehow, most victims had been reported wearing some sort of distinctive golden watch with various patterns.


    He dug deeper into the history of the watch, tracing its origins and previous owners, but each trail ended as it began. Frustrated but undeterred, Thomas expanded his search, reaching out to contacts within the antiques and collectibles world, but still nothing.


    As weeks turned into months, Thomas''s obsession with the case grew. He attended estate sales, auctions, and collectors'' shows, hoping to find anything related to the watch or its mysterious effects. His father¡¯s estate became a maze of boxes filled with notes, photographs, and artifacts.


    The investigation''s slow pace was a source of frustration for Thomas, accustomed to more straightforward cases. Yet, he couldn''t shake the feeling that he was on the brink of uncovering something monumental.


    Were the people with the golden watches being targeted?


    Were the watches some kind of curse?


    Was this some kind of suicidal cult?


    All these questions, however, seemed to be useless as he couldn¡¯t seem to find anything else about the flame victims. All records of their names, identities, or lives seemed to have been erased from the internet. It was as if they had never existed, or as if someone was trying to make it look like they had never existed. Thomas knew a challenge when he saw one, and decided to work even harder to crack this case.


    After nearly two months, however, Thomas began to lose hope. Each lead or clue he found seemed to lead to a dead end, and with nothing to go off, it would be almost impossible to find out the cause of the deaths, especially considering his victims were in an entirely different country.


    And then, one morning, as the early light filtered through his window, it came to him on his computer screen.


    The breakthrough he¡¯d been waiting for.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Olivia: You know John will have your head for this when he finds out you¡¯re gone.


    As Thomas finished the preparations for his trip, he thought about the consequences of his actions and shuddered. The only person he felt he could tell about his plan was Olivia Violet, partly because he knew she would try to talk sense into him, and partly because he knew even if she didn¡¯t support his plan, she wouldn¡¯t stop him.


    Thomas: I don¡¯t care what my father does, this is way more important than whatever boarding school he wants to send me to.


    Olivia: I know you want to help people but there are other ways besides this. I mean, if what you discovered is actually real, you could be dealing with some extremely dangerous junk you know. Did it ever occur to you that the lot who sent the message are the ones behind the string of mysterious deaths?


    Thomas didn¡¯t answer for a while, instead staring intently at the briefcase packed in front of him. He knew that this would be a huge risk, and he knew that he didn¡¯t want to die. The idea of simply passing from existence terrified him more than most else.


    But sitting by¡ªdoing nothing¡ªwasn¡¯t an option. He couldn¡¯t just wait around for someone else to figure it out. How could he?


    Thomas: You know, Violet¡­ I¡¯ve been thinking a lot lately. I¡¯ve had everything handed to me. A cushy life, fancy schools, and I still managed to find a way to screw it all up.


    Olivia: I-


    He scratched the back of his neck, his grin fading slightly but still present, like he was trying to keep the mood light despite the gravity of the situation.


    Thomas: And now, here I am, chasing something I can barely wrap my head around. I mean, it¡¯s not like I woke up one day thinking, ¡®Hey, wouldn¡¯t it be cool to risk my life in another country?¡¯ But if I don¡¯t... then what¡¯s left?


    His voice dropped slightly, the humor thinning out as his words turned more serious, but the absurdity of the situation wasn¡¯t lost on him. He gave a small shrug.


    Thomas: Honestly, if my life were a movie, I¡¯d be the guy in the background who trips over his own feet during a big chase scene. I know I¡¯m not some hero. I know I¡¯m probably going to screw this up.  But... if there¡¯s one thing I can do, just one thing, it¡¯s this.


    He exhaled, his smile softening but still there, like a layer of armor against the doubt trying to creep in.


    Thomas: I¡¯m scared, Olivia. Terrified, actually. But if I turn my back on this¡ªon the one thing I can do, the one thing that scares me most¡ªI¡¯ll never be able to live with myself.


    Olivia:-


    Thomas: And besides¡­


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    As Thomas stared through the plane window he thought about the last few months of his life. He had spent so much time and effort focusing on this case. Perhaps the deaths were merely a coincidence.


    Logically, the deaths didn¡¯t even make sense and seemed like something straight out of fiction. Thomas considered just reporting the findings to the police, wondering if this was simply something bigger than him, but he dismissed these thoughts at once.


    He wasn¡¯t doing this to have fun or to joke around. Because he knew about the horrors that awaited him in this city, it was his responsibility to stop them. Even if nobody believed in the story about the black flame, he knew it was real, and was determined to get to the bottom of it.


    This was his purpose.


    To save Mason Heartson.

 Chapter 3: Feast for Those Unworthy

    Patience had always been the virtue Mason struggled with most. The idea of waiting weeks¡ªactual weeks¡ªfor something that could potentially change the trajectory of his entire life? It made him want to stab a needle straight through his eyes.


    Claire: Mason, are we absolutely certain this was our best move? I''m here to ensure your safety, per your family''s instructions, and inviting unknown elements into our home seems... counterintuitive.


    He rolled his eyes, biting back a sarcastic retort. It wasn¡¯t worth the headache. Leave it to Claire to turn an already miserable experience into outright torture.


    Mason: Frankly, Claire, I''d wager my parents would prefer an unexpected guest over their son turning into a human torch at the dinner table


    He smirked at his own remark, though Claire¡¯s lack of reaction made it fall flat. As always. She sighed¡ªsoftly, but just loud enough for Mason to catch it and feel that familiar sting of annoyance. She didn¡¯t believe him. None of them did. He knew that. But that just made him more determined to prove her wrong.


    Claire: I still don¡¯t believe this is smart. At the current moment, all of the maids have gone with your parents leaving only me in the household. If this ¡°guest¡± turns out to be a threat, the only defense we¡¯ll have is us. More than that, how do you expect a normal person to know how to deal with whatever ¡°issue¡± you seem to be having?


    Ah, there it is. The classic ¡®this is all in your head¡¯ undertone.


    He had to fight back a laugh. Claire¡¯s calm, deliberate way of dismantling his reasoning always got under his skin, but today? Today, he wouldn¡¯t let her win.


    Mason: Look, Claire, you and I have been preparing for situations like this for years. We can handle ourselves if things go south, and this guy¡ªhe¡¯s seen things like this before. Strange animals, weird flames. He¡¯s been on this trail for as long as I have and he''s never even met me so he knows I¡¯m not making this all up.


    He finished with a self-satisfied nod, as if that should have settled the matter. But Claire, as usual, was unimpressed. Her eyebrow lifted slightly, but the rest of her face remained unreadable.


    Of course.


    Claire: I don¡¯t recall ever saying that you were making this up, did I? I simply doubt that a random stranger from across the world will be able to make any more sense of this than you, if I¡¯m being honest.


    This left Mason temporarily stunned as he hadn¡¯t expected Claire to believe him. Once again, Mason grew frustrated at the young maid for stumping him, but before he could come up with a comeback there was a loud knock on the door.


    Mason: Finally!


    At once Mason got to his feet and rushed to the door, completely forgetting his argument with Claire. After weeks of anticipation, the man he had been waiting for was here.


    He flung open the door, half-expecting some grizzled, old man¡ªmaybe with a cane, a cigar, that seasoned detective vibe. Or maybe a younger man, muscular, the kind who¡¯d storm in and solve everything in one fell swoop. What he got was... a boy.


    ???: Thomas Martin at your service.


    Thomas stood at the door, his attire an impeccable Italian suit, extending a hand more confidently than Mason had anticipated from someone so young.


    Mason quickly gave the boy a second look, wondering if he had simply imagined him and the real client hadn¡¯t arrived yet, but still, the boy remained on the front steps of the manor, with his hand waiting, still, for the handshake that wasn¡¯t coming.


    You¡¯ve got to be kidding me.


    The boy was clearly Asian, however he had a thick European accent, most likely British, with short oily black hair that barely came down to his ears. He looked to be about fifteen, maybe sixteen at most, with pale skin, as if he hadn¡¯t seen sunlight in days, but he had a confident look in his eyes as if he was much older than he appeared.


    Mason: This must be a mistake. You must be at the wrong manor kid.


    Thomas¡¯s smile faltered for a brief moment, but he stood tall, lowering his hand slowly.


    Thomas: I read your message thoroughly and I truly believe I can help you sir. Despite my appearance-


    Mason: Of course, it makes sense doesn¡¯t it? The only person on the planet who believes me is some kid, fresh out of middle school.


    At this, Thomas dropped his professional attitude and glared at the boy in front of him.


    Thomas: That¡¯s rich coming from someone who barely looks older than me huh? How spoiled do you have to be to ask for help and then insult the person who''s actually willing to help you?


    Mason: Well maybe I wouldn¡¯t be insulting you if you were who you said you were, you little brat. I don¡¯t have time to play make-believe.


    Thomas: Seriously? You think I''d jet over from across the Atlantic to  ¡°play make-believe¡± without actually knowing how serious your issue is? How about a little gratitude?


    Mason: What the hell do you mean by that you little-


    Before Mason could finish his sentence, he was hit across the top of the head by the female maid who had appeared behind him.


    Claire: Please excuse my foolish young master. I appreciate you taking the time to come here, Thomas.


    Thomas blinked, the irritation in his eyes fading slightly as Claire extended her hand to him. He hesitated for a moment, then shook it, though the flush on his cheeks betrayed his embarrassment.


    Great, now he''s flirting with the help. This just gets better.


    After deciding that the boy was harmless, Claire quickly led him inside, while Mason followed behind, sulking and muttering to himself occasionally.


    Claire: Make yourself comfortable while I prepare lunch for the two of you. Mason can fill you in on the situation while the two of you wait.


    And with that, Claire dashed out of the dining room, leaving the two boys alone.


    Fantastic. Just fantastic.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Mason: Alright. What''s your real deal with these flames, kid?


    Patience. Control.


    He needed Mason to take him seriously


    Thomas: This isn¡¯t the first time mysterious flames have appeared in this city. Believe it or not, you''re not as unique as you fancy yourself to be.


    Let him chew on that.


    Thomas crossed his arms, clearly agitated at being called a kid. Mason on the other hand decided to ignore the insults, curious as to what information Thomas had about his circumstances.


    Mason: If this has happened to other people, why haven¡¯t I¡ªor anyone else for that matter¡ªheard of people like this before?


    Thomas: Because someone, or a group of people, are working very hard to keep it that way. Every lead I¡¯ve chased has been shut down. Every. Single. One. Until now.


    Mason: So you¡¯re telling me I¡¯m the first person you¡¯ve actually seen with my problem? I thought you said you had experience dealing with this!


    Of course he¡¯d zero in on that.


    Thomas: Maybe I stretched the truth a tad. But I had to make sure you''d-.


    Mason: So you lied about your age, lied about your qualifications¡ªwhat else are you lying about, huh? Can you actually do anything at all?


    Thomas: I had to lie in order to make su-


    Mason: I don¡¯t give a damn about any half-baked excuse you have Tom! Why don¡¯t you go to one of those other people instead of wasting my-


    Thomas: That would be an option, if they weren''t all dead.


    The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Mason immediately became pale as the realization of what Thomas had just said hit him.


    Mason: You don¡¯t mean-


    Thomas: For over a century in this city, numerous individuals have been found with unexplained burns and scars, and every one of them, without fail, has ended up dead.


    Mason¡¯s eyes widened, and Thomas could see the panic building behind them. He reached for his water like a lifeline, gulping it down as though it could drown the sudden terror rising in his throat.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Mason: How much time do I-


    Thomas: No.


    Mason: What do you me-


    Thomas: For the past 150 years, people have been dying from the same problem you currently have. While that may be true, it¡¯s uncertain if the flames are the cause of death or if there¡¯s something more. If the cause of death is some outside influence, and you haven¡¯t been killed since you discovered the flames, there¡¯s still a chance that we can prevent your death before it happens. And besides, you have something that none of the other victims have had.


    Mason: What would that be?


    Thomas: Me, you prideful prick. Even if you are the most irritating bastard I¡¯ve ever met, I¡¯m not about to let you die.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    It didn¡¯t take long for Claire to finish preparing lunch, which was a relief for Thomas. Partly because he couldn¡¯t stand being alone with Mason for much longer¡ªhis superiority complex could fill the room with its own oxygen supply¡ªbut mostly because he hadn¡¯t had a decent meal since flying over to the manor.


    That, and the airplane food might have been sent to poison his very soul. At least that was his working theory.


    But when Claire laid out the feast before them, Thomas stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide as he took in the mountain of dishes.


    Platters upon platters of food were piled across the table: sandwiches, chicken, steak, pasta, soups, lasagna¡ªit was like someone had robbed a five-star hotel¡¯s entire kitchen and brought it here just to show him what real food looked like.


    Thomas: How on earth did you have time to cook all of this? You¡¯re not a sorcerer?


    Claire laughed lightly at the expression on his face, the small bit of drool threatening to escape from his lips. But she didn¡¯t answer him, instead turning to Mason, who had already begun tearing into the chicken like a starved man who hadn¡¯t eaten in days.


    With a sharp thwack from the wooden spoon, she hit Mason¡¯s hand before he could grab another drumstick.


    Claire: Before you begin eating, we need to discuss with our guest the exact situation, to see and understand what he knows.


    Mason: Wreee, it¡¯shh nnrotha¡ª


    Another thwack, this time to Mason¡¯s head, leaving him to glare at Claire while rubbing the sore spot.


    Claire: And for heaven''s sake, finish chewing before you start talking, you barbarian.


    Thomas had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as Mason gulped down his food, his cheeks flushing red.


    Mason: Well, there¡¯s not much to talk about really. I told you everything in my message, but for the sake of this conversation, I¡¯ll give you the highlights. I woke up outside the manor back in December with no memory of how I got there. Around me were some... deformed animals, dead. And on the palm of my hand was a black flame. Then, I passed out. That¡¯s it.


    Thomas studied Mason carefully as he relayed the events, noting the tone of skepticism in his voice. It wasn¡¯t just the words¡ªit was the challenge in Mason¡¯s eyes, as if he didn¡¯t expect anyone to take him seriously.


    You don¡¯t get to doubt your own story when I¡¯m the one trying to make sense of this circus.


    Thomas: Were you alone that night? No chance someone led you out?


    Claire: I checked the mansion several times after Mason was found. Every entrance was locked, every security camera was working. The only footage we have shows Mason leaving through the window in his room, but he claims¡ª


    Mason: I didn¡¯t jump out the window! I swear, I was asleep the whole night.


    Thomas paused, tapping his chin in thought.


    Thomas: So if Claire swears she saw you leave through the window, and you swear that you were asleep the whole time, that leaves us with three possible options doesn¡¯t it? One-


    He raised a single finger while looking at the two people in front of him.


    Thomas:  One of you is lying, or at least not telling the whole truth about what happened that night.


    Mason: I¡¯m telling you everything that happened that night. I swear I wouldn¡¯t lie about something like this.


    Claire remained quiet, but Thomas noticed her eyes harden slightly. Yep, she didn¡¯t appreciate being lumped into that theory.


    Thomas: Not very likely, I admit. I can¡¯t see a reason why either of you would lie, unless one of you is secretly part of a shadow organization bent on world domination... but that¡¯s a discussion for another time. Actually, that sounds like a plot I¡¯d read in a cheap detective novel.


    Mason threw a puzzled look to Clair.


    Reaching for a potato that was near his plate, Thomas raised his hand again, this time displaying two fingers. Mason began to protest, but Claire silenced him so that Thomas could continue.


    Thomas: Option two: You were sleepwalking. Maybe you climbed out of the window without realizing it.


    Before Mason could start talking, Thomas raised his hand and continued.


    Thomas: Again, this is pretty unlikely, as I doubt you just happened to end up in an alley that was connected to those strange animals.I think it¡¯s safe to say this isn¡¯t the case either.


    Thomas put his hands down again, taking a sip from his cup of water and reaching over for a small piece of lasagna with his fork. After chewing for a few seconds, he raised his hands again, this time holding up three fingers.


    Thomas: This brings us to option 3. Someone or something controlled you that night and forced you to go into that alley.


    Mason: What do you mean controlled me? Like some kind of mind control? I thought you said you understood this was serious.


    Thomas: I¡¯m aware. It¡¯s only the second most ridiculous thing on the list. But here¡¯s the thing: We¡¯re dealing with an unknown. And when you¡¯re dealing with unknowns, the rules we know don¡¯t always apply. We have to be open to all possibilities. Even if they sound like the plot of a bad sci-fi flick.


    Mason looked at Claire, however she was looking down at the table, a blank expression on her face. Mason could tell she was trying to hide her emotions, which frustrated him because she  happened to be great at that.


    Thomas: For now, I need you to tell me everything. Every detail, no matter how small. Have you come into contact with anything strange recently? Specifically, have you seen or touched a golden watch?


    Mason: A... watch? No. What are you talking about?


    Of course not. Why would anything be that easy?


    Thomas: Most victims with burns were reported to have this watch on them, at least at the time of death. I assumed you would have had it the same as them, but I reckon-


    Mason: You¡¯re making assumptions again. For all you know, this has nothing to do with your other cases. You could be barking up the wrong tree entirely.


    Thomas: I considered that possibility before I got on the plane. But before I came here, I did some digging on my own. Are you familiar with Harrison Stager?


    Mason: Who?


    Claire cut in before Mason could say something snarky.


    Claire: Have you been living under a rock? Harrison Stager owns one of the biggest biomedical companies on the planet. The innovations his company has accomplished are second, only to that of Adrian Levere, or at least was until Adrian-


    Thomas: Went completely insane.


    Claire nodded, but Mason looked even more confused.


    Mason: What does this have to do with anything?


    Thomas: So, there''s this employee of Harrison Stager, the main secretary, Margarett. It took a while for me to find out about her, and even longer for me to secure an interview online with her. She told me about something eerie, similar to what you''ve gone through. There was this guy, a complete mystery, who just happened to be situated right outside Stager¡¯s main office building with absolutely no clue how he had arrived in that location. He reached out to Margarett for help, knowing she worked at the place, but by the time she got to him, it was too late. The man was dead, covered in burn marks, but not just any burns. On his body, there were small white flames.


    He paused, ensuring his listeners were keeping up.


    Thomas: What''s weird is, Margarett noticed these flames vanished before the ambulance even arrived. And like all the others we''ve heard about, he was wearing this golden watch, identical to the ones mentioned in other cases. Afterward, Margarett claimed she¡¯s been being followed. In the papers there was no report about the cause of death for this man or even the circumstances around it. She feared for her own life and was reluctant to even share any of that information with me.


    Mason: So the flames were white instead of black? What¡¯s the connection between the different colors of flames?


    Thomas: No clue, although the fact that you don¡¯t have the same watch as the others could hint at a reason for the change in flame color.


    Claire: The only thing that I can think of that can cause a black flame is some kind of chemical reaction that changes the properties of the flame.


    Mason: So you think I have some chemicals in me or something?


    Thomas: That seems awfully random, don¡¯t you think? You¡¯re thinking too scientifically when we¡¯re dealing with multiple cases of spontaneous combustion. I doubt the solution is something so logical.


    Claire became visibly upset at her idea being shut down.


    Claire: Thomas... don¡¯t you think you¡¯re relying on too many unconfirmed reports. This information sounds shaky.


    Thomas: Of course it¡¯s shaky. Like I said, we¡¯re dealing with invisible flames, mind control and spontaneous combustion. There¡¯s no scientific explanation for it, and yet here we are. And trust me, I¡¯m not going to sit here and wait for the ¡®ghost of logical conclusions¡¯ to bless me with all the answers.


    Claire: That¡¯s... not a thing.


    Thomas: Exactly! Which is why I¡¯m doing my own digging.


    Before Claire could respond, there was a sudden, loud bang at the door. The kind of bang that said, someone wasn¡¯t knocking, they were trying to break through the entire building.


    Thomas: Expecting anyone else today?


    Claire: No.


    Her expression shifted instantly, sharpening into something far more serious. The change was so fast, it made Thomas¡¯ stomach knot. He followed her gaze to the front door, just in time to hear another loud bang, followed by the unmistakable sound of shattering glass. The window nearest to the dining hall exploded inward, sending shards flying as a small, spherical object hurtled into the room.


    Claire: Get down!


    The words barely registered before the object imploded, releasing a thick, choking gas that rapidly consumed the room. The smoke was everywhere, filling the air, blotting out their vision. This wasn¡¯t just a break-in.


    This was an attack.


    Claire: Both of you. Upstairs! Now!


    Thomas didn¡¯t need to be told twice. He barely caught a glimpse of Mason, already halfway up the manor¡¯s grand staircase, and sprinted after him. Claire lingered behind for a second, scanning the smoke-filled room for any sign of their attackers, but more windows shattered with ear-splitting crashes, filling the air with more smoke grenades.


    BOOM!


    Another crash echoed through the manor¡ªthis one from the front door. It rattled the entire house, and the crude pounding continued, each blow coming harder than the last.


    CLASH!


    The front door gave way with a final, sickening snap, the sound of wood splintering as it was ripped off its hinges. Claire gave up her attempts to see through the smoke and bolted up the stairs to catch up to the boys.


    Mason: There¡¯s a safe room just this way! Follow me!


    They sprinted through the winding corridors, Mason leading the way with the kind of confidence only someone who had lived in luxury his entire life could have. Thomas was just barely keeping up, his lungs burning.


    Just a little bit further


    Then, a deafening crash erupted from one of the upstairs windows. Glass exploded inward as a blast of concussive force knocked both boys off their feet, sending them sprawling onto the ground. Pain shot through Thomas¡¯ side as he hit the floor hard, the breath knocked clean out of his lungs. Dazed, he forced his eyes open just in time to see several figures climbing through the shattered window.


    Despite the fear gnawing at his insides, Thomas couldn¡¯t help the surge of frustration bubbling up. Everything had gone from bad to catastrophic in a matter of seconds. But Mason¡ªMason, for all his bluster and arrogance¡ªwas frozen, his eyes wide, panic clear on his face.


    Figure 1: Hand over Mason Heartson.

 Chapter 4: Smokescreen

    Figure 1: Hand over Mason Heartson.


    The two boys stared in horror as the masked assailants stood over them with their hands out. Three men in total, each one an armored giant, at least six feet tall or more.


    Weapons, far too many weapons, adorned their bodies like ornaments. The one standing in front had two swords strapped to his back, while the other two were armed to the teeth with knives, rifles, and all sorts of sharp, menacing tools that screamed violence.


    Figure 1: I¡¯m going to ask one more time. Hand over Mason Heartson.


    The voice cut through Mason¡¯s mind, sending a jolt of terror through his body. His name. They knew his name.


    His throat went dry. He opened his mouth to speak, the words tumbling out in a shaky, desperate attempt to diffuse the situation.


    Mason: Look, we can¡ªmaybe we can work something out...


    Figure 1: Don¡¯t play games!


    His words were venomous, the low growl of a predator toying with its prey. He took a step forward, swords unsheathed, their blades gleaming wickedly as he closed in.


    Mason¡¯s heart pounded in his chest, the rapid thud of panic vibrating through his entire body.


    He¡¯s going to kill us.


    The thought screamed through his mind, louder than the approaching footsteps. He didn¡¯t know what to do¡ªrun, fight, beg¡ªbut none of it mattered.


    I¡¯m going to die.


    The man got within five feet of the boys but before he could take another step forward he halted and looked down, noticing the sword that had pierced through his own chest.


    Claire gritted her teeth as she pulled the sword out of the first man and quickly swung it around to cut off his head cleanly. The other two men seemed to have been momentarily stunned but they quickly recovered and pulled out their own weapons, hurriedly advancing to avenge their comrade.


    Claire made quick work, sidestepping the second man''s knife and using her sword to cut into his right arm causing him to drop his weapon. Before she could deliver a killing blow to him, the third man charged at her but Claire was much faster, moving out of the way of his attack and driving her sword up his back causing him to fall to the ground.


    The man with the injured arm attempted to recover and picked up his knife with his left hand, however it was clear he was nowhere near as proficient with that hand as his swings became lazy and predictable. Claire dodged his attacks with minimals effort and drove her sword straight through his neck, killing him instantly.


    Mason stood frozen, his mind racing, unable to process the scene in front of him. His body trembled, not from fear, but from the sheer shock of what he had just witnessed. Claire¡ªhis calm, composed, ever-reliable maid¡ªhad just slaughtered three armed men with the ease of someone folding laundry.


    Mason: C-Claire... how did you...?


    But Claire didn¡¯t even glance his way.


    She moved with purpose, her eyes cold and focused as she turned towards Thomas. In a flash, her blade was at his throat, pinning him against the wall.


    Claire: Who are you really?


    Her voice was calm, unnervingly so, but there was an intensity in her gaze that made Mason¡¯s skin crawl. Thomas, eyes wide with shock, gasped as the blade pressed harder against his neck.


    Claire: Did you lure them here?


    Thomas struggled to breathe, his voice barely a rasp.


    Thomas: I¡ªI didn¡¯t... I swear!


    Claire: Do you know who these men are or why they¡¯re here?


    Thomas once again shook his head, looking directly into Claire¡¯s eyes to try to convince her he was telling the truth.


    Claire: Are you really Thomas Martin, and was your sole purpose in coming to this city to actually help Mason Heartson?


    Thomas nodded up and down, his eyes beginning to water as he began losing more and more oxygen.


    Claire¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change, her eyes searching his face for any sign of deceit. After what felt like an eternity, she slowly lowered the sword, stepping back but not taking her eyes off him.


    Thomas collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, his hands clutching at his throat where the blade had been moments before. Mason felt a strange knot of guilt twist in his stomach, but before he could speak, Claire turned her sharp gaze to him.


    Claire: Your message. It must have been intercepted.


    Mason: I- I swear I didn¡¯t-


    Claire: No excuses. We need to move to the safe room. Now.


    Mason nodded, his throat once again becoming dry. He was hit with an overwhelming amount of guilt and shame as he realized that his own stupidity had almost led to his death, as well as the death of a complete stranger.


    He rushed to follow Claire, who was already running to the safe room, but he noticed, strangely, Thomas, who was still staring at the bodies that were on the floor while clawing at the spot on his neck that had been choked moments earlier. Thomas bent down and picked something up off the body of a fallen soldier, and then sprinted towards Mason and Claire, attempting to catch up to the two of them.


    Explosions and smoke rang out through the entire building, leaving a foul smell in the group''s nose. Despite the smoke that limited their vision, Claire still marched forward as if she had a perfect view of the room.


    Finally, after what seemed like a marathon of sprinting, they finally arrived outside the room where the smoke seemed to clear up. Unfortunately this allowed them to see exactly what was in front of them.


    At least twenty men stood in front of the safe room, each one carrying a rifle aimed right at them. All of them were equipped with armor and an assortment of weapons like the men from earlier.


    Armored Man: Surrender Mason Heartson to us now and we¡¯ll spare your lives.


    Claire: Is that supposed to comfort us?


    The man who had spoken paused for a second considering the question before answering.


    Claire: Didn¡¯t think so.


    In a single fluid motion Claire took Mason and Thomas by the back of their shirts and dragged them into the thick cloud of smoke behind them, shielding them from the view of their attackers.


    The men instantly began firing blindly through the smoke until a loud voice rang out.


    Voice: WE HAVE CLEAR ORDERS! DO NOT SHOOT THE ASTRAL USER!


    The gun fire stopped as abruptly as it had begun giving Mason, Claire, and Thomas time to escape through the corridor.


    Claire: They¡¯ve completely taken over downstairs so we can¡¯t go back there. They were guarding the safe room so chances are they have the layout, or some kind of blueprint to the mansion so I¡¯d assume every room and escape is being heavily guarded.


    Without uttering another word, the message was clear to both boys. If the assailants were knowledgeable about the mansion''s layout, escaping or finding a hiding spot within it was impossible.


    Mason¡¯s breath hitched, panic clawing at his throat as the reality of the situation crashed down on him like a tidal wave.


    Is this it? Is this how I die?


    His heart pounded in his chest, the sound deafening in his ears as the walls seemed to close in around him. Claire was strong, frighteningly so¡ªbut there were too many. Too many for her, too many for them all.


    His mind raced back to that moment when he had been cornered, his body freezing up despite all the training he¡¯d endured. All of it, worthless. When it mattered most, he had crumbled, locked in place by fear. He felt his stomach churn at the memory, a wave of nausea mixing with the growing terror that now rooted him to the spot.


    If we can¡¯t get out... if I can¡¯t fight... then I¡¯m useless. And I¡¯m going to die.


    The thought echoed endlessly, each repetition suffocating him more than the last.


    The Roof


    A voice in Mason¡¯s head spoke as if it wasn¡¯t his own, and instantly Mason remembered an important secret about his house.


    Mason: Claire, I have an idea.


    Claire: This isn¡¯t the time-


    Mason: Just listen to me Claire. Like you said earlier, whoevers attacking us probably has some kind of layout of the whole mansion right. That means that every exit is most likely being guarded right now. Well that doesn¡¯t take into account any man made exits that might exist in this mansion, as those wouldn¡¯t be on the blueprints right?


    Claire: What are you saying?


    Mason: You remember when I was fifteen and got busted for sneaking out late at night to catch that movie?


    Claire: I fail to see how this is relevant.


    Mason: Just... bear with me, alright? You remember how you and Mom spent hours¡ªI mean, hours¡ªwatching the surveillance tapes, trying to figure out how I kept sneaking out?


    He saw a flicker in Claire¡¯s eyes¡ªjust a flicker, but enough to make him feel a small victory.


    Claire: What are you?-Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Mason: Right by the bathroom, there¡¯s this spot, completely off the grid. Invisible to the cameras. And... well, let¡¯s say¡ªhypothetically¡ªI might¡¯ve made a few adjustments to the ceiling. Just a little... renovation, you know? If we can reach that spot, it¡¯s off the radar. No cameras. No one tracking us. Our visitors here won¡¯t know it exists. They¡¯d think we¡¯re cornered.


    Claire: It seems like that¡¯s our only option. Stay behind me and don¡¯t make a sound until we get to the roof.


    Mason nodded but he glanced over at Thomas who was still lagging behind the other two. It was hard to see through the smoke, but he could tell Thomas had a very serious look on his face, as if he was still shaken up about what had happened earlier.


    The thick, choking smoke clung to them as they ran. Mason¡¯s lungs burned with every breath, the acrid air filling his chest, but he pressed on, forcing his legs to move, his mind focused on that one spot¡ªjust ahead, the bathroom.


    The exit. Freedom. He could almost see it now, the way out, the hidden route that could save them.


    His heart raced, adrenaline spurring him forward, and he was about to quicken his pace, to bolt for the exit¡ªjust a few more feet¡ªwhen suddenly, Claire¡¯s hand shot out in front of him, stopping him cold.


    Mason froze, nearly stumbling as the weight of her silent command hit him. His breath caught in his throat, his pulse pounding in his ears.


    Why now? What¡¯s wrong?


    He swallowed the questions that bubbled up inside him, his body tense, eyes darting toward Claire, searching her expression for any clue. But her face remained unreadable, sharp and alert, her hand still raised as she scanned their surroundings with cold precision. Something wasn¡¯t right.


    Mason¡¯s stomach twisted as he realized¡ª


    Claire: There¡¯s enemies in front of us, at least ten, all armed.


    Mason: How can you tell?


    Claire: I can hear them breathing.


    Mason was creeped out but quickly regained his focus.


    Claire: Chances are they''re guarding the bathroom because it''s one of the only blind spots in the mansion, however, there¡¯s also a chance that they¡¯ve already found the hole.


    Mason: What do we do?


    Claire: We have very few options right now. Judging from my previous encounter, they all have pretty basic training, however, there¡¯s power in numbers. If we were to engage in a full on attack, there¡¯s a very small chance we¡¯ll all survive. We can¡¯t turn around because our enemies are currently chasing us through the smoke and if they have found the hole, chances are reinforcements are on their way.


    Mason: So-


    Claire: So we¡¯ll need to improvise.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Mason: That¡¯s it! I can¡¯t... I can¡¯t take this anymore!


    The words ripped from Mason¡¯s throat before he even realized what he was saying. His legs moved before his mind could stop them, his body surging out of the smoke, blind to reason.


    The fear, the pressure¡ªit had all boiled over, crashing through him in waves, leaving him raw and reckless. The danger, the suffocating weight of it all, crushed him. He didn¡¯t care anymore. He just needed it to stop.


    His hands shot up in front of him as he stumbled into the open, eyes wide with terror as the figures raised their guns. He dropped to his knees, the cold, hard ground biting into him, but it barely registered over the panic.


    Mason: Do whatever you want. Just¡ªplease¡ªdon¡¯t kill me.


    The attackers didn¡¯t speak. Their silence was more terrifying than any threat. A towering figure, swords strapped to his back, approached swiftly, his heavy steps sending tremors through the floor. Mason barely felt the man¡¯s hands as they roughly pinned him down, searching his body for any sign of a weapon.


    The man seemed satisfied, loosening his hold just enough to shift his focus. His voice crackled through the comms.


    Armored Man: We¡¯ve got him. The Death Astral¡ªsecured, lower left wing¡ª


    But his words were sliced through by a blood-curdling scream. The armored man¡¯s head snapped toward the noise, his body tensing as his gaze landed on the carnage behind him.


    Two of his soldiers¡ªlaying in pools of their own blood. Their bodies were twisted, shredded by deep gashes, and above them stood Claire. Her once calm, professional demeanor was gone, replaced by something far more sinister. Her lips curled into a grin as she slowly raised her blood-covered hand, letting the crimson drip between her fingers.


    The armored man¡¯s voice faltered, his hand instinctively tightening on Mason¡¯s arm, but he didn¡¯t speak. He couldn¡¯t. All he could do was stare.


    Claire: Hey!


    The other men all turned around, focusing their guns on Claire instead of Mason, which finally gave Thomas his signal.


    Thomas dashed through the smoke with blinding speed, slamming into the man who had pinned Mason down, and helping Mason to his feet.


    The soldiers became indecisive, unsure if they should focus on taking care of Claire, or retrieving Mason.


    Claire helped them make up their decision as she reached into the belt of one of the soldiers she had taken out, and pulled out a number of smoke grenades, firing them all over the place. The smoke covered the entire hallway, and chaos quickly ensued.


    Gun fire rang out but none of the soldiers could seem to hit their mark. Mason and Thomas attempted to run past the soldiers to meet with Claire but Mason¡¯s leg was caught by a soldier who had fallen to the floor.


    Claire cut through two more soldiers as if the smoke didn¡¯t affect her vision at all but she became worried when she couldn¡¯t find Thomas or Mason. She decided to abandon caution and ran back to where they were attempting to save them, but she was grabbed by strong hands and slammed against the wall.


    Mason fought desperately to take the hands off his ankle but whoever had grabbed him had a strong grip. he heard more footsteps coming towards him through the smoke and he fought harder to get the hands off him. Suddenly, there was a sharp sound through the air, and the grip on his ankle slackened.


    Thomas: Sorry, I didn¡¯t know what else to do.


    Mason struggled to see through the smoke but noticed what seemed to be a sword in Thomas¡¯ hand. Looking down, he saw the severed hand of his attacker laying near his foot. Nausea spread through his body but he recovered quickly, focusing on escaping.


    Mason and Thomas pushed forward, eyes burning from the smoke that still lingered, but the path ahead was finally starting to clear. And then, through the haze, they spotted her.


    Claire was down, struggling beneath the crushing weight of the situation. But it wasn¡¯t from exhaustion or weakness¡ªshe¡¯d been blindsided. Three attackers had surrounded her before she could react, their strikes raining down in an unrelenting barrage.


    Her usual grace was nowhere to be seen, caught off guard by their numbers. She had dropped her sword, the steel lying useless on the floor several feet away, and now she was defending herself with nothing but her bare hands, desperately trying to block punches and kicks. But it was clear, even to Mason, that she was cornered.


    Before she could find an opening, a larger man stepped forward, his brutish form towering over her. He grabbed her by the throat, lifting her with one hand as though she weighed nothing. Claire¡¯s feet kicked uselessly beneath her as she struggled for air, her eyes narrowing in defiance, even as she gasped.


    The large man turned to Mason and Thomas, his voice a low growl.


    Large Man: Surrender, and we¡¯ll let you and the girl walk away. Reinforcements are closing in as we speak, and we¡¯ve covered every exit. You¡¯re cornered.


    Mason froze. His mind raced, trapped in a whirlwind of indecision. If he tried to save her now, they¡¯d kill her instantly. But if he surrendered... maybe they¡¯d let her go. Maybe, just maybe, it would buy her time. His hands trembled, his breath shallow. What could he do?


    Surely it¡¯d be okay if he took it easy.


    Better than throwing his life away.


    And then, the other voice came, sharp and cutting, like a knife to his thoughts.


    That¡¯s just pathetic.


    Mason¡¯s jaw clenched, anger bubbling up, mixing with the fear that had paralyzed him moments ago.


    You¡¯re over here thinking of surrendering? She¡¯s dying because you¡¯re weak.


    The words hit him like a punch to the gut, the cruel tone echoing in his mind. His fists tightened, his vision narrowing on the large man choking Claire. His chest burned, not from the smoke, but from the raw fury now boiling inside him.


    Shut up. Shut up. I¡¯m not¡ª


    What? You¡¯re not what? Weak? A coward? Then do something.


    Mason¡¯s heart pounded in his chest. His breath quickened, rage surging through his veins, drowning out the fear.


    I can¡¯t just stand here. I can¡¯t let her die because I hesitated.


    He stared right into Claire¡¯s eyes and saw, maybe for the first time, her true emotions. It was as if she was saying, ¡°don¡¯t help me, run you fool.¡± Even now, on the verge of death, Claire was focused on protecting him. With that in mind, how could he possibly afford to stand around and be useless.


    Mason raised his hands and closed his eyes. He didn¡¯t understand what he was doing, but he let his body take over his actions, completely shutting off his brain. He opened his eyes, which were now a deep shade of obsidian, and at once, he felt a horrible burning sensation in his legs, as black flames sparked.


    He kicked off with his legs on fire, and launched with inhuman speed at Claire¡¯s attackers, flames now appearing on his hands. With all the force and energy he could muster, he slammed his fist into the man who was choking Claire, and the man crumbled to the ground, rendered unconscious.


    Mason fell to the ground, completely unsure of what had just happened, and cradled his arm which was in extreme pain. The flame extinguished just as fast as it had appeared.


    Claire helped Mason to his feet, but before she could ask any questions, the other two attackers came forward, each one holding two swords. Mason didn¡¯t have enough strength or energy left to defend himself, and braced for the attacker¡¯s impacts, but the sword strikes never came.


    Thomas quickly put himself in between Mason and the attackers, holding the sword he had taken in front of him, and parrying the attack. Thomas gracefully dodged a sword swing from the second attacker and rolled out of the way of the first attacker, stabbing at his ankles in the same motion.


    Getting back on his feet, he ducked under another swing from the second attacker and cut a clean gash through his back, making sure not to hit any vital spots. The first attacker got back to his feet, attempting to stab Thomas again, but Thomas jumped quickly and masterfully kicked the man in the face, rendering him unconscious.


    Mason: What the hell was that!


    Mason: I thought you said you were a detective. Where did you learn all that from?


    Thomas looked away from Mason and stared at Claire who was looking back at him with both amazement and curiosity. Thomas¡¯s face grew grim as he turned and looked down to the ground.


    Mason could tell just from Thomas¡¯s face that he should drop the subject immediately, so he instead focused on the plan.


    Mason: The bathroom should be just up ahead. I¡¯ll need you guys to buy me some time while I open the entrance to the roof.


    Claire rubbed at her neck and wiped some blood from her nose and mouth.


    Claire: There¡¯s still two attackers in the smoke, although one is injured. I hear at least ten or so men approaching us. We have maybe fifteen seconds until they reach us.


    Mason: So in other words, I have fifteen seconds.


    Claire nodded and picked up her sword from the ground.


    Thomas and Claire stood outside the bathroom waiting for Mason to give the signal that he had opened up the entrance. Thomas looked over at Claire and noticed worry lines growing on her face.


    Thomas: What¡¯s wrong?


    Claire: They¡¯re faster than I thought.


    Before Thomas could ask what she meant, he heard the footsteps through the smoke and saw a group of armored soldiers with swords appear in front of them.


    Thomas and Claire moved in sync, swords raised as they engaged the wave of enemies pouring through the smoke. Together, they moved like a well-oiled machine, pushing back the tide.


    But more kept coming. No matter how many they took down, the soldiers kept piling in, the smoke thickening, making it harder to see¡ªharder to breathe. Claire¡¯s movements remained fluid, even as fatigue began to creep into her limbs.


    A soldier lunged at her, coming dangerously close. She reacted on instinct, driving her sword into his chest. He staggered back, gasping, and Claire prepared to deliver the finishing blow¡ªher sword already raised to decapitate him. But before she could swing, a sudden clash of steel stopped her blade mid-air.


    Thomas had blocked her strike, his own sword catching hers.


    Claire: What are you doing?


    Her voice was sharp, disbelief flickering in her eyes as she glared at him. But Thomas didn¡¯t flinch, his gaze stormy, resolute.


    Thomas: No more killing.


    Claire¡¯s jaw tightened, the anger bubbling inside her. There was no time to argue¡ªmore soldiers rushed at her, and she was forced to pull back, deflecting another attack, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface.


    She didn¡¯t have the luxury of questions. Not now. She slashed at the enemies once more, her mind racing.


    The battle raged on, the seconds dragging like hours. But then¡ª


    Mason: I finished the opening! We need to go. Now!


    Relief surged through Claire. She leaped back from the enemies, Thomas right beside her, and they sprinted toward Mason. The trio climbed through the opening Mason had created in the ceiling, one by one, and finally¡ªfinally¡ªthey pulled themselves onto the roof, gasping for air, the cool night breeze a sharp contrast to the suffocating smoke below.


    But their relief was short-lived.


    As their eyes adjusted, they froze. The scene that greeted them sent a chill down their spines.


    An army.


    Spanning the entire manor, surrounding them like an endless tide. The soldiers were armed with everything from guns to swords, their faces obscured by masks and sleek armor. There was no escape.


    Claire took a deep breath and smiled, raising her swords as she prepared herself to fight through the hell that surrounded them.

 Chapter 5: Through Ash and Fear

    Fear was a force more insidious than any blade or bullet¡ªa silent predator that slipped through cracks in the mind, gnawing at reason, tearing apart even the most stable foundations.


    Mason had felt fear before, of course. He knew the fear of being caught sneaking out, the fear of making reckless decisions and facing the consequences. That familiar rush of adrenaline, the quickening pulse¡ªhe had always thought that was fear.


    But now, standing on the roof, surrounded on all sides by an army that stretched far beyond the smoke, Mason realized how na?ve he had been.


    This¡ªthis¡ªwas fear. Not the warning nudge of adrenaline or the rush of nerves from a risky mistake, but a crushing weight that stole the air from his lungs, freezing his body in place. His legs refused to move, rooted to the ground like they had forgotten how to obey him. His chest tightened as panic clawed its way through his mind.


    His heart pounded, not just with anxiety, but with a visceral, primal terror¡ªthe kind that screamed of finality.


    This is it. This is where I die.


    His mind echoed with the thought, over and over again, louder each time, until it was all he could hear.


    Is this what death feels like?


    This was real fear.


    Claire: MASON ARE YOU LISTENING?!


    Mason finally turned towards his maid, who had her sword out in front of her.


    Claire: I said, we¡¯re going to make it through this. All we have to do is clear a path through them and then we can escape the roof. We¡¯ll be harder to spot on the ground and we should be able to lose them if we head into the forest.


    Mason nodded, unable to move his lips. The Heartson manor, for privacy reasons, was surrounded by a massive forest, with thick trees grouped together. If they managed to escape into the forest, they might have a chance.


    Claire: Stay behind me and keep your head low.


    Finally it seemed that the enemies had grown impatient and a horde of soldiers came marching forward with an assortment of weapons drawn.


    Claire and Thomas instinctively moved.


    Without words, their bodies shifted in unison, raising their swords to either side of Mason. Two protective walls, as if the act alone could defy the chaos closing in around them.


    The reasoning required no explanation.


    So long as they stood beside Mason, the enemy wouldn¡¯t risk projectiles. The fear of striking him stayed in their hands, forcing them to approach directly, one at a time.


    For now, it was enough.


    The attackers came forward in single file, emboldened by numbers but overconfident in approach. One after another, they fell.


    Each enemy drew closer only to be baited, cut down in perfect synchronization between Claire and Thomas.


    But the tide shifted.


    What had been an orderly procession turned into a stampede. Groups surged forward, their sheer numbers a weight that threatened to crush the fragile balance.


    The first wave hit Claire.


    Her breath caught, but she didn¡¯t falter.


    Her stance lowered, her sword adjusted ever so slightly.


    And then¡ª


    She dashed forward, a blur of motion too quick to follow. Her blade tore through the air, finding the weak points in their legs with merciless precision.


    Flesh and steel met, but the sound of ripping muscle was drowned by cries of pain. The first group crumpled, their bodies falling into disarray.


    But there was no satisfaction.


    Claire barely had a moment to breathe before she saw the next wave. Her chest heaved as she backed away, her feet moving instinctively.


    This won¡¯t work again.


    Her mind raced as her body drew closer to Mason and Thomas, returning to the fragile formation they¡¯d created.


    She glanced to her side, catching Thomas¡¯s focused gaze. His breathing was heavy, his sword gripped tightly, though his resolve hadn¡¯t wavered.


    But the tide didn¡¯t stop.


    I need a plan.


    The thought rang through her head, clear as a bell amid the chaos. They couldn¡¯t rely on instinct alone.


    Not if they wanted to survive.


    Thomas, on the other hand, felt a rush of panic creep up his spine. His sword trembled slightly in his grip as he faced the swarm of enemies barreling toward him.


    Despite all the training, the grueling drills, the hours of preparation¡ªnothing had prepared him for this. For this. The sheer number of enemies made his heart race, his instincts screaming at him to run, to escape.


    He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing shallow, the noise of battle dimming around him as he fought to regain control.


    Focus. Breathe.


    His mind raced, but after a few seconds, something clicked. When he opened his eyes again, there was a calmness that hadn¡¯t been there before. He smiled¡ªa small, defiant smile.


    This is just another test.


    A test of strength, of endurance. And he had been through plenty of those before.


    Raising his sword, Thomas abandoned all traditional stance and examined the enemies in front of him. They were all taller than him, and he assumed they were stronger than him as well.


    Thomas¡¯s eyes darted over the group of enemies, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.


    Their armor, while intimidating at first glance, had its flaws¡ªthin joints, exposed gaps. He¡¯d already cut down several of them, their movements predictable, their defenses sluggish.


    He exhaled slowly.


    One good slice.


    That¡¯s all it would take to bring one down. But the numbers were daunting. Fifteen men stood before him, their weapons¡ªknives, daggers, swords. All close-range.


    They¡¯ll have to get close to attack me.


    Thomas¡¯s mind raced, piecing together a plan. His gaze flicked between the approaching men, his fingers tightening briefly before loosening again. And then, he acted.


    He extended his arm behind him, his sword poised.


    With all his strength, he hurled it forward.


    The weapon spun through the air, its trajectory clean and deliberate, embedding itself in the midst of the group.


    The enemies froze, their charge halting as they stared at the absurdity of the move.


    Before they could recover, Thomas surged forward.


    His first punch cracked against the jaw of the nearest man, sending him stumbling. The second strike collided with another¡¯s collarbone, a sickening crunch echoing as the man crumpled, his weapon falling from his hand.


    Thomas didn¡¯t hesitate.


    He snatched the fallen dagger, its weight unfamiliar but manageable. His body moved instinctively, the blade flashing in his hand as it slashed through the next three men. Blood sprayed across his face, but he didn¡¯t flinch.


    The men collapsed, clutching their wounds, but still breathing.


    In a swift motion, he retrieved his sword, its blade slick with blood.


    He turned to face the remnants of the group.


    Six men still stood, their expressions now wary, their confidence shaken.


    Thomas¡¯s lips curled into a smile¡ªsmall, defiant.


    Pouring every ounce of strength into his legs, he launched himself forward.


    The first man¡¯s chest caved under the force of Thomas¡¯s kick, his weapon falling from his hands as he staggered back. Before the second attacker could react, Thomas¡¯s blade flashed again, cutting him down in one swift motion.


    He leapt back, narrowly avoiding another strike.


    Isolate. Attack. Move.


    Thomas repeated the sequence, bouncing between the remaining enemies like a force of nature. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    And then¡ª


    It was over.


    Thomas stood amidst the bodies, his chest heaving, his sword raised.


    The battlefield around him was littered with the fallen, their groans of pain the only sound breaking the silence.


    He turned to glance at Claire, who had been fighting her own battles nearby.


    They worked together now, moving in tandem. But for every group they defeated, another took its place.


    And as the battle dragged on, so did the weight of exhaustion pulling at their limbs.


    Their breaths came quicker. Their strikes grew slower. And still, the tide did not stop.


    Mason stood between them, feeling utterly useless. The sounds of swords clashing, the cries of enemies falling¡ªit all blurred around him. His heart pounded, his mind racing, searching for something¡ªanything¡ªhe could do to help. His hands trembled at his sides, a growing frustration bubbling inside him.


    If I could just activate it... the black flame.


    His thoughts clung to that desperate hope. He had done it once before, hadn¡¯t he? If he could just do it again, he could help them stop the endless waves of attackers. Mason clenched his fists, closing his eyes tight, forcing himself to focus.


    For a few agonizing seconds, nothing. Just the cold grip of fear tightening around him. Then, just as doubt began to creep in, he felt it¡ªa burning sensation sparking to life within him.


    His heart leapt, adrenaline spiking as the power began to stir, but before the flame could fully ignite, a sharp, searing pain tore through his shoulder.


    Mason¡¯s eyes snapped open, the flame flickering out in an instant. His breath hitched as he looked down, his heart plummeting at the sight of the arrow lodged deep in his shoulder, blood already soaking through his clothes.


    The pain was blinding, but it was the shock that overwhelmed him. He stumbled backward, his vision swimming as the force of the arrow knocked him off balance.


    And then, before he could even process what was happening, Mason¡¯s body pitched backward, rolling off the roof.


    The world tilted, his body weightless for a terrifying moment before gravity slammed him into the ground with a sickening thud. Pain shot through his entire body, the air knocked from his lungs in one crushing blow. Mason lay there, dazed, gasping for breath, his mind spinning as his vision blurred.


    Up on the roof, he could just make out Thomas and Claire, their faces twisted with panic as they sprinted toward him, but they were too far¡ªmuch too far. He saw the soldiers move in, blocking their path before they could even attempt to jump down after him.


    He forced himself to sit up, his entire body screaming in protest. Blood continued to flow from the wound in his shoulder, the pain now radiating through his chest, but he couldn¡¯t stop. Not now. Not with the soldiers rushing toward him from the manor entrance, their eyes locked on him like predators closing in on their prey.


    His body trembled as he pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaky beneath him. The fear was suffocating, the panic clawing at his mind, but he had no other choice. There was no time to think, no time to hesitate. The soldiers were closing in.


    Gritting his teeth, Mason ignored the pain, his breaths ragged as he turned and sprinted into the forest. He couldn¡¯t afford to stop.


    The shadows of the trees swallowed him, and Mason ran.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Claire and Thomas were at their limits, their breaths ragged, their bodies weary from the relentless battle. The rooftop battlefield was littered with the remnants of their struggle, yet the enemy still stood in defiant numbers.


    Thomas: We need to finish this fast. They¡¯re gonna get to Mason.


    Claire: I agree. But¡­ I¡¯ll need you to hold your ground alone for a while.


    Thomas¡¯s brow furrowed, but before he could ask, Claire had already spun on her heel, her focus narrowing to the enemies who were readying their weapons.


    Her steps were swift and unrelenting as she closed the distance between herself and the nearest soldier. The blade in her hand moved with precision, piercing the soldier''s chest in one fluid motion. The man''s gasp of pain was cut short, his body falling limp. She didn¡¯t stop. She couldn¡¯t stop. The world around her blurred into chaos.


    A sharp voice from the enemy ranks cut through the din.


    Soldier: Open fire! Don¡¯t let her get any closer!


    Gunshots cracked through the air, arrows whistled, and spears hurtled towards her, but Claire moved with an inhuman ferocity. Grabbing the body of the soldier she¡¯d just killed, she used it as a shield, the thud of projectiles hitting flesh echoing in her ears.


    The soldiers in the distance hesitated as she approached, their fear palpable. She tore through the line of enemies, their screams blending into a blend of terror. Blood spattered across her clothes, her face¡ªher entire being soaked in the grim reality of battle.


    When it was over, she stood amidst the carnage, her chest heaving. The acrid scent of blood filled her nostrils, making her stomach churn. Yet she didn¡¯t falter. Her gaze shifted to Thomas, who was still fighting with relentless determination.


    Thomas, meanwhile, fought as though the exhaustion gnawing at his limbs was a distant memory. But his movements were slowing. He gritted his teeth, his mind screaming at his body to push forward.


    And then, salvation.


    THUD. THUD. THUD.


    One by one, arrows struck the soldiers around him, precise and unerring. Thomas turned, wide-eyed, to see Claire standing at a distance, a bow now in her hands, her quiver nearly empty.


    Thomas: A swordsman and an archer? What kind of maid are you?


    Claire didn¡¯t smile. Her voice was cold, sharp.


    Claire: Save the questions for later. We need to find the young master before he gets himself killed.


    With no further words, the two descended into the forest, their ears straining for any sound, their eyes scanning for tracks. The dense trees closed in around them, their path lit only by slivers of moonlight.


    Claire raised a hand suddenly, freezing Thomas in his tracks. Her expression was tense, her brows knitted as she sniffed the air.


    Claire: Do you smell that?


    Thomas blinked, confused.


    Thomas: ¡ª?


    And then it hit him. The stench was thick, choking, burning. His stomach twisted as memories clawed their way to the surface¡ªflames, ash, screams.


    No¡­ not again¡­


    Claire¡¯s gaze darkened, her voice dropping to a grim murmur.


    Claire: Don¡¯t tell me... They¡¯re going to burn it all down.


    Her words hung in the air as the faint glow of fire began to light the horizon.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Fear had captured Mason as he stumbled through the forest.


    His legs throbbed from the impact of the fall and his shoulder burned from the puncture of the arrow.


    Mason clutched his arm and limped forward, determined to get away. His mind was completely clouded.


    Mason feared the enemies who were pursuing him, he feared what would happen to Claire and Thomas if they didn¡¯t make it off the roof, he feared what would happen to himself if he was captured.


    Mason traversed through the swarm of trees for what seemed like an eternity, until he finally heard the sound that he had been fearing. The sound of an army running through the dirt behind him.


    He picked up his pace, ignoring the pain in his legs and forcing himself to break into a jog, but he knew it wasn¡¯t enough. The sound of the enemy crept closer and closer and Mason¡¯s mind went ablaze trying to figure out what to do.


    RUN, STOP, FIGHT, SCREAM, CRY, DIE, JUMP, CRAWL, HIDE


    Mason couldn¡¯t figure out what to do and the confusion tore a hole into his brain until finally he couldn¡¯t take it. He let the exhaustion of the brain and the mind get to him and his legs gave out causing him to collapse on the ground.


    It¡¯s over


    Mason braced himself, his body trembling as he lay prone on the forest floor. His breath came in shallow gasps, the ache in his arm dulling into a cold numbness.


    He waited for the inevitable¡ªthe sharp yank as rough hands dragged him away, the strike of a blade that would end it all. Claire and Thomas¡¯s struggle had been for nothing. This was the end for all of them.


    But the pain never came.


    Instead, the air filled with laughter. Deep, sharp laughter, like the chime of shattering glass. Mason opened his eyes cautiously.


    Figures loomed all around him¡ªsoldiers, clad in black and silver armor, their weapons glinting as they pointed in his direction. Yet, none of them moved. The laughter came from one among them, a man without a helmet, his sleek white armor gleaming under the sparse light filtering through the trees.


    The man¡¯s face was youthful, deceptively smooth, but his jet-black eyes carried something far older¡ªa predator¡¯s gaze, sharp and unforgiving. He clutched his stomach as he laughed, stepping closer to Mason with an unnerving ease.


    ???: So, this is the heralded savior of humanity?


    The man¡¯s words dripped with mockery, his laughter subsiding into a thin smile. He leaned forward, his shadow casting over Mason like a shroud.


    ???: Not quite what I imagined.


    Mason froze, his mind sluggish, his thoughts struggling to piece together the meaning behind the man¡¯s words.


    Savior?


    His voice failed him, but the stranger didn¡¯t wait for a response. Instead, he extended a hand, his expression softening, almost inviting.


    ???: Stand up. You look all pathetic down there.


    Mason hesitated. His instincts screamed at him to stay down, to hide, but there was no hiding from this man. Still, he made no move to take the offered hand.


    Mason: ¡­Savior?


    The man sighed before yanking Mason to his feet with a single motion. The world spun for a moment, and then¡ª


    ???: Let¡¯s start by getting this out of you.


    Before Mason could protest, the man grabbed the arrow lodged in his arm and tore it free without warning. Pain exploded through Mason¡¯s shoulder. A scream ripped from his throat, and he collapsed to one knee, clutching the wound as blood spilled onto the forest floor.


    ???: You really are clueless, aren¡¯t you? Leaving it in just slows the healing process.


    Mason glared up at him, his vision swimming.


    Mason: Who¡­ who the hell are you?


    The man¡¯s smile widened, his white teeth flashing like the blade at his back. He stepped closer, the calm predator closing in on his prey.


    ???: How rude of me. I won¡¯t make excuses, however, it has been a while since I¡¯ve introduced myself, please do forgive me. My name is Edward Bassett, Captain of Obsidian¡¯s 1st Division.


    He outstretched his hand towards Mason again, and this time, reluctantly, Mason took his hand and stood up. His mind was still a mess but Mason decided to ignore the questions that plagued him.


    Edward: Well, since I haven''t seen a signal yet, I suppose we still have some time to mess around.


    Edward drew the sleek white blade strapped to his back, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. The air around him seemed to thrum with anticipation as he pointed the weapon toward Mason.


    Edward: Let¡¯s see what the Astral of Death¡¯s successor can do.


    Mason barely had time to process the words before Edward lunged. His body moved on instinct, a burst of energy surging through him as he dodged the first strike. His vision darkened at the edges, his eyes flickering to an unnatural black. Steam curled off his skin, the heat coursing through his veins searing him from within.


    Mason¡¯s movements were clumsy, his dodges frantic. There was no rhythm, no discernible pattern to Edward¡¯s attacks¡ªonly chaos, a wild frenzy of steel and bloodlust.


    Edward: Fight me! Stop running, and fight!


    Mason clenched his fists, drawing on the fire within him. He felt it surge to the surface, a desperate and untamed force, and thrust his flaming hand toward Edward in a desperate punch. But Edward deflected it with ease, his blade slicing a shallow cut across Mason¡¯s chest.


    Edward: Is that it? That¡¯s all you¡¯ve got?


    His laughter rang out again, echoing in Mason¡¯s ears. The pain in his chest flared, but worse was the suffocating weight of fear. It pressed down on him, clawing at his thoughts until there was nothing left but raw, animal instinct.


    RUN. CRAWL. SURVIVE.


    Mason fell to the ground, dragging himself forward with trembling arms. The soldiers around him didn¡¯t stop him. They simply watched, their faces blank masks, as though amused by his pathetic display.


    I can do this. I can survive. Just a little further, and Claire and Thomas will find me. Just a little more.


    Hope sprouted into Mason¡¯s heart. Just a bit further, he can do this, he can live.


    But the flower of hope that had bloomed inside of Mason melted in a fiery frenzy as he stared in horror at the sight in front of him.


    Edward: Ah, there¡¯s the signal. A shame¡ªyou hardly put up a fight at all.


    Mason turned back to see Edward, his smile now monstrous, his black eyes reflecting the hellish glow of the fire. The soldiers stepped forward, their hands seizing Mason by the arms and lifting him effortlessly. His vision blurred, the world tilting as his strength finally gave out.


    The last thing Mason saw was the wall of flames advancing toward him, swallowing the forest whole.


    As he grew unconscious, he let himself succumb to fear, giving up on the little hope that was left. Staring at the flames, he wondered if Thomas and Claire were staring back at him, through the ash.

 Chapter 6: Left Behind

    The smell of burning trees clawed at Thomas¡¯s senses, twisting his stomach with a mix of nausea and guilt. Every breath was thick with ash and smoke, every step a reminder that they¡¯d left Mason behind.


    They had no choice, he tried to tell himself; they would¡¯ve been swallowed up by the inferno if they¡¯d stayed a moment longer. Still, the image of Mason alone, surrounded by enemies, was seared into his mind, far worse than any physical wound.


    Thomas: What the hell¡­ What the hell¡­ What the hell¡­


    The words escaped him in a low murmur, an almost involuntary release as he stumbled out of the blazing forest, Claire close behind.


    When they finally broke free of the thick wilderness, they both collapsed, gasping for air, the taste of smoke and bitter regret still sharp on his tongue. The Moon was breaking over the horizon, casting a cold light over the devastation behind them, and for a second, Thomas thought it was almost cruel¡ªas if nothing had happened.


    Claire straightened beside him, her voice steady and unshaken.


    Claire: We can¡¯t stop. They¡¯ll send more soldiers to the manor to finish us off. We need to keep moving.


    Thomas clenched his fists, a familiar sense of helplessness pooling in his chest. He looked to her, searching for answers, for direction, but all he could manage was a desperate question.


    Thomas: But where? And who the hell are they? What¡¯s going on, Claire?


    Claire¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change. Her eyes flickered just slightly, but her tone was as even as ever.


    Claire: I¡¯m sorry. If I knew, I would tell you.


    Thomas could sense her evasion, the slight edge in her tone that made him want to press further. But they were in no position to argue. He knew well enough that any second now, more armed soldiers could come barreling through the woods, and all his questions would mean nothing if they were caught.


    So, he kept silent, following Claire¡¯s lead as they broke into a run once more, leaving the Heartson manor behind them.


    Minutes stretched on as they sprinted across the estate, the once-familiar landscape of manicured lawns and grand pathways now distorted by the haze of smoke. Eventually, they stumbled onto the busy streets of Los Angeles.


    The noise, the bustle, the darkness of the late night¡ªall of it felt foreign, jarring against the chaos they had just escaped. Claire slowed to a brisk walk, glancing back now and then, as if expecting an ambush at any moment. Thomas opened his mouth to speak, to ask her about the plan, but she quickly raised a hand to silence him, her eyes scanning their surroundings.


    It was strange, walking through the city in their disheveled, armed state without so much as a curious glance from the passersby. Thomas could only guess the people here were far too desensitized, far too absorbed in their own lives to notice the two of them, still covered in dirt and soot.


    But the world seemed unreal now, like he was moving through a half-dream where reality barely brushed against him. He wanted to scream, to shout, to ask a million questions, but the words caught in his throat.


    As they walked in silence, the conditions of the city seemed to grow worse with every step. Thomas¡¯s eyes drifted to an old man hunched against a crumbling wall, his clothing torn and stained, his eyes hollow as he stared into nothingness. Further down, small children peeked out from the shadows of an alleyway, their gazes sharp and desperate, hungry looks etched into their faces.


    Thomas¡¯s heart twisted painfully at the sight, his hands twitching at his sides with the instinct to reach out, to offer something¡ªanything¡ªto help. But he clenched his fists instead, forcing himself to keep walking.


    Not now.


    For now, he had to keep moving.


    Finally, Claire led them to a bench tucked away from the main flow of people, near an old park shadowed by tall trees. She gestured for him to sit, her face unreadable as she took her own seat, her gaze fixed on the street in front of them.


    Claire: Sit.


    Thomas sat beside her, bewildered and wary, his mind racing. The silence around them felt suffocating, thick with words left unsaid. And then, Claire broke it, her voice low, her gaze never straying from the scene in front of them.


    Claire: I¡¯m sorry for all the trouble Mason and I have put you through by bringing you here. I¡¯ve been observing our surroundings, and it appears our attackers are no longer in pursuit. You should be safe to return home.


    Thomas stared at her, dumbfounded.


    Safe? Home? After everything they¡¯d just been through?


    The words didn¡¯t make sense, felt wrong in his mind.


    Thomas: What¡ªwhat are you talking about?


    Claire: I know you must have a thousand questions about what happened tonight, but believe me when I say, you¡¯re better off not knowing. If I were you, I¡¯d refrain from mentioning this to anyone, for your own safety. It¡¯s a blessing our attackers didn¡¯t identify you. You¡¯re lucky to be walking away from this.


    She paused, glancing at him, her expression as cold and detached as ever.


    Claire: If you¡¯d like, I¡¯ll arrange safe transport to wherever you need to go.


    Thomas: Transport?¡­ Are you just telling me to leave?


    Her gaze remained forward, her tone measured, as though her words were a statement of fact, not a suggestion.


    Claire: It would be unwise for you to stay in this city any longer. If our attackers are still out there, you¡¯d be safer returning to your home country as soon as possible.


    A chill settled over Thomas, the frustration boiling up inside him like a physical ache. She was talking like this was his fight to leave, like he could just walk away. He clenched his fists, barely keeping the tremble out of his voice.


    Thomas: And what about you? What are you planning?


    For a moment, her expression hardened, a faint spark of something colder and sharper flashing in her eyes.


    Claire: I¡¯m going to find and rescue my young master.


    The simplicity, the finality of her answer stung. Her tone was solid, and it was clear she¡¯d already accepted this as her reality. But Thomas wasn¡¯t about to let it slide that easily.


    Thomas: Alone? Did you even see how many of them there were? If you go back there by yourself, you¡¯re throwing your life away!


    Claire¡¯s gaze flickered, just barely, before she responded, her voice calm but tinged with an edge he hadn¡¯t heard before.


    Claire: In case you¡¯ve forgotten, I can take care of myself. Protecting Mason is my duty. This is something I have to do.


    Thomas: Then let me help you. You saw earlier that I can¡ª


    Claire: Absolutely not.


    The sharpness of her tone stopped him cold, the glint in her eyes almost enough to make him step back. But something within him refused to back down.


    Claire: The enemies we faced tonight were hardly skilled¡ªnovices. We had luck, a good amount of it, and several advantages on our side. If we face them again, it won¡¯t end the same way. You can¡¯t begin to imagine the kind of strength and resolve it would take to survive that.


    Thomas took a shaky breath, the frustration bubbling up into something close to anger. He could see it now¡ªher desperate, steadfast resolve. It was the same kind of drive he felt himself, that single-minded purpose that overrode everything else. But that didn¡¯t mean she had to do it alone.


    He stood suddenly, moving into her line of sight, forcing her to look at him directly. His voice came out sharper than he¡¯d intended, laced with a fierce determination.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    Thomas: Enough of this already. You¡¯re stubborn, I get it, but you¡¯re not fooling me.


    Claire¡¯s brow creased in surprise, the hint of emotion finally breaking through her mask. Emboldened, he continued, his words spilling out in a rush.


    Thomas: I know you¡¯re rattled by everything that¡¯s happened tonight. Anyone would be. You¡¯ve lost Mason, your home¡¯s in ruins, and you¡¯re stuck without a plan or a single lead. But despite all that, despite everything¡­ you¡¯re not alone. You still have me.


    His voice wavered, his own insecurities bubbling up, but he pushed them aside, leaning into the fierce certainty that had taken root inside him.


    Thomas: I may not be the strongest or the smartest, but I¡¯ll give everything I¡¯ve got to help you save him. That¡¯s my resolve.


    Claire¡¯s eyes narrowed, her tone dropping to a cold, almost biting edge.


    Claire: Words of bravado mean little without the strength to back them up. Do you honestly think you have what it takes to stand against them? Against what¡¯s coming?


    Thomas: Yes! I told you once, and I¡¯ll tell you as many times as it takes for you to believe it¡ªI¡¯m going to help you save Mason. Whatever it takes.


    She held his gaze, studying him with a guarded, searching look.


    Claire: But why? You just met him. You owe him nothing. Why would you risk everything for a stranger?


    Thomas¡¯s heart pounded as he answered, the truth ringing clear and unshakable in his mind.


    Thomas: Because I want to. Isn¡¯t that reason enough? I may not know Mason well, but I won¡¯t walk away and leave him to die. I¡¯ll risk whatever I have to, because if I don¡¯t¡­


    There was silence as Claire looked at him, really looked at him. Her eyes searched his face, and for the first time, he thought he saw a glimmer of understanding, a softening in her expression. No that wasn¡¯t it.


    Slowly, she rose from the bench, turning away from him, her voice barely above a whisper.


    Claire: Fine. If you insist on coming I cannot change that. But you¡¯ll do exactly as I say. Not a step out of line, understood?


    Thomas nodded, relief flooding through him, a determined grin spreading across his face.


    Thomas: Yes, ma¡¯am. Whatever you say ma¡¯am. So, what¡¯s our first move?


    She glanced over her shoulder, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.


    Claire: First, we¡¯re finding food. I can hear your stomach from here.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Claire watched Thomas eat with a mix of disbelief and curiosity. His movements were quick and eager, tearing through the waffles and hash browns as though they were fuel for some critical mission. She couldn¡¯t quite wrap her head around how he¡¯d managed to work up such an appetite, but it seemed to fit him somehow¡ªthis boy who could be so at ease in one moment and reckless in the next.


    Claire: There¡¯s no way you¡¯re still hungry after everything you ate back at the manor.


    Thomas barely paused, his gaze flicking to her with a small, almost defiant glint, his fork still midway to his mouth.


    Thomas: Why do Americans insist on eating so much sugar? Isn¡¯t this a meal for the early morning?


    Claire: Try not to get sidetracked.


    She said, arching an eyebrow, though she couldn¡¯t hide the faint amusement in her tone. He had a way of making even simple observations feel... lively. But she wasn¡¯t here to marvel at his ability to put down waffles. She leaned back, giving him a measured look.


    Claire: I¡¯m more interested in hearing about you. I know I was... skeptical of your combat abilities back at the manor. But truthfully, you held your own better than most would have in that situation. You were facing down multiple opponents, each more ruthless than the last. So, tell me, Thomas. Where did you learn to fight like that?


    He took his time with his next bite, chewing thoughtfully, his expression serious. It was one of the rare times she¡¯d seen him not trying to force a grin or a joke. He wiped his mouth and then met her gaze, his eyes unexpectedly solemn.


    Thomas: Combat¡¯s¡­ been part of my life since I was a kid. My father beat it into my head. Guess you could say he¡¯s a bit extreme in his methods.


    She raised an eyebrow, her skepticism evident. His answer was vague, almost as if he were hiding something, or perhaps protecting someone.


    Claire: I don¡¯t know any boys whose fathers train them in advanced sword combat. ¡®Extreme¡¯ doesn¡¯t begin to cover it.


    Thomas: Like I said, my father¡¯s a little¡­ intense. He was determined that I¡¯d be able to defend myself. But even with all that training, last night was the first time I¡¯ve ever fought people who were actually trying to kill me.


    Claire¡¯s gaze sharpened, a subtle shift that he didn¡¯t seem to notice as he took another bite. His nonchalance bordered on arrogance, and it irked her.


    Claire: If you¡¯re planning on following me to rescue Mason, it¡¯ll be the first of many. And believe me, we¡¯re bound to face people more skilled than those soldiers from last night. You may have come out unscathed, but that¡¯s a rare mercy. And I¡¯ll ask you this now, Thomas¡ªwhat exactly happened on that roof when you stopped me from finishing the fight?


    His expression shifted, and she could see the weight of the question in his eyes. He took a deliberate bite of hashbrown, his gaze falling to his plate.


    Thomas: I just¡­ I don¡¯t believe in throwing lives away, even if they¡¯re lives that don¡¯t exactly have the best intentions toward us.


    Her eyebrows shot up, her incredulity plain as she processed his words. It wasn¡¯t just a preference¡ªthere was a conviction behind it, a fierce resolve that she found, frankly, naive.


    Claire: So you think the men who would gladly kill you and me¡ªkill Mason¡ªdeserve to live?


    Thomas: It¡¯s not about deserving. I don¡¯t get to decide who lives or dies. I¡¯m not some divine executioner, and neither are you. And besides, if we kill everyone we come across, we¡¯d lose any chance of getting information out of them.


    She took a slow sip of her coffee, letting his words hang in the air as she watched him, trying to discern if he truly believed it. There was a certain conviction, a fire, in his tone that she recognized¡ªthough where her resolve was tempered by realism, his seemed bound to an idealism she couldn¡¯t comprehend.


    Claire: That sounds noble, but it¡¯s a dangerous way to think. It may be easy now, but the people we¡¯re up against are ruthless. If you hesitate, if you hold back because of that sentiment, it¡¯ll only endanger you¡ªand anyone you¡¯re trying to protect. Do you really think sparing people who¡¯d gladly see you dead makes you¡­ what, a better person?


    His fork stilled, and he lowered it, his gaze piercing as he regarded her, meeting her skepticism head-on.


    Thomas: I think it makes me the kind of person I want to be. And that matters more than what those soldiers think or what you think. I don¡¯t want to be the kind of person who throws lives away just because it¡¯s convenient. Life has¡­ too much value to waste it that way.


    She could feel her patience thinning, though her expression remained as calm as ever.


    Claire: You make it sound like taking a life is some impulsive choice. What I did on that roof was necessary. If you¡¯re going to accompany me, you¡¯ll need to understand that some things are beyond ideals. I won¡¯t risk my life or Mason¡¯s for a sentimental belief in sparing lives that have no regard for ours.


    He hesitated, a flicker of doubt in his eyes, but it was brief. His jaw set with determination, and he leaned forward, his hand clenching into a fist on the table.


    Thomas: But what if I could do it? What if I could find Mason and get him back without¡­ sacrificing anyone? What would you say to that?


    The question caught her off-guard, though her face betrayed nothing. She watched him closely, her eyes narrowing as she sensed the weight behind his words.


    Claire: Then I¡¯d say you¡¯re fooling yourself. But entertain me¡ªwhat exactly are you proposing?


    He straightened, the fire in his eyes reigniting, and raised a single finger between them.


    Thomas: A wager.


    His tone was challenging, confident.


    Thomas: We¡¯re both set on saving Mason, right? And we both have our ways of doing things. So here¡¯s what I¡¯m saying: I¡¯ll find him without taking a single life. I¡¯ll do it my way¡ªwithout sacrificing anyone. If I can pull it off, you do things my way from then on.


    Claire¡¯s lips twitched, an almost mocking smile threatening to break her otherwise neutral expression.


    Claire: And what happens when your idealism fails? Because it will, and when it does, I won¡¯t sit by and watch you endanger yourself or others.


    Thomas: When it becomes¡­ ¡®utmost necessary,¡¯ then, and only then, you can do it your way. But until that moment, you let me try it mine.


    She studied him, her gaze unreadable, though a faint, almost reluctant admiration sparked within her. For all his naivety, there was a strength to his conviction, a purity of belief that was difficult to ignore. But it was also dangerous¡ªpotentially deadly if left unchecked.


    Claire: Fine. I¡¯ll go along with this wager of yours. But mark my words, Thomas. When your idealism breaks¡ªand it will break¡ªI¡¯ll do what needs to be done. Understand?


    Thomas: Perfectly.


    His tone was firm, and for a moment, the tension between them faded as they both acknowledged the terms of their uneasy alliance.


    He leaned back, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips as he picked up his fork again, resuming his meal with renewed gusto. Claire watched him, a strange mix of doubt and intrigue settling over her. She knew better than to believe in his wager, but perhaps¡ªjust perhaps¡ªhe¡¯d surprise her.


    Thomas: Anyways, you talk about my performance on the roof, but what was all of that stuff you were doing back there. That was some... terrifying skill back there on the roof. You moved like a bloody demon. Where¡¯d you learn to fight like that?


    She lowered her coffee, her expression unchanged, her tone measured as she responded.


    Claire: As I told you, my duty is to serve and protect Mason Heartson, as well as the rest of the Heartson family. Securing that position required a certain... aptitude, which I¡¯ve trained to maintain over the years.


    Thomas leaned forward, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips.


    Thomas: So what, you had to prove yourself by piercing hearts and lopping off heads?


    Claire: The Heartson family required only the best protection. The process for choosing the manor¡¯s maids was... rigorous, to say the least. Naturally, I came out on top.


    Thomas: Oh, quite the humble maiden, aren¡¯t you?


    Claire: One of my many virtues.


    Despite himself, Thomas chuckled. There was something almost reassuring about her unshakable confidence, as though she¡¯d faced down a hundred battles before this one and come out unscathed each time. As he polished off the last bite on his plate, Claire¡¯s expression shifted, growing serious once more.


    Claire: Alright, now that we know a bit more about each other, let¡¯s discuss our next move. We need to find Mason, and that won¡¯t be a simple task.


    Thomas let out a small sigh, his fingers tapping restlessly against the table.


    Thomas: That¡¯s putting it mildly. We¡¯re up against an organization with an army at its disposal, all while somehow staying completely invisible to the public eye.


    Claire: Meaning?


    Thomas: Meaning we¡¯re going to need all the help we can get.

 Chapter 7: Behind Black Eyes

    Mason: Damn that stings.


    Slowly, Mason Heartson began to awake and take in his surroundings. He had no idea how much time had passed since his battle in the forest, nor did he know what had happened to Thomas and Claire, but Mason decided to push his thoughts away from them, focusing on what he could do about his current situation.


    Chains restrained his hands, anchoring him to the chilly stone that rest behind him. He found himself in a dim, dungeon-like chamber, its dark brick walls curving into a daunting cylinder around him, illuminated only by a solitary candle''s flicker.


    ???: I suppose even you are taxed by that power huh.


    Mason looked around the dark room for a few moments trying to find the source of the voice, finally noting the familiar face staring him down from across the room.


    Mason: Who... who¡¯s there?


    Mason¡¯s voice was dry and scratchy as he asked the question, already knowing the answer.


    Edward: I believe I¡¯ve already had the pleasure of introducing myself. I think the better question should be, who are you, Mason Heartson?


    Mason was taken aback by the question but Edward kept going before he could respond.


    Edward: After years and years of careful planning, after so so much time, so much effort, why are you where you currently are Mason? Why, why, why, explain it to me.


    Mason was stunned for several moments, staring at Edward who was now rubbing his hands through his hair and shaking. He began pacing impatiently across the room with his arms held behind his back for several moments until he stopped and stared directly into Mason¡¯s eyes.


    Edward: You don¡¯t know, do you. You know absolutely nothing is that right Mason Heartson. Is that right?


    Hysteria swept across Edward¡¯s face as his features twisted and contorted into a grin. Mason¡¯s eyes grew wider as Edward strided closer to him, putting his face right in front of Mason¡¯s.


    Edward: Just tell me, Mason Heartson. Who are you? Who are you to inherit that which does not belong to you? Who are you to possess that which so many have layed down their lifes for? Who are you to possess that which has caused countless wars and conflicts? Who are you Mason Heartson?


    Mason: I-I don¡¯t understand what you want me to say.


    Mason winced as his remark was quickly followed up with cold sharp laughter. Edward was so close that tiny droplets of saliva spit from his mouth hitting Mason on the cheek.


    Edward: Of course not, of course not is that right. That¡¯s right isn¡¯t it. Of course you don¡¯t understand, what do you understand Mason Heartson? Huh, what do you understand?


    Turning away from Mason, Edward put his hands behind his back once again and strided towards the opposite end of the room.


    Finally once Edward seemed satisfied with his distance from Mason, he turned around again, his expression changing at once to a more serious and refined stance.


    Edward: Did no one explain to you the significance of the power that you possess. The power of the Astral of Death?


    Mason: I don¡¯t - I-


    Edward observed Mason for a moment, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His eyes, gleaming with something dark and unreadable, flicked across Mason''s face as if studying a curious specimen. He took a slow, deliberate step forward.


    Edward: Let me ask you something boy, Mason Heartson-


    Edward finally began, his voice a low, almost hypnotic murmur.


    Edward: Tell me, Mason¡­ Have you ever stood at the edge of a cliff, gazing down, and felt a reckless call to leap?


    He paused, his eyes glinting in the dim light as he allowed the silence to amplify his words. His gaze, sharp as a blade, bore into Mason, rooting him in place.


    Edward: Ego, Mason. Do you know ego. That¡¯s what calls to us. That delusion¡ªthe voice that tells you you¡¯re more than a creature of flesh and bone, that you could soar into the sky, command the air, defy the pull of the earth itself. It wraps itself around your mind, convincing you that you understand who you are, what you are. That you''ve charted the dark corners of your soul.


    His voice grew rough, embittered, each word like venom dripping from his lips as he began to pace.


    Edward: But here you stand, Mason Heartson, looking back at me, wearing that expression, that absurd confidence of someone who believes they¡¯ve glimpsed even a sliver of truth. You¡­ a boy sculpted by invisible threads, molded by a power you cannot even begin to comprehend. And you¡ªhow tragic, how hilariously na?ve it is that you cling to this notion of self. That you are something. Tell me. Do you know ego?


    He leaned closer, the dark intensity in his voice filling the empty space between them, his face a mask of quiet fury, of knowing malice.


    Edward: You think you understand? Ego is more than pride, Heartson. It¡¯s the chains that bind the mind, the shroud that blinds the spirit. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    He laughed, a sound cold and cruel, his gaze locked on Mason, holding him in place with that gaze, as if savoring the helplessness, the unknowing.


    Edward: How miserable it is, Heartson, that you still haven¡¯t realized this: You have no control. None of us do. We¡¯re all at the mercy of forces vast and unseen, and yet the greatest tragedy is that we delude ourselves into believing we ever held the reins.


    Mason blinked, feeling the weight of Edward¡¯s words crush down on him like an avalanche, confusion giving way to defiance, his voice laced with irritation.


    Mason: Are you¡­ Are you out of your mind?


    Edward¡¯s face twisted in a sneer, the manic energy that had animated him moments before fading, leaving a hollow, simmering wrath in its place. He sighed, a hiss of disappointment.


    Edward: Of course. Of course you don¡¯t understand. How could you?


    He turned away, muttering as if the very effort of speaking to Mason were a burden, pacing with jerky, restless movements. Something dark and furious simmered beneath his skin, a barely-contained storm, the edges of his sanity fraying with each word.


    Mason, his fear melting under a surge of anger, spoke sharply, his voice a blade seeking to pierce Edward¡¯s armor of madness.


    Mason: Stop talking in circles! Just tell me what¡¯s going on! What is this ¡®Astral¡¯ you keep spouting about? What are you doing to me?


    Edward stopped mid-step, turning slowly, and as he faced Mason, a grim smile crept across his face, cold and sharp, freezing the air between them.


    Edward: An Astral, boy. Your Astral, the Astral of Death, is a force so ancient, so profound, that it travels through the very fabric of life and death. A consciousness, a will, that has chosen you as its vessel.


    Mason stared at Edward, trying to process his words, but Edward¡¯s tone grew more feverish, more intense, cutting through Mason¡¯s thoughts.


    Edward: A power that can grant power beyond one¡¯s imagination, or crush one beneath it¡¯s own will.


    He leaned back slightly, his expression softening, but only slightly.


    Edward: You asked what¡¯s happening to you? You¡¯re becoming the embodiment of that concept itself. Ushering the end of what we know, and the beginning of something unprecedented.


    Edward paused, his words hanging in the air, watching Mason¡¯s reaction with that same eerie smile.


    Mason bit back his fear and uncertainty, his voice coming out blunt and rude.


    Mason: Am I supposed to understand anything coming out of your mouth?


    Edward blinked, then threw his head back in a sudden burst of laughter, the sound echoing off the walls of the chamber. There was something unsettling in the way his laughter seemed to rise and fall, almost as if it were mocking Mason¡¯s very existence.


    Edward: You¡¯ll always be a nuisance, won¡¯t you?


    Edward finally said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.


    Edward: So incapable of understanding, so blind to the truth. Unprepared, unworthy of the role that has been bestowed upon you. It¡¯s almost tragic, really.


    Mason clenched his fists, the anger bubbling up once more.


    Mason: I¡¯m not offended by the words of a lunatic.


    Edward opened his mouth to speak, but no sound was returned.


    As his words echoed in the silence, Mason¡¯s mind began to race, thoughts tumbling over each other in a chaotic whirl. The room, the chains, the flickering candlelight¡ªall of it seemed to blur as something new, something foreign, slipped into his consciousness.


    A voice, different from Edward¡¯s, sharp, annoying, yet filled with adamant boredom, whispered into his mind.


    What will you do now?


    Mason stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. The voice was clear, cutting through the silence in his head. His pulse quickened. This was no longer about understanding Edward¡¯s twisted ramblings¡ªit was about survival. He needed to act, and fast.


    Escape.


    The dream Mason had been clawing at since the forest. No. Before that.


    Escape.


    Escape from the manor, escape from the maids, escape from school. But it was hopeless. There was no escape from life. How could he escape when Edward was standing right in front of him.


    All that whining. I asked you what will you do now? Don''t bore me any longer.


    It was a command. Despite the emotions that lurked within Mason¡¯s body, he realized he had no choice. He stood up slowly allowing himself to fill with whatever semblance of courage he could muster.


    Mason: You can shut up now. Both of you. Just shut your damn mouths and let me deal with this.


    Edward: Oh? What do you plan on doing Heartson?


    Edward¡¯s mocking tone ignited more flames in Mason¡¯s body. Allowing his anger and rage consume him, he raised his black fists into a fighting stance, breaking through the chains that once bound him.


    Mason: I¡¯m gonna do whatever I damn please. I¡¯ll cut down all your shitty invisible threads and get out of here.


    Mason charged at Edward, ignoring all traditional stance. He willed the flames in his hands to grow wilder preparing to knock Edward¡¯s head off with one clean strike.


    But as Mason got within striking distance, Edward simply smiled, not even raising his hands to block or defend himself from the attack. Instead, he moved to the side as Mason swung his first punch, causing Mason to stumble over slightly.


    Once again, Mason cast another punch at Edward who quickly moved out of the way of the strike. Miss, miss, miss, Mason poured everything he had into his swings but to no avail. No punch hit it¡¯s mark.


    ]Edward: How disappointing you are, Mason Heartson. How disappointing indeed.


    After Mason¡¯s sixth failed attack, Edward finally took the offense, pushing Mason¡¯s arm back before he could throw another punch, while simultaneously striking the boy in the stomach.


    Mason doubled over in pain, coughing slightly. The punch was much harder than what he was expecting. As Mason tried to recover, Edward leapt forward again, delivering a series of blows to Mason¡¯s head, stomach, arms, and legs.


    Mason¡¯s mind instinctively switched back into flight mode as he crumbled to the ground. He could no longer feel any of the muscles in his body functioning. Instead of fighting, his body seemed to prioritize survival, looking for any solution, any escape, any way to evade Edward.


    But once again. Just as it was in the forest. Just as it was even before that, the sound of laughter interjected. The sound of Edward¡¯s laughter filled the chamber, crushing any chance of escape. Edward Bassett, the source of Mason¡¯s misfortune.


    As Mason cursed the man, cursed that hope, he heard his words ringing loudly in his ears once again. Or perhaps it wasn¡¯t Edward at all. Perhaps it was a voice Mason hated even more.


    As Edward¡¯s metal boot came down onto Mason¡¯s face, he heard once again, the familiar voice ringing out to him.


    How disappointing you are Mason Heartson. How disappointing indeed.

 Chapter 8: Business Proposal

    Gary Fisher¡¯s job was the epitome of monotony. As a guard for one of the world¡¯s wealthiest individuals, he might¡¯ve hoped for a life filled with purpose¡ªperhaps traveling on secretive missions, attending VIP meetings, or at the very least, basking in the excitement of securing the secrets of power.


    But in reality, his life was a stark contrast to the expectations. Day in, day out, for ten hours at a stretch, seven days a week, he stood watch over a single, unremarkable entrance at the Stager building.


    The Stager building was vigilant enough on its own, equipped with layers upon layers of security, cameras perched high and hidden, their unblinking eyes surveilling every corner. And yet, here he was, posted at a door in a building where no one ever seemed to need a guard.


    Gary sighed, the fluorescent lights humming overhead as he settled into his shift, bracing for another day of uninterrupted quiet. His thoughts drifted, circling familiar subjects¡ªhis dwindling patience, the distant dream of a vacation, maybe even that faint hope he still held that his job might one day yield something more. And it was as he was locked in this state of half-focused apathy that she appeared.


    The woman entered with a kind of otherworldly grace that was impossible to ignore. Her figure, framed by a flowing fur coat that seemed to add inches to her height, drew his gaze immediately.


    Her blond hair shone in the cold light, her features striking and cool, like an artifact from a different time. She seemed slightly out of place, standing there amidst the corporate normality. But it wasn¡¯t just her appearance¡ªthere was a quality to her presence that commanded a weight, a kind of demand for attention that Gary, despite himself, couldn¡¯t resist.


    She paused just inside the entrance, her eyes flitting around the lobby, carrying an almost dazed, vulnerable expression that stood in contrast to her unreal beauty. For a moment, Gary felt a strange tug, a flicker of empathy he couldn¡¯t quite understand. He cleared his throat and approached, sensing a rare opportunity to break the quiet monotony of his post.


    Gary: Can I help you?


    The woman looked at him, her gaze unsteady but piercing, her eyes holding his with an intensity that made him feel a shade out of his depth.


    Woman: Yes, actually¡­ I, uh, really need directions to the nearest restroom.


    There was something strange about her voice, an urgency that felt¡­ forced? But he brushed the thought aside, his instinct for professionalism kicking in.


    Gary hesitated, his mind working through the protocols he was bound to, while his curiosity worked against him. The Stager building wasn¡¯t a public facility, and access to certain amenities¡ªlike restrooms¡ªwas strictly reserved for staff.


    She seemed to sense his reluctance, because she leaned in, her voice softening to a whisper.


    Woman: Please, Gary. I wouldn¡¯t ask if it weren¡¯t absolutely necessary. It¡¯s¡­ a woman¡¯s problem.


    She lingered on the last words, letting them hang in the air with a quiet insistence. Gary felt his face heat, caught off guard by the mix of desperation and embarrassment in her tone.


    Against his better judgment, he glanced over to Mary at the reception desk, hoping for some kind of silent backup. Mary¡¯s face showed the barest hint of a smirk before she turned her attention back to her computer, clearly leaving him to fend for himself.


    Gary turned back, giving the woman a reluctant nod.


    Gary: Alright, alright¡­ It¡¯s this way.


    He gestured down the hall, casting a glance over his shoulder as he began to walk, unable to shake a strange, prickling sensation in his gut. The woman followed closely behind.


    Guiding the mysterious woman through the sterile corridors of the Stager building, Gary found his professionalism warring with a growing curiosity. He stole glances over his shoulder, marveling at the serendipity¡ªor was it fate?¡ªthat had led her to cross his path on such an ordinary day.


    They arrived at the restroom entrance, and Gary stopped, turning to her with an awkward smile.


    Gary: There you go¡ª


    But he didn¡¯t get the chance to finish his sentence. In a flash of movement too quick for Gary to fully comprehend, the woman shifted from a figure of elegance and distress to one of calculated aggression.


    She pushed him with surprising force, sending him stumbling backward onto the bathroom floor. Before Gary could react or regain his balance, she had expertly disarmed him, his own gun now pointed squarely at him with her finger firmly on the trigger.


    Woman: Make a noise and you''re dead


    Frozen by the sudden turn of events, Gary could only watch in shock as she methodically began to empty his utility belt. The contents of his carefully maintained company uniform clattered to the ground.


    As the woman sifted through the items scattered on the floor, her hands finally clasped around a large, folded piece of paper concealed within the inner pocket of Gary''s company jacket. It was a blueprint, detailed and precise, outlining the layout of the Stager building.


    Key areas were marked: surveillance points, entrances, exits, and even the less conspicuous ventilation shafts.


    A faint smile crept across her face.


    Without wasting a moment, she retrieved her phone from her jacket, dialing a number with practiced ease.


    Woman: Thomas, I''ve got it.


    Gary, still reeling from the sudden aggression, could only guess at the identity of the person on the other end.


    Seizing the opportunity her distraction presented, Gary mustered all the courage and desperation he could find within himself. Ignoring the pain throbbing in his head and the fear clouding his judgment, he made his move. With a shout for help that echoed off the sterile walls, he lunged towards his gun, driven by instinct more than hope.


    But the woman''s reaction was swift and devastating. Dropping the phone, she drew a sword from beneath her oversized jacket¡ªa blade so sharp and her movements so fluid that Gary barely registered the action before it was too late.


    His fingers, reaching out in an attempt to reclaim his weapon, were severed with clinical precision.


    The pain was immediate, intense, and overwhelming.


    In the same fluid motion, she covered Gary''s mouth with her other hand.


    But her attempt at silencing Gary was rendered futile by the arrival of Mary, the receptionist, who stumbled upon the scene. Her eyes wide with horror, she took in the sight before her: Gary, incapacitated and bleeding, and the mysterious woman, calm and in control.


    The woman in the coat looked down at Gary with pity in her eyes, sighing deeply.


    Claire: Look what you made me do Gary.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Thomas¡¯s feet slid back across the polished floor, his wooden katana digging into the ground in a desperate bid to halt his momentum. The force of the last blow had rattled him to his core, but it wasn¡¯t the pain that burned within him.


    No¡ªthere was something far hotter simmering just beneath the surface. As he steadied himself, his gaze lifted to meet that of the man before him, and the fury in his eyes spoke volumes.


    The Bastard.


    That¡¯s how he thought of him, this man who wore that perpetual mask of calm, who spoke in tones as if everything he said were carved from wisdom itself.


    But Thomas knew better. That polished exterior was a lie, a farce. This man was hollow, molded to appear wise and righteous but entirely empty on the inside.


    The Bastard: Impatience again?


    The Bastard¡¯s voice was steady, almost mocking. His thin, sharp staff shined under the room¡¯s lights as he planted it into the floor with a swift elegance.


    The Bastard: Emotion-driven decisions are your downfal.


    Thomas clenched his teeth, his fingers digging into his arm with enough force to leave half-moon indentations. He felt the hatred coil tighter, deeper.


    Him, telling him he was ¡°emotion-driven¡±? Him, the one who¡¯d only ever wielded words like scalpels, cutting and dissecting without remorse, calling him out for lacking control? Thomas nearly laughed. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    It was this man¡ªthis arrogant Bastard¡ªwho acted like he understood patience, like he embodied restraint, when all he did was hide his true self behind a shield of etiquette.


    In his mind, Thomas replayed the countless times he¡¯d seen that facade slip in the slightest of ways¡ªa twitch of irritation, a slip of the mask. But The Bastard always reeled himself back in, smoothing over his expressions and tone like a practiced actor.


    It was hypocrisy in its purest form.


    He drew in a breath, forcing his voice to remain steady, though his body trembled from the effort.


    Thomas: Patience, you say. You think that¡¯s what you have do you?


    The Bastard only raised an eyebrow.


    The Bastard: When you¡¯re ready to let go of that childish indignation, we can continue.


    Childish? Thomas nearly choked on the word. He felt the bile rise, but he swallowed it down. He wouldn¡¯t give The Bastard the satisfaction of seeing him lose control.


    Instead, he straightened, gripping his katana firmly once more.


    Thomas: Maybe you¡¯re right.


    He said, though his tone made it clear he believed no such thing.


    Thomas: But patience isn¡¯t about burying your feelings and pretending they¡¯re not there. That you ought to know.


    Without a word, The Bastard lifted his steel staff, pointing it toward Thomas with a single command, the words landing like a final, cutting blow.


    The Bastard: Strike again.


    And Thomas, with hatred burning like fuel in his veins, lunged forward.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Patience, Thomas thought, was one of his better virtues. Or so he liked to believe.


    That man certainly didn¡¯t think so, but then again, that man didn¡¯t think highly of many things he did. Still, Thomas prided himself on his ability to wait, to endure discomfort with a calm exterior while the people around him¡ªespecially those who doubted him¡ªsquirmed.


    Yet, as he sat perched on the rooftop, staring down at the windows of the Stager building, his calm fa?ade was beginning to crack. Every minute without a signal from Claire made his pulse spike in spite of himself.


    The morning had been a series of activity as the duo laid out their strategy to infiltrate the Stager building and secure a private audience with Harrison Stager¡¯s personal secretary Margarett.


    Thomas had previously shared with Claire, during their carefully laid plans at the Heartson manor, that he had already made contact with Margarett. Through this initial conversation, it was revealed that Margarett had her own unnerving encounter with the shadowy faction responsible for Mason''s abduction.


    With few leads to guide them, Thomas and Claire knew that Margarett was their best hope for uncovering any clues regarding Mason''s whereabouts.


    Doing some brief internet investigation, Claire and Thomas were able to deduce Margarett¡¯s location, as she was currently participating in a business meeting with Harrison Stager himself deep inside the Stager building.


    With the Heartson family''s resources at their disposal, Claire had efficiently procured new attire and all necessary supplies for their mission.


    The sword Thomas had picked up from the manor was hastily wrapped around his waste with whatever materials he could get his hands on, in an attempt to conceal it in public.


    He tried to swallow his unease, to reassure himself that everything was going according to plan. Claire knew what she was doing¡ªmore than he ever would. If anyone could handle this, it was her. But that didn¡¯t stop the small, invasive thoughts from creeping in.


    Then, finally, his phone buzzed, the screen lighting up like a lifeline in his palm.


    Claire: Thomas, I''ve got it.


    A flood of relief washed over him, his grip loosening around the phone. She had done it. He couldn¡¯t stop himself from grinning, pride swelling in his chest. Of course she¡¯d pulled it off¡ªthis was Claire, after all.


    All he needed now was for her to tell him where to go, to guide him through the final steps. But just as the relief settled, her message distorted, static filling the line.


    Thomas: Claire?


    The noise on the other end grew louder, then broke into muffled screams. He tried to stay calm, to focus, but the seconds of silence felt like an eternity, and when her voice finally cut back in, it was laced with urgency.


    Claire: Thomas, listen, there''s a vent on the side of the building. Your side, leading directly to the security room.


    Thomas: Wait, what happened?


    Claire: I don''t have time to explain. Just find the vent. I''ll guide you to the security room from there.


    And with that, the line went dead.


    The abruptness left him reeling. But as much as he wanted to push, to demand answers, he knew it would be pointless. Claire was already in the thick of whatever mess she¡¯d stumbled into. He took a deep breath, letting the sense of urgency drown out the doubt clawing at him.


    With a newfound resolve, Thomas secured the rope he¡¯d prepared and steadied himself. The vent was high on the side of the building, but he wasn¡¯t about to let something as trivial as height stop him. Besides, if Claire could dive headfirst into danger, the least he could do was catch up.


    He swung across, landing next to the vent with a bit more grace than he expected, and got to work unscrewing the panel. When the panel finally came free, he slid inside, his movements cramped and cautious as he maneuvered through the narrow space.


    The vents were tighter than he¡¯d anticipated, the air thick and unmoving, and he had to fight against the claustrophobia prickling at his mind. His phone buzzed with a steady stream of instructions from Claire, guiding him through the maze of ducts with precision.


    Left, right, another left¡­ the path seemed endless, the metal walls pressing in on him, but finally, he found himself positioned above the security room. He peered through the vent¡¯s grating, his heartbeat hammering in his ears as he took in the scene below.


    For a moment, a flicker of fear crept in. There could be guards, cameras, any number of things waiting below, and he had no idea what he¡¯d do if they spotted him. But then he shook his head, banishing the hesitation. He hadn¡¯t come this far just to stall now. Taking one last steadying breath, he pushed open the grating and dropped down, his sword in hand.


    The landing was smoother than he¡¯d expected, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of hostility. But instead of a tense standoff, he was met with a sight that caught him entirely off-guard.


    Claire was seated casually in the security chair, a smirk playing at her lips, her eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. Around her, three unconscious guards lay sprawled across the floor. She¡¯d done all of this¡ªon her own. He could only stare, part amazed, part incredulous.


    Gone was her oversized coat; instead, she wore a neatly pressed secretary uniform, complete with a nametag that read ¡°Mary.¡± The sight was almost absurd, but somehow, she made it work.


    Claire: Careful with that.


    She said, nodding toward the sword in his hand, her voice laced with playful irony.


    Claire: You might take someone''s eye out.


    He let out a breath he hadn¡¯t realized he was holding, his mind racing with a mix of relief and disbelief.


    Thomas: You¡ªyou did all this?


    Claire shrugged.


    Claire: You were taking too long. A polite knock on the door works wonders.


    Her tone was light, almost teasing, but there was an edge to her words that he didn¡¯t miss.


    Thomas felt a rush of embarrassment, his face heating as he realized his elaborate vent infiltration had been entirely unnecessary.


    But before he could respond, he noticed the blood staining her hands, the dark splotches on her uniform. His amusement faded, replaced by a gnawing worry.


    Thomas: You didn¡¯t¡­ kill anyone, did you?


    She met his gaze with a steady calm, shaking her head.


    Claire: Just as you asked¡ªeveryone makes it out alive.


    A flicker of gratitude softened his expression, and he nodded, relief easing the tension in his shoulders.


    Thomas: Okay¡­ so, what¡¯s next?


    Claire was already a step ahead, her mind clearly working through their next move as she scanned the room¡¯s monitors.


    Claire: The blueprints don¡¯t show Stager¡¯s exact location, but if I had to guess, he¡¯s on the top floor, high-security meetings like these are almost always held at the top. Grab one of the guards¡¯ uniforms before they come around and meet me at the elevator.


    He nodded, already moving toward one of the unconscious guards, trying not to think too hard about what he was doing as he swapped clothes. He glanced at Claire, a strange mix of admiration and bewilderment bubbling up inside him.


    She made all this look so easy, like they were actors in a play and she¡¯d memorized her lines long before he¡¯d even had a chance to read the script.


    As they headed toward the elevator, his briefly thought about how absurd this all was¡ªhim, a teenage boy with a sword, sneaking into a high-security building in a stolen uniform, all for a mission he still barely understood.


    And yet, as they waited for the elevator doors to open, the strange sense of purpose that had brought him here only solidified.


    This wasn¡¯t just some game, or a thrill he¡¯d chase and forget.


    This mattered.


    And he felt like he was exactly where he needed to be.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Thomas: So, are we just going to barge in and ask for Margarett?


    Claire: We''ll improvise a distraction once we''re closer. Let''s first find where the meeting is happening.


    Upon reaching the top floor, they quietly exited the elevator and began their trek down the hallway. Thomas tugged on the sleeves of his uniform.


    Thomas: How come you got a perfect fit? These clothes were made for a giant.


    Claire: Next time I¡¯ll pack you a onesie.


    Thomas chuckled at the comment before shutting his mouth and continuing to move down the halls, remembering the situation they were in.


    Each door bore a plaque, which they read intently, searching for any indication of Harrison Stager''s meeting location. They were about halfway through when Claire suddenly halted.


    Claire: I can hear them. Second to last door on the left.


    Thomas: How the hell can you hear that from here?


    Claire didn''t respond, her focus zeroing in on the door in question. As they approached, both pondered their approach for creating a diversion. Yet, before they could formulate a plan, Claire''s body tensed, and she executed a defensive maneuver, swinging behind Thomas just as a large wooden staff aimed for his head.


    Thomas''s eyes shot up to meet those of a young girl, no older than a teenager, with long black hair dressed in casual streetwear and jewelry, wielding a staff. Confusion fell upon his face, but before he could voice his questions, Claire attempted to tackle the girl, who, in a bewildering display, vanished only to reappear in her initial stance.


    The scene left Thomas scrambling for comprehension, his thoughts abruptly interrupted as he dodged a lethal strike from a dark katana.


    The attacker, an elderly Asian man with long white hair and a beard. His age seemed to contrast with his strength, the strike from the katana so quick Thomas barely avoided the attack..


    Reacting instinctively, Thomas drew his sword, adrenaline surging as he prepared for the confrontation. Claire, frustration evident in her growl, chastised herself for not detecting the duo sooner. The two prepared themselves for battle, unaware of the tragedy soon to occur.

 Chapter 9: The Old Generation

    An Astral is the absolute pinnacle of nature, being able to manipulate and transform energy as it sees fit to produce extraordinary results. When a human possesses the abilities of an Astral, the skills acquired result in the individual rising to a class of their own. No normal human should be able to challenge an Astral user.


    So as Grace¡¯s head burst through the nearby drywall she couldn¡¯t help but wonder what the hell was happening.


    Unparalleled speed, tremendous might, despite clearly not possessing an Astral, the blonde warrior who towered above Grace Matsushita was clearly no ordinary human.


    Holding her wooden staff in one hand, Grace¡¯s eyes immediately lit up with a bright shade of green, allowing her to revert her position to how it was before being slammed through the wall. Even with the reversion of her own position, Grace¡¯s body still remembered the pain of the blonde attacker''s impact.


    Ignoring the pain, she spun on her heels, appearing behind the blonde woman in an instant. Her staff struck out with the intent of catching her attacker off guard.


    But the blonde warrior was quick. Almost impossibly so.


    In the moment her staff should have made contact, the woman ducked low, dodging Grace¡¯s strike by a hair¡¯s breadth. Her icy-blue eyes locked onto Grace¡¯s position as she pivoted, sweeping her leg in a wide arc. Grace barely managed to leap over the kick and swung her staff downward in retaliation.


    The wooden staff whistled through the air, aimed at the blonde''s exposed side, but at the last moment, the woman twisted her body, avoiding the blow by a fraction. She counterattacked immediately, her fist crashing into Grace¡¯s ribs with brutal force.


    Grace let out a gasp of pain as she was thrown back, but before her body hit the ground, she activated Reversion again. She reappeared in the same spot she had been standing just before the punch, but her body still shuddered with the memory of the pain.


    The blonde woman lunged forward with an overhead strike, her speed blinding. Grace barely had time to bring her staff up to block. The force of the impact sent tremors through her arms, and she quickly reversed her position again, retreating behind her opponent.


    Disoriented from the sudden shift, the blonde woman stumbled for just a second, and Grace seized the opportunity. She charged forward, swinging her staff in a wide arc aimed at the woman¡¯s exposed back.


    But just before the strike landed, the woman dropped to the floor in a smooth motion, rolling away from the blow and back onto her feet. She dashed forward with impossible speed, slashing out with her sword which grazed Grace¡¯s arm.


    Grace cursed under her breath. Blood trickled down her sleeve as she reeled back, activating Reversion once again. The blonde warrior, however, was catching on.


    Each time Grace reverted her position, the woman adjusted more quickly. Grace swung her staff again, trying to create space, but the woman stepped inside her guard, slashing at her side.


    The cut was shallow, but the sting sent Grace stumbling back. She reversed her position once more, appearing to the side of her attacker, but this time, the woman was ready. She spun around just as Grace materialized, driving her knee into Grace¡¯s midsection before Grace could react.


    Grace gasped, doubling over as the air was forced from her lungs. She activated her ability again out of instinct, reverting to a standing position. But the blonde was already there, swinging her sword in a sharp arc. Grace narrowly avoided the blade by raising her staff, but the woman¡¯s strikes were coming faster now, more relentless.


    Grace: You really wanna kill me now huh¡­ Mary?


    The loss of blood and pain from multiple impacts was beginning to take a toll on the young girl. She took a minute to catch her breath, reading her opponent''s name tag for the first time. For some reason the name seemed unfitting.


    ¡°Mary¡±: You wouldn¡¯t have any clue what it is that I want.


    Grace: Fair enough.


    The fight shifted into a chaotic dance of reversals and counters. ¡°Mary¡± slashed and struck, while Grace continued to use her Reversion to escape each near-fatal blow. But it was taking its toll. Every time Grace reversed, her body still carried the pain of every cut, every hit. Her movements were slowing, and her energy was draining.


    Finally, ¡°Mary¡± broke through. As Grace activated Reversion one last time, the woman anticipated her move, appearing at Grace¡¯s side just as she reappeared. With brutal efficiency, ¡°Mary¡± swept Grace¡¯s legs out from under her and delivered a powerful strike to her shoulder with the hilt of her blade.


    Grace collapsed to the ground, her staff clattering out of her grasp. Blood oozed from several cuts along her arms and torso, her body trembling from exhaustion. ¡°Mary¡± loomed over her, breathing steadily as if the battle had been nothing more than a warm-up.


    Grace tried to stand, but her legs refused to cooperate. ¡°Mary¡± raised her leg, preparing to knock Grace unconscious.


    Then, suddenly, a loud crash reverberated through the abandoned office room as a boy dressed in an oversized security uniform, came barreling through the wall, sending debris flying everywhere.


    ¡°Mary¡± hesitated, her attention snapping toward the source of the noise. Grace, despite the pain, blinked through the haze, catching a glimpse of the fallen boy.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    As the dust settled from the wall Thomas had crashed through, Claire¡¯s eyes snapped to him, her instincts kicking in. She moved without thinking, rushing toward his fallen form. But before she could reach him, a sharp voice cut through the air.


    ???: Tora!


    Claire barely had time to react before an old warrior lunged at her with terrifying speed. His katana gleamed, energy along its edge. Claire¡¯s sword came up just in time to block the first strike, but the force behind it sent a shudder through her arm.


    The man¡¯s eyes were sharp. He didn¡¯t hesitate, his katana flashing in a blur of motion as he pressed forward. Claire parried, her movements just as precise, but she was forced back, step by step.


    Each time she thought she¡¯d adjusted to his rhythm, the man¡¯s stance would shift.


    Old Man: Taka!


    With a burst of speed, Claire¡¯s assailant pivoted, his katana sweeping horizontally. Claire barely ducked in time, feeling the air whistle above her head. She countered with a low strike toward his legs, but the warrior danced out of reach.


    What the hell is he?


    Claire thought, her mind racing. She had never fought someone this old who could keep up with her¡ªlet alone match her blow for blow.


    Except of course¡­


    His fighting style was erratic yet fluid, constantly evolving. His shouts weren¡¯t for show; each time he yelled out he seemed to alter his entire body, increasing his speed, strength, or agility in an instant.


    Old Man: ¨­kami!


    The man¡¯s body seemed to coil like a spring, his katana slicing toward Claire with predatory precision. She blocked, but the sheer force behind the strike rattled her to the core. Before she could recover, he shifted again.


    Old Man: Z¨­!


    Claire had no time to brace herself. The man¡¯s stance widened, and his next stomp was like a shockwave, the ground beneath them trembling as he charged with the full weight of an unstoppable beast. His katana came down with the force of a sledgehammer, and Claire was thrown off balance.


    The blow sent her crashing through a nearby office wall, wood and drywall exploding outward as she tumbled into the adjoining room.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Claire''s vision blurred for a moment, the impact disorienting her, but when her eyes refocused, she found herself staring at an entirely different scene.


    A group of businessmen were seated around a long, polished table, stunned by her sudden entrance. Papers scattered into the air as the boardroom turned into chaos.


    Claire: Excuse the intrusion.


    Claire politely raised her hand in apology while rolling on the ground, barely avoiding another stomp from the crazed attacker.


    Claire: I¡¯d suggest taking the exit to your left.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Thomas groaned as he struggled to push himself off the floor, his entire body aching from the impact of being tossed around like a rag doll by the old man.


    As he attempted to stand, a sudden blur of motion caught his eye. The dark haired girl, still battered and bruised from her fight with Claire, was rushing toward him, her staff raised.


    The cuts and bruises covering her body didn¡¯t seem to slow her down. Thomas barely had time to roll out of the way as her staff slammed into the ground where he had been.


    Panting, Thomas got to his feet, narrowly dodging another swing.


    She¡¯s fast, but not very precise.


    Her attacks were wild, almost desperate, but her speed made up for her lack of finesse.


    Thomas saw an opening and lunged, hoping to knock the staff from her hands. But just as he was about to strike, Grace¡¯s eyes flashed with that eerie green light again.


    In an instant, her body flickered and reappeared behind him, disorienting him just long enough for her to land a solid blow to his ribs. Thomas stumbled, gasping as the pain surged through him.


    Thomas: Damn it¡ªyou¡¯re using that again.


    He tried to turn, but Grace was already in motion, her staff coming down hard on his shoulder. He grunted in pain, feeling his knees buckle slightly under the force.


    Dark Haired Girl: Who are you?!


    She demanded between strikes.


    Dark Haired Girl: What are you even doing here?


    Thomas tried to answer, but every time he opened his mouth, her staff found another target, forcing the breath from his lungs. He couldn¡¯t get a straight answer out, couldn¡¯t think clearly with the barrage of attacks.


    Thomas: I don¡¯t¡ª


    He gasped, sidestepping a particularly vicious swing.


    Thomas: I don¡¯t owe you any explanations!


    Her eyes narrowed, and she swung harder, catching him in the side.


    Dark Haired Girl: Then I¡¯ll beat it out of you.


    Thomas coughed violently as he felt something hot rise in his throat. Blood. He staggered back, clutching his ribs, barely able to keep himself upright.


    Thomas: I am so tired¡­ of getting my ass beat.


    Thomas charged straight for her, adrenaline numbing his pain. But just as he closed the gap, the girl activated Reversion again. Her body flickered, and before Thomas could adjust, her staff connected with his chest, sending him flying backward into a nearby wall.


    The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. His vision blurred for a moment as he tried to steady himself.


    This doesn¡¯t look winnable.


    Ignoring the protests from his aching body, he scrambled to his feet and bolted for the hallway.


    His opponent shouted something behind him, but Thomas didn¡¯t stop. His legs carried him through the narrow corridors of the building.


    But just as he passed the set of doors he had seen earlier, he skidded to a halt. Loud, panicked screaming echoed from inside a nearby conference room.


    Thomas hesitated, every instinct screaming at him to keep moving, to avoid getting pulled into whatever chaos lay ahead. But the desperate screams on the other side of the door clawed at him, a sinking feeling forming in his gut.


    He gritted his teeth, fingers tightening around the door handle as he forced it open and stepped inside.


    The conference room lay in ruins.


    A massive, lion-like beast loomed over the scene, its hulking frame covered in dark, matted fur that bristled with sharp, jagged spikes running along its spine. Muscles rippled beneath its coat, and its amber eyes burned with an eerie, unnatural glow. The beast let out a rumbling, guttural grow sending a shudder through Thomas as he took in the creature¡¯s terrifying presence.


    The room was chaos. Chairs lay splintered, tables overturned, papers strewn like fallen leaves. Businesspeople scrambled frantically, trying to find any escape from the nightmare that had descended upon them. They pushed against each other in desperate attempts to get away. But the beast was everywhere¡ªits huge paws, tipped with claws as long as daggers, tore through everything in its path.


    At the head of the fleeing pack was Thomas¡¯s target, Margarett. Her face was pale, eyes wide as she tried to keep as much distance as she could from the monster. She darted around the wreckage, glancing over her shoulder. She stumbled, narrowly missing a swipe of the creature¡¯s massive claws, and let out a strangled cry as she scrambled to her feet, desperation etched into every movement.


    The beast¡¯s gaze landed on Margarett, a growl rumbling deep in its throat as it fixed on her with deadly intent.


    Without thinking, Thomas ran forward, his heart pounding in his chest.


    No, no, no¡ª


    But the creature moved with unnatural speed.


    In one horrifying leap, the beast lunged across the room, its jaws snapping shut around Margarett. She barely had time to scream before the creature''s teeth pierced her flesh.


    Blood splattered across the table as her lifeless body fell to the floor.


    Thomas froze, his legs giving out beneath him as he collapsed to his knees. His mind raced, but his body wouldn¡¯t move.


    He had been too late.


    The image of Margarett''s death burned into his mind, replaying in his head. The sight of her blood pooling across the polished floor left him shaking. He had failed.


    I¡¯ll do it my way¡ªwithout sacrificing anyone.


    His plan. His fault.


    His dark haired opponent burst into the room moments later, her staff raised and ready to strike. But the second she saw the beast, the blood, and the bodies, her steps faltered. The rage she had been carrying moments ago drained away, replaced by a paralyzing sense of horror.


    Dark Haired Girl: What... what is that?


    Both of them sat frozen in place, unable to tear their eyes away from the monstrous creature, which now turned its attention toward them.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Claire felt the cool A/C air biting at her skin as she stepped back, wiping sweat from her brow. The skirmish had taken its toll; a few cuts markedd her arms. She pushed through the pain, her breaths coming in heavy bursts.


    The old man paused for a moment, a glimmer of respect flickering in his eyes.


    Old Man: I must say, you¡¯ve got some skill with that sword, girl, reminds me of someone I once knew.


    Claire: Now, would you consider turning the other way? Just as a token of good faith?


    The man erupted in laughter, a deep, hearty sound that echoed through the clearing.


    Old Man: Not a chance!


    With a flick of his wrist, he lunged forward, his katana slicing through the air. Claire barely managed to parry his first blow, the shock reverberating through her body. She quickly regained her footing, but the old man¡¯s relentless strikes were a storm of blurring motion.


    As they continued their fierce exchange, Claire began to realize that she was putting in far more effort than she had anticipated. Her muscles screamed in protest as she blocked and countered his blows.


    Old Man: Kuma!


    Without skipping a beat the man shoved his katana into the wall where Claire¡¯s head was a second ago, causing it to completely crumble under his intense strength. If Claire was hit by even one of the man¡¯s strikes she knew with absolute certainty her body wouldn¡¯t hold up.


    Deciding there was no reason to hold back anymore, Claire quickly raised her sword above her head. As the man went for another strike she parried, shifting the energy exerted from the man¡¯s sword softening the blow. While the impact was still harsh, she was able to take it in one piece.


    Old Man: Kakaka! There¡¯s no doubt about it! You¡¯re definitely a disciple of Oskar huh!


    When Claire didn¡¯t respond the man burst out laughing again, barely able to contain himself.


    Old Man: If that¡¯s the case, I have no reason to go easy on you any longer! I¡¯m sure Oskar told you about it. About my soul right? The soul of Kazuki Matsushita!


    In an explosive movement, the old man raised his sword high, and with a voice that reverberated like thunder.


    Kazuki: Seiry¨±!


    The words hung in the air like a challenge, electrifying the atmosphere. Claire¡¯s eyes flickered momentarily as the katana erupted in brilliant azure flames, illuminating the surroundings in a surreal glow.


    The first strike came like a bolt of lightning, and Claire barely managed to dodge, feeling the heat of the flames singe the air around her. Her heart raced, and she drew on every ounce of energy within her, channeling it into her movements to lessen the impact of his blows.


    Kazuki smiled slightly. He was having fun now.


    Claire¡¯s muscles burned, and she could feel her strength waning. With a determined growl, she pushed through the fatigue, launching a series of strikes in quick succession, her blade a flurry of motion.


    But the old man laughed, the sound booming around them.


    Just as she prepared for another strike, Kazuki suddenly paused, his eyes narrowing as he sensed something behind him. Claire followed his gaze and scowled.


    Emerging from the shadows was a massive wolf-like beast, its body covered in sharp, glinting spikes that caught the light ominously.


    Before the beast could even leap to attack Claire, the old man pierced its head with his katana, setting the beast aflame. He quickly turned his head to Claire, the smile on his face drained and forgotten.


    Kazuki: You working with them?


    Claire shook her head, her expression now icy.


    The beast behind Kazuki began to raise slowly, ignoring the flames that had engulfed it. Without even turning his head Kazuki sliced the air behind him. For a moment it seemed that nothing had happened, but when Claire blinked, the beast''s head was no longer attached to its burning body.


    Kazuki sheathed his katana and walked towards Claire, wiping black blood that dripped from his face.


    Kazuki: Then this might be worse than I figured.

 Chapter 10: Bad Business

    Thomas and the dark haired girl sprinted through the halls of the Stager building, the ground beneath them trembling with each step of the monstrous lion-like creature hot on their heels. Its massive form bulldozed through desks and shattered walls as if they were made of paper, its eyes locked on its fleeing prey.


    Thomas: How is this thing so fast?!


    Dark Haired Girl: Could you shut up for one second and let me think!


    The creature let out a deafening roar and pounced, its massive jaws opening wide to snatch her from the ground. But just before the beast''s teeth could close in, the fashionable teen¡¯s eyes flashed green.


    In an instant, her body flickered and she reappeared behind the beast, her Reversion ability activating just in time. The creature slammed into the floor where she had been, its jaws snapping shut with a loud crack.


    Thomas, noticing the girl¡¯s sudden change in position, didn''t hesitate. He ran toward the beast as it shook off the impact, leaping into the air and driving his sword toward its mouth. The blade pierced through the roof of its mouth, but the force of the stab lodged the weapon firmly in the creature¡¯s maw.


    The beast reared back, shaking its massive head violently and roaring in pain. Thomas gritted his teeth and tried to wrench the sword free, but it was stuck fast. With a final furious shake, the creature flung Thomas to the ground like a doll.


    He crashed hard, his body hitting the floor with a thud. His sword remained lodged in the beast''s mouth.


    Thomas gasped, winded and dazed from the fall. He struggled to push himself up, his body protesting with every movement.


    The beast''s attention locked onto him, its powerful legs tensing, preparing to pounce again. But before it could launch forward, the girl appeared from behind with a wide swing of her staff, catching the creature by surprise.


    The wooden staff cracked against the beast''s side, a shockwave of force rippling through its body. The blow was much stronger than expected, causing the creature to stumble.


    Thomas coughed, getting back on his feet as he took a moment to catch his breath.


    She¡¯s buying me some time¡­ need a plan


    His mind raced as he watched his former opponent skillfully evade the beast''s relentless strikes, using her Reversion to appear behind it at every opportunity. But he could tell she was tiring, her movements slowing with each dodge.


    His mind went back to the blueprints he had seen momentarily while with Claire. He just needed something, anything, to stop this thing.


    And then he had it.


    Thomas: Oi, over here!


    The beast growled, its attention snapping back to Thomas, as if it understood his challenge. It lunged toward him, its eyes burning with rage, but Thomas stood his ground, his fists clenched.


    With a determined shout, Thomas ran directly at the beast. As it reared back to bite, he jumped forward and punched it square in the nose with all his might. The attack didn¡¯t do much damage, but the beast recoiled, confused by the sudden strike.


    It was enough for Thomas to reach up and grab the hilt of his sword, still stuck in its mouth. With a quick yank, he ripped the blade free, but the weapon snapped in half, leaving him with only a shard of the original blade.


    Thomas didn¡¯t waste any time. He bolted down the hallway, Grace falling in step beside him.


    Dark Haired Girl: You got a plan?


    Thomas: Hardly.


    She hesitated, her eyes flicking to the shattered blade in Thomas¡¯s hand.


    Dark Haired Girl: Hardly isn¡¯t very reassuring.


    Thomas: Well if you¡¯ve got anything.


    She rolled her eyes but finally nodded.


    The two raced down the final corridor, the beast crashing through the walls behind them. It was relentless, tearing through anything in its path, its fury unyielding.


    As they reached the glass-walled end of the hallway, Thomas and the dark haired girl flattened themselves against the wall, their backs pressed to the cool glass. The beast rounded the corner and barreled toward them, its jaws open wide, teeth gleaming, ready to rip them apart.


    In the blink of an eye, the dark haired teen activated Reversion, her body flickering out of sight just as the beast lunged. At the same moment, Thomas kicked off of the glass, twisting his body as he aimed for the beast¡¯s head. With a powerful thrust, he drove the broken sword straight through the creature¡¯s skull.


    The beast let out a deafening roar as its momentum carried it forward. It crashed into the glass wall with a thunderous impact, shattering the glass into a million shards. The beast, along with the rest of Thomas¡¯s sword, tumbled out of the building and onto the grassy landscape outside.


    For a moment, everything was still. Then Thomas staggered back, breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his chest. He looked out the shattered window at the lifeless form of the creature below.


    The dark haired girl, reappeared beside him, leaning on her staff. Her eyes widened with disbelief.


    Dark Haired Girl: You¡¯re insane.


    Thomas chuckled weakly, wiping sweat from his brow.


    Thomas: Yeah.


    He heard a faint chuckle behind him, light and unexpected. The girl stood at the edge of the shattered glass, a small smile playing on her lips. She raised her hand to her mouth, as though to stifle her amusement, covering it with a fake cough.


    Thomas, still trying to steady his breath from the wild fight, couldn¡¯t help but smile back at her.


    But the moment was short-lived.


    The girl¡¯s smile evaporated in an instant, her eyes darting toward Thomas. He barely registered the shift in her expression before she bolted at him with alarming speed. He had no time to process it. Before he knew it, she had slammed into him, knocking the wind out of him as they both hit the ground.


    Thomas: What the hell¡ª


    Thomas started, ready to push her off, assuming she was attacking him. But then he heard it¡ªa sharp, metallic rattle followed by a barrage of bullets whizzing through the air. The gunfire echoed off the office walls as bullets tore through the space where he had been standing only moments earlier.


    His body instinctively tensed as he heard the glass shatter even further, the spray of bullets ricocheting off the broken window frame.


    The dark haired girl lay firmly on his chest, her weight pressing him down, preventing him from making any sudden moves. He felt her breath quicken against him, but she remained calm.


    For what felt like an eternity, the room was filled with the staccato of gunfire, bullets embedding themselves into the walls, furniture, and ceiling.


    Finally, the shooting ceased. The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by the distant sounds of reloading guns and the faint shuffling of feet outside. Thomas¡¯s heart pounded in his chest, his mind still reeling from the sudden attack.


    The girl, still on top of him, slowly lifted her head, listening carefully to the voices now coming from outside the building. Her body was tense, her eyes sharp and focused.


    Dark Haired Girl: They¡¯re still out there.


    She whispered, her breath warm against his face.


    Thomas nodded, trying to suppress the urge to move too quickly. The weight of her body against his, combined with the adrenaline still surging through him, made it difficult to think straight.


    She shifted her weight and carefully slid off him, grabbing his arm as she did so. She pulled him up with her, the two of them crawling low to the ground to avoid being seen. Shards of broken glass crunched beneath their hands and knees as they maneuvered away from the opening.


    They kept their bodies low, sliding behind what was left of the office¡¯s shattered desks and turning a corner to escape the line of sight of the shooters outside.


    Thomas, still trying to regain his composure, felt the ache in his muscles from the battle, his body screaming in protest.


    Once they were a safe distance away from the broken window, the dark haired girl finally stood, pulling Thomas up with her. They moved quickly through the corridors, ducking into whatever cover they could find as they navigated the maze of hallways.


    She turned to him, her brow furrowed with frustration.


    Dark Haired Girl: What the hell is going on?!


    Thomas wiped the sweat from his forehead, his mind still reeling from the gunfire and the attack.


    Thomas: It¡¯s them¡­ it¡¯s the same ones who came after me and Claire at the manor. Of course, it had to be them. Why wouldn¡¯t it be?


    Dark Haired Girl: Them? Who the hell are they, and why are they after you?


    Thomas didn¡¯t answer immediately. He didn¡¯t have a solid explanation, only the pieces he had been able to gather. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, they rounded a corner¡ªand ran straight into Claire and the old asian man.


    Both Claire and the older warrior were running as well, their expressions grim. The old man¡¯s sword was still drawn, bloodstained from whatever battle he had just fought. Claire looked exhausted but focused, her eyes narrowing as she spotted the young girl and Thomas.


    For a moment, there was an uneasy silence as the four of them stood in the middle of the hallway, their chests heaving, the tension in the air thick as they tried to assess what was happening. The muffled voices of the attackers outside seemed to fade in the background, leaving the sudden collision between the former enemies the only thing that mattered.


    Claire broke the silence.


    Claire: Where are you two coming from?


    Thomas glanced at the dark haired girl, then back at Claire, still trying to catch his breath.


    Thomas: We were fighting this¡­ this giant lion-like beast, and it had these massive spikes all over its back¡ªit was already a nightmare! And then¡ªthen out of nowhere, they started shooting at us! From outside! Bullets flying everywhere! What were we even supposed to do?!


    He spoke frantically, his words stumbling over each other as he tried to explain the chaos they¡¯d just escaped. The old man, observing Thomas''s ragged state, raised a hand.


    Old Man: Relax, boy. Take a breath.


    Thomas took a step back, his breathing still uneven. He eyed the man with caution, clearly still not trusting him. His chest tightened as he processed the man¡¯s calm demeanor despite the carnage around them.


    Claire folded her arms, her sharp gaze shifting between them.


    Claire: The organization that took Mason... they¡¯re the ones behind this. Sent the beasts, and now they¡¯ve got the building surrounded.


    Thomas''s brow furrowed, frustration clear on his face.


    Thomas: Why would they show up here, in broad daylight no less?


    The old man, always calm and measured, responded.


    Old Man: Keh¡­ they¡¯ve got intel, no doubt. Wouldn¡¯t stick their necks out unless they knew something big was here.


    He took a moment, then decided it was time to properly introduce himself. He sheathed his katana before speaking.


    Old Man: I suppose now¡¯s as good a time as any for introductions. I am Kazuki Matsushita, and this is my apprentice, Grace.


    The young girl, Grace immediately bristled at the mention of her name.


    Grace: Sir, are you seriously just gonna¡ª


    Kazuki interrupted her with a raised hand, his expression firm but not unkind.


    Kazuki: Keh, we¡¯ll have to trust each other if we wanna get outta this mess. Who we are don¡¯t mean a damn thing next to the threat we¡¯re staring down.


    Grace grumbled but didn¡¯t argue further, knowing he was right. Kazuki shifted his gaze back to Thomas and Claire.


    Claire crossed her arms, her expression unreadable as she stepped forward.


    Claire: Claire. Just Claire.


    She glanced at Thomas, clearly signaling him to follow suit.


    Thomas scratched the back of his head, offering a lopsided grin despite the tension hanging in the air.


    Thomas: Thomas Martin. Nice to meet you two, I guess. Though, uh, the circumstances could be better.


    Kazuki gave them a sharp nod, his eyes narrowing as he quickly assessed them both.


    Kazuki: The group responsible for this attack¡¯s Obsidian I¡¯d bet. Nah, I¡¯m certain of it. I¡¯d wager they¡¯re the ones behind those Astral Beasts too.


    Thomas frowned, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced between Grace and Kazuki. He tilted his head slightly.


    Thomas: Obsidian, huh? So they¡¯re the ones behind this whole mess? Makes sense, I guess. They¡¯ve got the evil-sounding name and everything. And those two astral¡­ whatever-they-were¡­ they sent those, too?This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Kazuki nodded solemnly, his gaze sharp.


    Thomas put a hand to his chin, his brow furrowing in thought. His voice came out slower, like he was working through a particularly frustrating puzzle.


    Thomas: Right¡­ okay. So, I hate to sound like the clueless idiot in the room¡ªalthough, I guess I am the clueless idiot in the room¡ªbut what exactly is Obsidian? And¡­ um¡­ what¡¯s an Astral, anyway? Sorry, I probably should¡¯ve asked this earlier. Forgive my ignorance.


    He gave them a sheepish grin, scratching the back of his head like he¡¯d just tripped over his own feet in front of a crowd. Kazuki opened his mouth to respond, but Grace stepped forward, her arms crossed, her expression a mix of irritation and disbelief.


    Her tone was sharp, like she couldn¡¯t believe she had to explain something so obvious.


    Grace: An astral is a creature that can possess a body, granting said body the abilities of said astral. It¡¯s hard to explain to a normal boy but think of it like this¡ªAstrals are powerful, but they can¡¯t interact with the physical world unless they have a host. Got it?


    She folded her arms.


    Grace: Kazuki and I are Astral users too. Kazuki has an Astral dealing with soul, and I possess an Astral dealing with regression. That¡¯s the basics of it anyway.


    She narrowed her eyes, clearly expecting Thomas to doubt her, to scoff, or at least second-guess her explanation. But Thomas simply nodded, his expression earnest.


    Thomas: Oh, okay. Got it. That actually makes a lot of sense. So, they¡¯re like... spiritual roommates? You¡¯re stuck sharing a body with them because they need a place to crash. Yeah, I can follow that.


    Grace blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. What kind of person could take that information at face value, let alone with such casual acceptance. For a brief second, her composure cracked, her mouth opening and closing as if trying to formulate a response.


    Kazuki stepped in, taking over the explanation with a calm authority.


    Kazuki: Years back, I was more of an adventurer, you could say. Me and the little miss here¡ªwe went everywhere, following trails, seeing the world for what it was. But when you¡¯re an Astral user, there¡¯s only one place all roads lead to in the end¡ªObsidian. No matter what path you take, it always circles back to them


    Kazuki''s eyes hardened, and his gaze drifted, as if recalling a scene far from the present.


    Kazuki: Obsidian ain¡¯t just some organization. Their resources? Endless. Their power? Unmatched. They know more about Astrals than we could even dream of understanding. We didn¡¯t stand a chance. No glory, no last stand¡ªjust a straight-up, crushing defeat.


    He let out a bitter laugh, the sound empty and hollow.


    Kazuki: Kakaka! And that¡¯s how we ended up here, guarding Harrison Stager.


    His lips curled into a bitter smile, but there was no humor in it.


    Kazuki: What I don¡¯t get is¡­ why Stager? Why the hell would Obsidian care enough about him to stick Astral users like us on protection duty? It never added up. And now...


    His gaze darkened, his voice dropping lower.


    Kazuki: Now it makes even less sense. Why would Obsidian hit the building of the guy they hired us to protect? They cutting their losses? Nah it¡¯s gotta be something else.


    Kazuki¡¯s eyes sharpened, a flicker of anger and unease crossing his face.


    Claire, who had been listening intently, interjected, her tone clipped and focused.


    Claire: Obsidian¡¯s moves make it clear. Their target isn¡¯t just the building... they¡¯re most likely after Margarett and Stager as well, based on whatever info they might have on their organization.


    Thomas¡¯s face tightened with regret. He looked down, his fists clenching.


    Thomas: Margarett¡¯s¡­ she¡¯s already dead. She was eaten by that... thing. The beast got her before I could do anything.


    The group fell silent for a moment, the weight of Thomas¡¯s words settling over them like a shroud.


    Without saying a word, Thomas turned to Claire, and Claire looked back at him, staring into his dark eyes.


    When your idealism breaks¡ªand it will break¡ªI¡¯ll do what needs to be done. Understand?


    That understanding passed over both of them at that instant. Now it was time to do things Claire¡¯s way.


    Claire: Then our informant is gone. But Stager might still be alive.


    She turned sharply to Grace and Thomas.


    Claire: You two¡ªgo find Stager. Get him out of here, take the emergency stairwell, and sneak him out before Obsidian finds him.


    As Claire opened her mouth, ready to relay critical instructions to Kazuki, a sudden, thunderous explosion ripped through the wall beside them, sending chunks of concrete and twisted metal spiraling into the room. Dust and debris filled the air, and the shockwave threw Claire and Thomas off balance, forcing them to shield their faces from the jagged fragments raining down.


    Through the haze, a massive figure emerged. He was clad in dark, heavily reinforced armor. At his side, a long, black katana hummed with an eerie energy, casting a shadow across the room as he stepped forward. The man¡¯s mere presence seemed to drain the air, filling the space with an oppressive weight.


    ???: Found ya, Kazuki!


    Kazuki¡¯s head snapped up, his eyes widening for a split second¡ªa flash of recognition and dread. Before anyone could react, the armored man lunged forward, his katana slicing through the air with unnatural speed.


    Instinct kicked in. Kazuki unsheathed his own katana, intercepting the blow just in time.


    The clash was explosive. Sparks burst from the collision, lighting up the room as metal ground against metal. The impact sent a shockwave through the space, scattering furniture and glass everywhere.


    Kazuki¡¯s feet slid across the floor as he struggled to hold his ground, his arms trembling under the relentless pressure.


    With a final, crushing push, the armored man drove Kazuki back, sending both of them crashing through the outer wall. They vanished into the open sky, surrounded by shattered concrete and twisted metal.


    For a heartbeat, silence hung over the room, the dust settling in their wake.


    Suddenly, Grace let out a loud gasp, her eyes wide with panic as she watched her mentor disappear through the gaping hole in the wall.


    Grace: Kazuki!


    Without a second thought, Grace ignored Claire¡¯s protests and leaped through the hole in the wall, chasing after him.


    Claire, her face a mask of frustration, finally gave up on stopping her.


    Claire: Forget her Thomas. Focus on Stager.


    Thomas looked at her, still reeling from the chaos that had just unfolded.


    Thomas: Alone? What about you? Where the hell are you going?


    Claire turned back, a small, almost reckless smile on her face.


    Claire: Me? I¡¯m going straight through the front door.


    And with that, Claire turned on her heel, moving swiftly through the corridor as gunfire erupted once more, echoing through the office as if to herald the next storm to come.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Thomas was tired. He was tired of running, he was tired of fighting, and most of all he was tired of getting his ass handed to him.


    The further he went, the more his muscles ached from the relentless pace, but he didn¡¯t dare slow down. They didn¡¯t have time.


    As he rounded a corner, Thomas skidded to a halt and pressed himself flat against the wall. His heart raced as he peeked around the edge. Several men in black suits roamed the floor, their faces obscured by sleek black masks, each carrying a pistol. They moved methodically, scanning every room, checking every corner.


    Thomas slowed his breathing, forcing himself to think. His hand instinctively reached for the sword that wasn¡¯t there, reminding him of his lack of weapons. He cursed under his breath, knowing he¡¯d have to improvise. His eyes narrowed as one of the masked men drew closer, his footsteps slow and cautious.


    Now or never.


    Thomas waited until the man was just close enough before he acted. In a swift motion, praying he wouldn¡¯t mess it up, Thomas grabbed the man from behind, covering his mouth with one hand while kicking out his leg.


    The man grunted as his leg snapped under the force, collapsing into Thomas¡¯s grip. Without hesitation, Thomas took the man¡¯s pistol and, gritting his teeth, fired one shot into the man¡¯s abdomen. The muffled shot echoed through the hallway, and Thomas shoved the man¡¯s limp body to the ground.


    I hope that didn¡¯t kill him... but I don¡¯t have time to think about it now.


    Thomas glanced at the pistol in his hand. It felt unfamiliar, heavy, and awkward. He was no marksman¡ªhe¡¯d always been a terrible shot, even during training. Still, it was the only weapon he had.


    Hearing more footsteps approaching, Thomas raised the gun, aiming for the other masked men further down the hallway. His first shot missed, whizzing past one of the men and embedding itself into the wall. He cursed under his breath, squeezing the trigger again, but his aim was erratic. The men noticed the shots, immediately reacting with a barrage of gunfire in his direction.


    This isn¡¯t working.


    Panicked, Thomas bolted down another hallway, weaving between rooms as bullets whizzed past his head. He ducked into a side room, closing the door softly behind him. He scanned the area quickly, noting a strategic hiding spot behind a row of filing cabinets where he could ambush anyone who came through the door.


    Seconds later, one of the masked men entered, his gun raised. Thomas didn¡¯t hesitate. He aimed carefully this time, waiting until the man was directly in front of him before pulling the trigger. The shot landed clean, taking the man down. Thomas exhaled sharply, moving to reposition himself as more footsteps approached.


    The second man burst through the door, gun blazing. Thomas ducked behind a desk, feeling the bullets tear through the wood just inches above his head. He fired back blindly, trying to keep them at bay. The men were becoming cautious now, their movements more careful as they attempted to flank him.


    Thomas grabbed the body of the first man he¡¯d shot, using it as a makeshift shield as he bolted through the room. More gunfire erupted, bullets thudding into the corpse as he sprinted down another hallway, still clutching the stolen pistol.


    These guys are even worse than the ones we fought at Mason¡¯s manor.


    Thomas¡¯s footsteps echoed in the narrow hallways, his breaths shallow and rapid as he darted from one shadow to the next, narrowly avoiding another group of men scouring the building.


    His mind reeled, fractured images of what had just happened searing into his thoughts¡ªthe look of shock on the guard''s face, the way he stumbled, the final, terrible stillness. He was aware, painfully aware, that a man had just died because of him.


    More than that¡ªhe had killed someone.


    Flimsy idealism. That¡¯s what Claire had called it. If Thomas¡¯ code could be broken so easily, what did that say about him. What did that say about his purpose, the reason he came here. What did that say about¡­


    A wave of nausea clawed up his throat, there was no time to process it. Not with another innocent at risk, not with lives hanging by the thinnest thread. He couldn''t afford the luxury of regret or reflection.


    But the realization hit him harder with every step: his ideals, the very values he¡¯d clung to so fiercely, were crumbling like sand slipping through his fingers.


    He clenched his jaw, the acidic sting of shame burning in his chest.


    This wasn¡¯t what he wanted. But that man¡¯s death, Margarett¡¯s death¡ªthey weren¡¯t just failures. They were consequences, born of his own rigid beliefs. He felt his fingers tremble as he pressed against the wall, steadying himself.


    With a final, steadying breath, he forced himself forward. There would be time for regret later¡ªif he made it out alive. For now, all he could do was press on, his old self left behind, shattered and forgotten.


    He ducked into yet another room, his eyes scanning quickly for anything useful. Then he spotted it¡ªa pair of shoes sticking out from behind a desk, poorly hidden in a hasty attempt at concealment.


    Thomas¡¯s eyes narrowed, and he approached the desk cautiously. He crouched low and, in one swift motion, kicked the figure hiding underneath. A man yelped, his head snapping up as he raised his hands in surrender.


    Harrison Stager.


    Thomas raised his gun, more out of reflex than intent.


    Stager: Wait, wait, don¡¯t shoot!


    Stager''s voice wavered, his hands trembling as he peeked up over the desk.


    Thomas couldn¡¯t help but laugh, lowering the gun slightly.


    Thomas: Call this hiding do you?


    Stager huffed indignantly, his face twisted into a mix of fear and annoyance.


    Stager: What the hell are you doing, barging in like that?! You could have killed me!


    Thomas: Yeah, well, if you keep sitting here, someone else definitely will.


    He grabbed Stager by the arm and hauled him to his feet.


    Thomas: We don¡¯t have time for this. You¡¯re gonna follow me, got it?


    Stager grumbled, clearly not thrilled by the situation.


    Stager: I don¡¯t need some child dragging me around! Unhand me now, do you have any idea who I am?


    Thomas ignored the attitude, pulling Stager toward the door.


    Thomas: Less talking, more running.


    The two sprinted through the office, weaving through cubicles and stepping over fallen bodies. Thomas peeked around corners, avoiding another group of masked men patrolling the floor. They finally slipped into the stairwell, Thomas pushing the door closed as quietly as possible behind them.


    Stager: What on earth is going on? Who¡¯s shooting at us?!


    Thomas once again ignored Stager¡¯s barrage of questions, focusing on his next move. They hurried down the stairwell, the echo of their footsteps bouncing off the concrete walls. But just as they rounded the next flight of stairs, Thomas froze. The sound of footsteps echoed from below¡ªmultiple voices, getting louder by the second.


    More of them. Shit.


    Thomas grabbed Stager¡¯s arm, pulling him back up the stairs instead.


    Thomas: Change of plans. We¡¯re heading up.


    Stager groaned in frustration, his face red with exertion.


    Stager: The roof? Are you insane?!


    Thomas shot him a glare, not in the mood for more complaints.


    Thomas: Move you bastard.


    The two scrambled up the stairs, the climb taking its toll on both of them. Stager wheezed and stumbled, but Thomas dragged him forward, refusing to slow down. Finally, they reached the top, the heavy roof access door looming in front of them. With a grunt, Thomas used his shoulder to shove the door open, the rusted hinges creaking under the pressure.


    The cool air of the rooftop hit Thomas¡¯s face as he stumbled through the door, falling to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Stager staggered out behind him, still complaining.


    But Thomas¡¯s breath caught in his throat as he looked up.


    Standing in front of them, guns drawn, was another group of men. Their leader, a sharply dressed man with a gleaming watch, his pistol pointed directly at Stager¡¯s head. At the sight of Stager bent over standing in fear, completely out of breath, the man quickly peeled back his mask revealing well groomed slicked-back hair and a cold smile stretching across his face.


    Stager¡¯s face went pale as recognition dawned on him.


    Stager: Cromley¡­  ha, this must be a mistake. A misunderstanding. What¡¯s going on here?


    Cromley¡¯s smile didn¡¯t waver, his finger steady on the trigger.


    Cromley: It¡¯s nothing personal Stager my friend. Just bad business.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Claire hummed a light, almost cheerful tune as she waited inside the cramped elevator. Her sword rested casually against her shoulder, and her eyes flickered down to the unconscious bodies scattered across the elevator floor. She didn¡¯t bother looking at their faces¡ªthere was no need.


    Ding!


    The elevator doors slid open with a metallic whir, revealing a scene that would have made any ordinary person¡¯s blood run cold. An army of armored soldiers, their guns aimed directly at her, stood waiting on the other side, their faces hidden behind visors. The lobby was beyond packed with more soldiers, a sea of cold, black armor and gleaming weapons.


    Claire¡¯s smile didn¡¯t falter. Without hesitation, she moved.


    In a blur of motion, Claire darted forward, slicing through the first wave of soldiers before they even had a chance to react. Blood sprayed as her blade slashed through armor, severing limbs, piercing torsos. The soldiers fell like dominoes, unable to keep up with her speed.


    Bullets whizzed past her, but none found their mark. She was too fast, a blur of motion that none of them could touch.


    These guys are different than the masked ones upstairs, she noted briefly, but it didn¡¯t matter. It never mattered. She¡¯d cut through them all the same.


    More soldiers charged at her, their weapons raised, but Claire was already on the move. She leapt over a group of them, landing gracefully on the other side and cutting them down before they could turn. Her smile grew wider as she moved, her body fueled by adrenaline and the thrill of the fight.


    But then, a metallic clink caught her attention. Her eyes flicked down to see a grenade rolling to a stop by her feet.


    Shit.


    Claire sprinted, attempting to dodge the blast, but the explosion went off with a deafening roar. The force of it knocked her sideways, sending her crashing into a nearby pillar. Her body slammed hard against the concrete, and for the first time, she felt pain shoot through her muscles.


    No big deal. I¡¯ve dealt with worse.


    She pushed herself up, shaking off the daze from the blast. There were fewer soldiers now inside the lobby, but outside, she could see more of them approaching¡ªan endless tide of reinforcements.


    Gotta keep moving.


    Claire darted forward again, slicing through more soldiers as they fired at her, avoiding their bullets with ease. This time, she had to dodge not only gunfire but also arrows, grenades, and other projectiles aimed at her. The lobby was turning into a war zone, and she was right in the middle of it.


    She stabbed her sword through one soldier, then spun to slice through another. Blood splattered across the floor, staining the once-pristine lobby in a crimson sheen. The sharp sound of her blade cutting through armor echoed in her ears, but she paid no attention to it.


    There was no room for mercy, no room for hesitation.


    As Claire finished off another wave of soldiers, a faint whizzing sound caught her ear. She glanced up, her expression hardening as she saw it¡ªa rocket, flying straight toward her.


    Damn it.


    She bolted, sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her, leaping into the air in a desperate attempt to avoid the blast. The explosion came just a second later, the force of it slamming into her back and sending her crashing to the ground.


    She gritted her teeth, applying energy to protect her vital organs, but the pain still ripped through her body. Her limbs trembled as she pushed herself back to her feet, her chest heaving.


    When she looked up, her gaze locked onto a new figure standing at the far end of the lobby.


    The soldier was dressed in far heavier armor than the others, his form towering and imposing. In each hand, he held a sword, the blades gleaming ominously. Strapped to his back was a rocket launcher, the one that had nearly taken her out.


    He moved toward her slowly, his footsteps echoing through the now almost empty lobby. Claire¡¯s eyes narrowed as she steadied herself, gripping her sword tighter.


    As the man approached, he chuckled darkly, his voice dripping with satisfaction.


    Soldier: At last... I finally get to stand face to face with the legendary Lena once again.

 Chapter 11: The Beast of Failure

    The cold bit into Mason''s skin, more than just a physical sting¡ªit 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¡ª


    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¡ªit 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.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Mason blinked, disoriented. The biting cold, the oppressive weight of the chains, the stone walls¡ªthey 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¡ªor whatever it was¡ªstood 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¡ªseveral 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¡ªhalf-laugh, half-sigh¡ªits 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.Stolen novel; please report.


    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¡ªstill 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¡ªall 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¡ªhis true purpose¡ªwasn¡¯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¡ªmaybe 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.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    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¡ªthe raw, untamed power that had flickered just beneath his skin.


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


    Astral of Death: You¡¯re doing it all wrong


    What the hell do you mean? I¡¯m trying¡ª


    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¡ªnow 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¡ªyou 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¡ªhe 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¡ªno, deeper than that¡ªhe 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¡ªbut 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¡ªhe 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.

 Chapter 12: Moonage Daydream

    A word, a shape, an idea that slips through the mind, but when you reach for it¨C¨Cgone. It isn¡¯t something you can hold. It¡¯s slippery, like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. You think you¡¯ve grasped it, that maybe you understand, but the moment you try to pin it down, it vanishes.


    No, not vanishes. It transforms, shifts into something else entirely. A reason becomes a lie, a dream becomes a burden, and a burden becomes¡­ nothing. But isn¡¯t that what it is? The endless chase after something that should define you?


    But if this thing is meant to define, then why does it feel like it escapes every time you come close? Like a phantom just out of reach. Something more abstract than real. Or maybe¡­ maybe it¡¯s real, but only for a moment. The second you claim it, it loses its shape, and you realize it was never yours to begin with.


    It belonged to someone else.


    But how could that be? It¡¯s yours, isn¡¯t it? It has to be. But no, the thought persists, creeping into the back of your mind¨C¨Cwhat if this thing, this idea you¡¯ve built your life around, wasn¡¯t yours at all? What if you borrowed it, unknowingly, from something larger? A person, a system, a story.


    But then, who are you without it? If it is borrowed, if it can be taken, then what¡¯s left of you? Identity? But identity is tied to this, isn¡¯t it? No, wait¨C¨Cidentity is this, or maybe it¡¯s the other way around.


    The self is shaped by what you think you¡¯re meant to do, but if that shifts then what does that leave you? A blank? A hollow shell? No, that¡¯s too simple, too neat. It¡¯s more like¡­ a shadow. An echo of something that was once whole, but now fractured. Broken pieces trying to fit into a puzzle that¡¯s constantly changing shape.


    It¡¯s maddening, isn¡¯t it? To think that this idea could be so fluid, so unreliable. Yet people chase it, as if without it, they¡¯ll drown.


    But that¡¯s the contradiction, isn¡¯t it? It¡¯s supposed to save you, to guide you, but in reality, it just pulls you under. It makes you drown in yourself, in your failures, in the endless question of ¡°what now?¡±


    Maybe, in the beginning, you were something, but that was before you needed to be something.


    Do you see the trap now? It makes you need it, forces you to shape yourself around it, and then, when it¡¯s gone¨C¨Cbecause it always goes¨C¨Cit leaves nothing behind but questions.


    What was it all for? What were you for? Were you ever really more than the roles you played? No, no, that can¡¯t be right. But then why does it feel like that¡¯s all you are? A series of roles, a collection of moments trying to form a coherent story.


    You chase it because without it, you¡¯d unravel. But the cruel irony is, chasing it only makes you unravel faster. You run, and run, and run, thinking that you¡¯re getting closer, but the truth is¨C¨Cyou¡¯re only losing more of yourself. And when you stop, when you finally stop, what¡¯s left?


    A hollow name. A title without meaning. A person without a path.


    So, what does it mean, then? Maybe it means nothing. Maybe it was always supposed to mean nothing. Or maybe that¡¯s just what you tell yourself to keep from losing the last bit of you that hasn¡¯t disappeared into the endless, gnawing void of questions.


    And yet, despite it all, you keep searching. Because what else can you do?


    No, that¡¯s not quite right.


    Just forget it.


    Mason paused, his thoughts scattering, drifting away with no sense of direction. His eyes blinked slowly, the world around him fading into something distant, hazy. He could see stars, or at least, he thought he did. Bright pinpricks of light danced at the edge of his vision, weaving in and out of strange shapes, abstract ideas that didn¡¯t belong.


    Wasn''t there¡­ something? Something he was supposed to worry about?


    He exhaled, the weight of a forgotten thought pressing down on him, a nagging sense of urgency that kept flickering in and out, but never fully taking shape. His chest felt tight, like he was waiting for something, but what? What was it?


    That¡¯s right.


    I''m dying aren¡¯t I?


    Mason¡¯s vision snapped back into reality. The familiar circular chamber he had been in all this time seemed to close in around him, the cold stone walls looming with an unsettling weight. His heart pounded, heavy and uneven, matching the sickening throb in his chest.


    He pressed a trembling hand to the blade¡ªa wetness oozed between his fingers, the blood sluggishly flowing from the gash the knife had left. The blade had pierced deep.


    His mind swam in a haze of pain and confusion, his body refusing to cooperate, but even through the fog, he could hear it¡ªthe soft, measured breathing of the woman behind him.


    Her.


    Slumped against the hard floor, Mason forced himself to remain still. His eyes half-closed, his breathing shallow, he could feel the presence behind him. The woman¡ªno, the dangerously attractive soldier¡ªwatched him.


    Her blade had nearly ended him, but she didn¡¯t move. Not yet. Perhaps she was waiting for something, or maybe she was savoring the moment, like a predator observing its prey''s final twitching breaths.


    Her gaze burned into his back as she pressed forward. Mason¡¯s heart raced, but he kept his body limp, his mind calculating. He had no intention of dying here. Not like this. Not on the first level.


    Slowly, he tensed his muscles, preparing himself. His hands tingled with the faint heat of the black flames as he reached for the Astral of Death within him. His heart pounded harder, the fire coursing through his veins, even as his body screamed in protest.


    Just a little more.


    The woman shifted, her boots barely making a sound as she stepped closer.


    Just a little closer...


    And then¡ªshe moved.


    That was it.


    In an instant, Mason spun, his body twisting violently as he unleashed the flames, pouring the energy into his legs and torso. The motion was so quick, so sudden, the air cracked as he moved. He aimed his strike directly at her, his fists blazing with dark fire.


    But at the last second, she braced.


    Her arm came up to block his strike, her eyes meeting his with a calm, almost playful look. Mason¡¯s fist collided with her forearm, but instead of toppling her, she absorbed the blow, skidding back across the floor. Yet, she remained upright, barely fazed.


    Mason¡¯s blood boiled. He wouldn¡¯t let this woman, no matter how skilled or beautiful, stand in his way. With a snarl, he grabbed the hilt of the knife still buried in his chest, the metal slick with his own blood.


    His fingers tightened around it, and without hesitation, he yanked it free. Pain flared, sharp and biting, but Mason grit his teeth, refusing to show weakness. He held the bloodied blade aloft, his eyes locked on her.


    Mason: I¡¯m not done yet y¡¯know! I don¡¯t care how beautiful you are¡ªI¡¯m not holding back! I¡¯ll fight my way out of here! You think some pretty face and a fancy knife can take me down? Do you have any idea who you¡¯re dealing with here? I¡¯ve survived worse than this, way worse! I¡¯m the kind of idiot who burns his toast every morning and still eats it because who¡¯s got time to make another? I¡¯ve fallen asleep in the middle of class with a pen in my hand and woke up with my homework stabbed through!


    He could see her blinking, completely bewildered by his rambling, but he wasn¡¯t stopping now.


    Mason: You think this is where I stop? Here? In some creepy base in the middle of nowhere? No way! I¡¯ve been through too much crap for it to end like this! I¡¯ve had teachers throw books at my head because I spaced out mid-lecture! I¡¯ve been chased by stray dogs more times than I can count! Do you know what it¡¯s like to be relentlessly pursued by angry geese? Do you?! I don¡¯t care if you¡¯ve got the looks of a goddess and the attitude of a stone-cold killer, I¡¯m not going down without a fight! You can keep your knives, your smug smile, and whatever else you¡¯re hiding under that armor, but let me tell you something¡ª


    He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes narrowing as the words tumbled out before his brain could catch up.


    Mason: ¡ªIf you think I¡¯m backing down, I¡¯ll fight you until... until the moon crashes into the sea and... wait, no, I meant the stars, and¡­


    The woman blinked, her confusion melting into open laughter. It started as a chuckle, but soon enough, she was laughing aloud, her voice ringing through the chamber.


    Mason froze, blinking rapidly. He was momentarily stunned by the sound of her laughter, but then it hit him. His brain lagged behind his own mouth, the words tumbling out like a broken faucet.


    Why can¡¯t I think straight?


    Woman: So fiery. But don¡¯t you think you should at least let me explain before making such bold declarations?


    Mason: Like hell I¡¯m giving you the chance!


    With a roar, he ignited his fists and feet, the black flames blazing around him, wrapping his body in a deadly aura. He lunged at her, each punch filled with more power than the last, the flames crackling through the air with every strike. He didn¡¯t hold back¡ª


    But the woman was fast¡ªfaster than anyone he had fought before. Her body moved like water, effortlessly dodging his blows. Each time his fist came close, she slipped just out of reach.


    She pulled a second knife from her armor, the gleaming blade catching the dim light of the chamber, and with a swift motion, she countered. Mason dodged the first few strikes, his mind working in overdrive, but something was wrong.


    His body wasn¡¯t keeping up. He should have been able to dodge her strikes with ease, but his limbs felt sluggish, his movements delayed by just a fraction of a second.


    Slash.


    A burning pain tore across his arm, then another across his thigh. Small cuts, but enough to make him falter. He gritted his teeth. Inside his mind, the Astral of Death chuckled.


    And that voice. That damn voice.


    You¡¯re not helping!


    But the laughter only grew louder, more sinister. His body wouldn¡¯t listen, his limbs not responding the way they should. His mind felt foggy, his thoughts scattered. Something was wrong.


    The woman darted in for another strike, her knife flashing toward him, and Mason barely managed to sidestep. But his vision blurred, and the pieces fell into place. The sluggishness. The disconnect between his mind and body. The nonstop laughter. The knife wound.


    The knife.¡­?


    Of course. The blade hadn¡¯t just pierced his flesh¡ªit had delivered something else, something slowing him down. The Astral¡¯s laughter echoed again, louder this time, feeding off his pain.


    He wasn¡¯t going to win like this. Not in a straight fight.


    Desperation clawed at the edges of his mind. He needed to change the game. His eyes flicked to the ground beneath his feet, and in an instant, he slammed his foot down, drawing the maximum output of flames his body could handle.


    The stone floor cracked under the force, sending a tremor through the chamber. The woman¡¯s eyes widened as she staggered, momentarily off balance.


    That was all Mason needed.


    Without wasting another second, Mason turned and ran.


    He blasted through the door, smashing it to pieces with a surge of black flames, and sprinted down the hallway, his mind racing faster than his legs could carry him.


    He had to get away. He couldn¡¯t win this fight¡ªnot in his current state. Not while that damn poison was coursing through his veins.


    Mason sprinted down the endless corridors, delirious, his vision clouded with stars that blinked and swirled, shimmering at the edges of his sight.


    Stars?


    No. He blinked, trying to clear his head, but they only grew brighter, streaking past him like shooting stars. Something wasn¡¯t right.


    The poison wasn¡¯t the only thing tearing him apart¡ªhe was bleeding out.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    He glanced down at his chest, the gaping wound still pouring blood. Too much blood.


    I¡¯ll die like this.


    Without thinking, without hesitation, Mason gritted his teeth and slammed his hand against the wound, summoning the Astral of Death again, this time forcing it to flare against his own body. Black flames ignited in his palm, burning with a vicious intensity as he pressed the fire into his chest, trying to cauterize the wound.


    Mason: AAAHHHHH!


    The scream tore through him, louder than the pain itself. His vision flashed white with agony as the flames seared his skin, sealing the wound, but the shock of it knocked him to his knees. His body convulsed, his muscles spasming uncontrollably as he slumped to the ground, gasping for air.


    More laughter.


    Mason¡¯s head swam, the world fading in and out of focus. He couldn¡¯t stay down. He couldn¡¯t let her catch up. He had to move.


    Through sheer force of will, he staggered to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him like they could collapse at any second. Behind him, he heard it¡ªthe unmistakable sound of her footsteps, closing in.


    Calm. Steady. She wasn¡¯t rushing. She didn¡¯t need to.


    She knew he was already finished.


    Mason forced himself forward, sprinting blindly through the halls, the walls around him twisting into something incomprehensible.


    Sirens. Flashing lights. Were they real? He wasn¡¯t sure. The world felt wrong. He couldn¡¯t see the corridors anymore¡ªjust space. An endless expanse of stars and galaxies, swirling and dancing before his eyes.


    Am I... floating?


    In front of him, the stars seemed to shimmer, moving toward him in clusters. Closer. Closer. Their light flickered, and for a moment, Mason thought he was being drawn into the cosmos, until¡ª


    Guns.


    The stars¡ªthey were drawing guns.


    Stars don¡¯t carry guns.


    He blinked, his mind struggling to catch up with reality. Soldiers stood before him, their weapons raised, their faces startled by the speed at which he approached. No.


    Mason pushed harder, his legs burning with the effort as he blitzed past them. His vision blurred, the stars mixing with the flashing lights as more soldiers joined the pursuit. He couldn¡¯t see the hallways anymore, just endless space, endless stars.


    His thoughts were tangled, rambling, incomprehensible strings of words and images that made no sense. He was losing himself, his mind fracturing under the weight of it all. He couldn¡¯t win. Not like this.


    Mason gritted his teeth, fighting back the urge to scream.


    Shut up. Just shut up.


    Desperate, he activated the Astral of Death again, pouring the last of his strength into his feet. He stomped, hard, sending a shockwave through the ground. The stone floor cracked beneath him, a deep crater forming as the tremor rattled the walls and sent the soldiers stumbling.


    But he couldn¡¯t keep this up.


    His body was breaking down, the poison eating away at him, slowing his movements, clouding his vision. He had to stop.


    Finally, Mason turned and ducked into a side room¡ªan artillery room, filled with crates and weaponry. The door slammed shut behind him, and for a moment, he felt a fleeting sense of safety. He staggered to the far wall, his legs giving out beneath him as he slumped to the ground, gasping for breath.


    The stars and galaxies still danced in front of his eyes, but he forced himself to ignore them. Focus.


    His chest heaved, the burn of the wound still fresh, but he wasn¡¯t dead. Not yet.


    Death continued to laugh inside his mind, a low, cruel sound that gnawed at the edges of his sanity.


    Shut up.


    He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the stars out of his mind, trying to pull together the last threads of his consciousness. He couldn¡¯t let it end like this.


    He couldn¡¯t think straight. He couldn¡¯t fight. But he needed a plan. Anything to get him out of this alive.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Rachel''s footsteps boomed through the hallway, each one heavier with growing irritation. This ridiculous chase¡ªit was becoming tiresome. Annoying, really. She had already closed in on the boy, only for him to slip away like a wounded animal clinging to the last vestiges of life? She couldn¡¯t decide whether to pity him or be amused by his sheer, dumb persistence.


    Mason Heartson.


    The name felt like a joke, something spoken with far too much importance for someone so utterly pathetic. She should¡¯ve been done with this by now. She was tired of his stupid game of tag, tired of watching him flail around.


    But then the tremor came, shaking the floor beneath her feet. Rachel paused, her sharp eyes narrowing as the dust settled. Up ahead, she saw them¡ªthe soldiers, disoriented and stumbling from Mason¡¯s desperate attack. They looked dazed, like helpless sheep who had wandered into the path of a predator.


    Her lip curled in disgust.


    Pathetic. Every single one of them.


    She strode toward them, her anger simmering.


    Soldiers. Trained men. Weaklings.


    They had one job¡ªone simple task¡ªand they had failed. Worse than failure, they looked lost, blinking stupidly at the cracks in the ground like they couldn¡¯t even understand what had just happened.


    Tools for someone else. Too blind to even know how easily they could be replaced.


    Blind devotion, mindless obedience¡ªthese were things she could never respect. They were hollow, soulless traits.


    Rachel¡¯s fingers twitched. The soldiers looked up at her, still trying to recover from Mason¡¯s half-hearted attack.


    They didn¡¯t even see it coming.


    In one smooth motion, Rachel reached for the knife hidden beneath her armor. She moved faster than they could register¡ªfaster than thought itself.


    One throat slit.


    Then another.


    And another.


    No room for weakness.


    Each soldier fell soundlessly to the floor, blood pooling around them. Her anger simmered down as she wiped the blade clean, watching their lifeless bodies with cold satisfaction. That was better. Much better. Silence was always preferable to incompetence.


    Stepping over the crater Mason had left in the ground, Rachel continued forward.


    She knew. She could feel it in her bones. Mason was at his limit¡ªhis body was giving out, his mind already slipping into delirium. That last attack had drained him. She could taste his desperation in the air, the scent of blood lingering, leading her right to him.


    Her eyes traced the obvious trail of blood smeared across the floor.


    Amateur.


    It led to a nearby artillery room, the door firmly shut. She smiled¡ªa disappointed smile, really.


    Illusions belong to me, Mason.


    The audacity of him, trying to pull something so obvious. She reached for the door handle, turning it slowly, savoring the moment. Mason Heartson, backed into a corner, broken and desperate. She raised her knife, ready to find him slumped and defeated.


    But as the door creaked open, the room was empty.


    Rachel frowned, her sharp eyes scanning the area. No one. No Mason. Her mind raced, flickers of realization coming to her. Tricked. Somehow, the boy had managed to slip out again. Her irritation flared, her body tense, but she forced herself to remain calm. He couldn¡¯t have gone far.


    As she turned to inspect the room one last time¡ª


    SLAM!


    The door crashed shut behind her, and before Rachel could react, something heavy collided with her from behind. A body. Her mind registered the weight, the familiar scent of blood. Mason. The boy had tackled her, his arms wrapping around her throat in a clumsy, desperate attempt to choke her. She let out a sharp grunt as they hit the floor, the impact jarring her bones.


    His hands tightened around her neck, his breath ragged, foaming at the mouth. Bloodshot eyes, glazed with madness, stared down at her.


    Mason: G-give me... it... the... antido¡ª... whatever you... I need... give it...!


    His voice was a mess of broken words, half-formed thoughts, desperation leaking from every syllable. His grip around her throat tightened, his entire body trembling with the effort. But Rachel... she laughed.


    Rachel: You¡¯re... really pathetic, aren¡¯t you?


    She spat the words at him, her smile widening even as his hands squeezed tighter.


    Rachel: If you want the antidote, you''re gonna have to take those hands off me first.


    Mason¡¯s grip faltered for a second, his fogged mind trying to comprehend her words. He didn¡¯t listen. His grip tightened again, harder this time, enough to make her choke. But she still laughed, her voice strained but mocking.


    Her chest burned as he pressed down harder, the air leaving her lungs, but she could see it in his eyes¡ªhe didn¡¯t understand. He wasn¡¯t thinking. He wasn¡¯t capable of thinking.


    And then it hit her¡ªhe might actually kill her. He was delirious, out of control, and if he squeezed any harder, she¡¯d be dead before he even realized what he¡¯d done.


    Dammit.


    With the last of her strength, she pressed her hand to the wound on his chest, shoving her fingers deep into the slightly open gash. Mason let out a strangled cry of pain, his grip loosening as he slumped, his body trembling from the shock. He fell back, gasping.


    Rachel rolled away, her throat raw as she gulped down air, her body trembling with a mix of relief and irritation. That idiot¡ªhe had almost done it. Almost killed her by mistake. She backed away, glaring at the boy who now lay on the floor, barely able to move.


    Mason tried to stand, his body shaking violently, but his strength was gone. He collapsed again, his breath ragged, his eyes wild.


    Before Rachel could decide what to do next, the door burst open. Three soldiers rushed in, their guns raised, aiming straight at Mason.


    But Rachel... she didn¡¯t even hesitate.


    Without a second thought, her hand darted into her armor, pulling out a sleek pistol.


    Bang. Bang. Bang.


    Three shots, clean and precise, and the soldiers dropped to the ground, dead before they could react.


    Mason stared in disbelief, his eyes wide as he watched the bodies fall.


    Rachel sneered, her eyes narrowing in annoyance as she stepped over the corpses.


    Rachel: Enough of the interruptions.


    She glared down at Mason, her voice cold, commanding.


    Rachel: My turn to talk.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Mason was dead. He was sure of it. Everything felt cold, distant, like he had already crossed some line he couldn¡¯t come back from. The Moon... shimmering and beautiful, had beaten him. Every step of the way.


    It wasn¡¯t stronger than him¡ªphysically, sure. Mason knew, deep down, that if it came to it, he could beat The Moon in a 1-on-1 fight. He was certain of that. But The Moon hadn¡¯t fought fair. It had tricked him, deceived him. The poison... damn poison.


    Poisoned. That¡¯s it. So annoying. Stupid moon.


    He braced himself for death. Wait. No. They couldn¡¯t kill him. He was needed for something, wasn¡¯t he? Something important... but what was it again? His thoughts scrambled around like mismatched puzzle pieces.


    Something... something big. What was it?


    But then The Moon... stopped. It hovered there, looming above him, staring down at his motionless body. Mason lay on his back, unable to move his muscles, his limbs limp, his chest barely rising with shallow breaths. The Moon stared. Silent. Watching.


    Why are you looking at me...? Why won¡¯t you move...?


    For what felt like an eternity, the moon stared. Then, it spoke.


    The Moon: Tetrodotoxin, that''s what''s in your veins right now.


    Mason blinked slowly, his eyes glassy, confused. The words hit him like static, fuzzing around the edges of his brain. What the hell was it talking about?


    The Moon stared at Mason, annoyed, rolling it¡¯s eyes.


    The Moon: Pufferfish toxin.


    Puffer... fish? What do pufferfish have to do with the moon? And why... why was there a river? Wasn¡¯t there supposed to be a river? No... wait. Poison.


    Right.


    He¡¯d been poisoned.


    Did he eat a pufferfish? None of this made sense.


    But the moon ignored his disjointed thoughts. It spoke again, its voice flat, like it was explaining something obvious to a child.


    The Moon: The toxin wasn''t supposed to stay in your system this long. But... well, you chose to run instead of talk, and now here we are.


    It¡¯s words slithered into his head, but they didn¡¯t settle right. Run? Talk? He wasn¡¯t running. Wait. He was. Why was he running again? The pieces wouldn¡¯t fit together, no matter how hard he tried to focus.


    The Moon: You have minutes left, so I¡¯ll be quick. You have a choice to make.


    Mason spat, his mouth dry, but somehow managing to find enough strength to let his frustration bubble up. He didn¡¯t want anything from the moon. It lied.


    Mason: I don¡¯t... want anything from you... anymore... tricky... moon...


    The Moon rolled it¡¯s eyes, clearly annoyed but unmoved by his nonsense.


    The Moon: Fine. Let me get to the point.


    It¡¯s voice droned on, explaining things Mason couldn¡¯t quite grasp. Something about Obsidian. Something about the organization that had captured him. Their goal¡ªending the world.


    Mason blinked. Ending the world? What did that even mean? The words drifted in and out of focus as The Moon continued talking. It explained more, it¡¯s tone as casual as if it were explaining the weather.


    The Moon: They need the Astral of Death inside you to do it.


    Astral... of Death... inside... me...?


    The pieces didn¡¯t click, but he nodded absently, feeling like he was supposed to understand.


    Rachel went on. Rachel Parker, she said her name was. Vice captain for Obsidian. She didn¡¯t want to end the world. No, she was against that sort of thing. Naturally. She had her own agenda. She wanted out. Wanted to use him to get out. Or something like that.


    Out?


    Mason: W-why... kill me... then...? Why... all this...?


    His words barely formed, but Rachel didn¡¯t seem to care.


    Rachel: I needed to make sure you didn¡¯t get any ideas about immobilizing me. Plus, my commanding captain was watching, so I had to keep up appearances. But... well, I killed a bunch of soldiers, so he¡¯s probably figured it out by now. What a big waste of time.


    Her words blurred together into a mess of generals, divisions, and Obsidian hierarchy. Mason¡¯s brain just couldn¡¯t keep up. What was she talking about?


    But then, a new question wormed its way through the fog.


    Mason: Why... me...? Why... Astral... of Death... choose... me...?


    He expected a grand answer, something that would explain everything, something that would give him the clarity he so desperately needed.


    But Rachel¡¯s eyes were cold. Her voice flat, matter-of-fact.


    Rachel: You have maybe minutes left. You need to decide now.


    Mason tried to think, but his brain wouldn¡¯t cooperate. His body felt heavy, the poison dragging him down. But... Rachel. Maybe she could help him escape.


    He thought of the poison, of the minutes ticking away, of death creeping closer. He didn¡¯t want to die. Not yet. Not like this. If she was offering him a way out, maybe... maybe he should take it.


    Help... her... maybe... don¡¯t die...


    He nodded, his mind barely holding on. He would trust her, at least for now. He had no other choice.


    Mason: Fine... help me...


    Rachel didn¡¯t waste time. She reached into her belt and pulled out a syringe, jabbing it into his arm. The antidote flowed into his veins, cold and sharp.


    His vision swam, but he forced himself to stay awake, to stay conscious. He had one more question.


    Mason: Why... me...?


    Rachel sighed, her face softening¡ªif only for a moment.


    Rachel: You think you were chosen for something greater. That this... this power was some gift, something meant for you.


    Mason blinked, his mind struggling to keep up with her words. The poison still fogged his thoughts, but he could hear her clearly. Too clearly.


    Rachel: But that¡¯s the lie. The lie you tell yourself when you want to believe you matter.


    She paused, her eyes narrowing as she crouched down to look at him more closely, her tone now cold, deliberate.


    Rachel: You¡¯re not special. You never were. You weren¡¯t chosen, you were marked. From the moment you were born, they had already decided what you¡¯d be. Everything¡ªevery choice, every failure, every scrap of hope you¡¯ve ever clung to¡ªit¡¯s all been leading you here. Like a lamb led to slaughter. You know that expression right?


    Rachel watched him, her gaze cool, detached. This was the truth. She was laying it bare, stripping him down to nothing.


    She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if savoring the moment before she delivered the final blow.


    Rachel: And do you know who led the way? Who made sure you¡¯d end up here? It wasn¡¯t some faceless enemy..


    Rachel: It was your parents. Your own flesh and blood. Gabrielle and Samuel Heartson. Obsidian¡¯s most devout soldiers.


    He opened his mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but no words came out. The room spun, and darkness clawed at the edges of his vision.


    And then, everything went black.

 Chapter 13: Blood of The Sinner

    Mason stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the curls in his hair for what felt like the hundredth time. His reflection stared back at him, a mix of nerves and excitement buzzing under his skin. He flexed his arm subtly, admiring the way his physique had shaped up over the months. Not bad. His curly blonde hair framed his face just right, and his build¡ªhe wasn¡¯t huge, but well-toned.


    Good enough for tonight, right?


    The corners of his mouth tugged upward, a grin breaking through his usually indifferent expression.


    Yeah, tonight... girls would be all over me.


    His confidence, though, was short-lived. His face immediately flushed as his mother, Gabrielle Heartson, peeked her head into the room without warning, her voice warm and teasing.


    Gabrielle: You look amazing, sweetheart.


    Mason¡¯s cheeks burned red, caught between embarrassment and a reluctant smile. He turned quickly, waving her off with a huff.


    Mason: Mom, seriously, get out!


    But there was no real bite to his words, just the awkwardness of being a teenager caught between wanting his mother¡¯s approval and not wanting her to say it out loud. He smiled after she left, her support lingering in the room.


    After slipping on the tuxedo jacket, Mason stomped down the stairs, his dress shoes making more noise than they should¡¯ve. The black tux felt good on him, though¡ªlike he was stepping into a role.


    At the bottom of the stairs, his father, Samuel Heartson, was waiting. Samuel, a man who rarely took time off work, had actually cleared his schedule to send his son off. The sight of his father standing there, smiling, caught Mason off guard.


    Samuel: You look good, son. Real good.


    Mason chuckled awkwardly, shifting under the praise. Then his eyes fell on Claire, standing at the edge of the room, her usual composed expression plastered across her face. It bothered him¡ªhow she didn¡¯t react at all, not a single flicker of emotion. He stepped closer, a frown pulling at his lips.


    Mason: Come on, Claire. Not even a reaction? You can¡¯t be serious.


    For a moment, nothing. Then, finally, she blinked, her expression shifting just slightly, a rare sign of acknowledgement.


    Claire: You¡¯ve overdone it with the cologne.


    Her voice was calm, unbothered, but the comment was enough to send Gabrielle and Samuel into fits of rich, genuine laughter. The maids, standing nearby, exchanged amused glances and began to laugh softly too.


    Mason felt his face burn again, this time in frustration, his temper bubbling up before he could stop it. But before he could snap, the absurdity of it all hit him. He let out a sigh, and then, a smile broke free. The laughter that followed wasn¡¯t forced¡ªit flowed naturally, filling the manor.


    For a moment, everything was perfect. He could hardly remember what was so funny anymore, just the feeling of warmth and lightheartedness that surrounded him. The sounds of laughter echoed, bouncing off the walls of the home he had always known. The laughter, the comfort of home¡ªit felt like a lifetime ago.


    So why... why am I thinking about this now?


    Mason¡¯s vision blurred slightly as he came to, the ache in his limbs throbbing with each pulse of his heartbeat. He felt the cold, hard floor beneath him and pushed himself up slowly, blinking to clear his vision.


    As he became more aware, he saw Rachel seated across from him, her face calm as she sharpened her knife, the sound of metal against stone filling the small room. She barely spared him a glance, but her eyes flicked up lazily when she noticed he was struggling to sit up.


    Rachel: Careful. You haven¡¯t quite recovered from our last¡­ encounter.


    Mason winced, but the spark of determination lit up in his eyes as he straightened himself, locking his gaze on Rachel. He struggled to his feet, snarling through the pain, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.


    Mason: I¡¯ll won¡¯t lose to you, not again.


    But Rachel¡¯s expression remained impassive. With a small smirk, she snapped her fingers.


    Rachel: Idiot. Try to remember our last conversation.


    Mason paused, the words sinking in like ice. Fragments of memory floated to the surface: the sound of metal clashing, stars in the night sky, Rachel¡¯s words as she cornered him in the armory, her chilling revelation about her defection.


    He remembered¡­ everything. His mind reeled as the memories washed over him, his fists clenching as he recalled her claim.


    Rachel had come to help him? She said she had defected from the organization that had abducted him. Obsidian? She¡¯d done all this to prevent¡­


    The end of the world? That¡¯s what she had said. But that didn¡¯t really make much sense at all to him. And besides that, this apparent plot, it was a direct result of¡­


    His parents.


    The realization hit him like a blow, and he stumbled, falling back onto the ground. His jaw tightened as he struggled to process it, biting down so hard he tasted blood. He could feel his mind spiraling, fighting against the truth that seemed to tear apart everything he thought he knew.


    It was too much.


    But just as the despair threatened to consume him, he clenched his fists and took a deep breath. The chaos inside his mind stilled, replaced by a stubborn fire. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself back up, his legs shaking but steady.


    Rachel raised an eyebrow, surprised at his resolve.


    Rachel: After all that, I expected a little more¡­ moping.


    Mason: I don¡¯t have time to despair. I¡¯ll deal with all this¡­ later. Right now, I have things to do.


    He looked at Rachel, his eyes resolute.


    Mason: I made a promise, didn¡¯t I? I help you escape Obsidian, we both get out of here, and in return, you tell me everything.


    Rachel studied him, her smirk softening into something almost approving.


    Rachel: I¡¯m glad I didn¡¯t have to listen to your whining. But pushing all that off for later?


    She crossed her arms, her gaze narrowing as she studied him.


    Rachel: If you keep ignoring those doubts, those memories, they¡¯re only going to pile up until they block you off completely. And if your will isn¡¯t strong enough¡­ The Astral isn¡¯t just an ability. It¡¯s an extension of your mind.


    Mason met her gaze, unflinching, though he didn¡¯t fully understand what she meant.


    He¡¯d come this far, hadn¡¯t he?


    Mason: Then I¡¯ll just have to make sure my will is strong enough. You don¡¯t need to worry about me, alright? Just tell me the plan.


    Rachel sighed, running a hand through her hair.


    Rachel: Fine, then. Here¡¯s what we¡¯re dealing with. Since our¡­ scuffle, things have escalated. I managed to get you to a lower level, somewhere off the surveillance grid. Unfortunately, that also means we¡¯re now on Obsidian¡¯s surveillance list. They¡¯ll be hunting both of us.


    She gestured to the cramped, dimly lit room they were hiding in, lined with thick walls and a few scattered supplies.


    Mason frowned, his mind racing with questions. He couldn¡¯t keep the skepticism out of his voice.


    Mason: What about your position here? Wouldn¡¯t that make it easier to get around?


    Rachel let out a bitter laugh.


    Rachel: I¡¯m not just a regular grunt, that¡¯s the problem¡ªI¡¯m a vice-captain. I answer directly to one of the squad captains, Victor Popescu. He¡¯s not someone we want to bump into. If he finds us, we¡¯re dead. Simple as that.


    Mason swallowed.


    Mason: Victor Popescu¡­ What makes him so dangerous?


    Rachel¡¯s expression tightened, her gaze hardening.


    Rachel: Victor isn¡¯t like the worthless soldiers that lounge around this place. He¡¯s not even like me. He¡¯s a monster, through and through. If we cross paths with a guy like that we¡¯re done for.


    Mason: What about Edward?


    Rachel: He¡¯s not our concern. Edward¡¯s out of the facility for the time being. It¡¯s rare for Obsidian to station two captains in one place. You¡¯re lucky¡ªyou don¡¯t want to face him either, trust me.


    Mason let out a sigh of relief but forced himself to stay alert.


    Rachel: Our goal is to get down to the first floor, but we can¡¯t take the main route. We¡¯re on the fifth floor now, and Obsidian has already tightened security. We¡¯ll have to sneak through each level, floor by floor, using back corridors and maintenance routes. Once we reach the third floor, we¡¯ll hit the Labyrinth. It¡¯s a maze of storage rooms and tunnels where surveillance is weaker. If we make it through that, we should be able to slip past their systems undetected.


    Mason struggled to keep up with the plan, the details blurring together in his mind. But he nodded, determined to see it through.


    Mason: Just tell me what you need and I¡¯ll do what I can.


    Rachel rolled her eyes, her smirk returning.


    Rachel: Please. I don¡¯t need you for your brains. Just try to keep up. All I need is for you to act as a shield if things go south.


    Mason bristled, glaring at her.


    Mason: A human shield? If you¡¯re going to treat me like that, maybe I¡¯ll just take you out here.


    Rachel turned her back, unfazed by his threat, but Mason caught a faint flicker of amusement as her lips curled into a faint smile.


    Without another word, Rachel slipped out of the room, her footsteps quick and silent. Mason cursed under his breath, but the fire of determination burned brighter in his chest. He gritted his teeth, stumbling as he rushed to follow her, whispering to himself.


    Mason: Alright¡­ level 2.


    The door swung shut behind him as he took his first step into the shadows.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Mason: What exactly is Obsidian trying to do with my ability?


    Rachel shot him an irritated look, placing a finger to her lips in a universal "shut up" gesture as they slipped around a corner. But he wasn¡¯t going to let it go so easily.


    Mason: Look, I just... I need to know. They want the Astral of Death. Why? What does that even mean?


    Rachel sighed, her gaze flickering as she checked for any nearby guards. When the coast seemed clear, she signaled for him to follow, reluctantly beginning to answer as they crept further down the corridor.


    Rachel: Obsidian¡¯s goal isn¡¯t simple. It¡¯s... ambitious.


    Mason frowned at the way Rachel said the word, as if the word belonged to someone else, but Rachel wasn¡¯t finished.


    Rachel: What they¡¯re after... is the elimination of a fundamental force of the universe.


    Mason blinked, caught off-guard by the words. She paused, meeting his confused gaze.


    Rachel: Think about it this way: Astrals aren¡¯t just powerful beings; they¡¯re entities tied to reality itself. Each Astral corresponds to a principle of the universe. They don¡¯t just exist¡ªthey make up existence.


    The enormity of her words hit him like a wave, and he stumbled over his thoughts, trying to keep up.


    Mason: Wait, so... the Astral in me... it¡¯s...?


    Rachel nodded, her voice barely a whisper.


    Rachel: The Astral of Death. Your Astral doesn¡¯t just command death¡ªit is death, the principle itsel. What Obsidian wants is to make a contract with it. If they succeed¡­


    Rachel: If they succeed they¡¯d be able to control said principle. They¡¯d be able to eliminate death itself.


    She trailed off, a faint hint of dread in her expression. Mason¡¯s mind lagged, struggling to grasp the scale of what she was saying. He managed to keep his voice steady.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Mason: What¡¯s so bad about that? If they¡¯re eliminating death, isn¡¯t that... good?


    Rachel¡¯s gaze darkened, and she looked at him with a mix of pity and frustration.


    Rachel: A contract works both ways. The Astral of Death doesn¡¯t just hand over its power for free. If humanity gets a way to escape death, the Astral of Death will demand something in return.


    He stared at her, barely able to whisper.


    Mason: What... what does it want?


    Rachel¡¯s voice turned sharp, her words quick as if she wanted to get them over with.


    Rachel: If the contract goes through, the Astral of Death will bypass humanity¡¯s free will entirely. It¡¯ll be able to experience the world by seizing control of any human at any time. Think about it¡ªany moment, any sensation, any experience it craves, it can have it, without restriction. And for the rest of time, humanity would be its slaves.


    A life without free will, bound to the whim of a creature beyond comprehension... it was horrifying. He clenched his fists, trying to banish the thought, but it stuck, haunting him.


    In the silence of his mind, he directed his frustration to the Astral of Death.


    What¡¯s the point of enslaving humanity? What could you possibly want with that?


    To his surprise, the Astral¡¯s voice responded, distant and disinterested.


    Astral of Death: I¡¯ve already told you. The part of me bound to you has no memory of making any contract with Obsidian.


    Mason felt a pang of unease. He didn¡¯t fully understand the Astral, but there was a lethargic honesty to its words.


    Astral of Death: Most likely, the part of me that wishes to form this contract seeks to cure its endless boredom. Astrals exist in a realm separate from yours. Unless bound to a human, we cannot interact with the world. A contract like this would allow me¡ª or, rather, another part of me¡ªto experience the world through countless lives. To an Astral, that kind of freedom is... enticing.


    The casual tone sent a chill down Mason¡¯s spine. It seemed almost apathetic, like it didn¡¯t care if it enslaved an entire species for eternity as long as it cured its boredom. Mason clenched his fists, muttering internally.


    Don¡¯t get any twisted ideas.


    The Astral merely sighed.


    Astral of Death: We have our own contract, remember?


    The threat lingered unspoken, and Mason shook his head, forcing the thoughts away. For now, the Astral was contained. He¡¯d keep it that way.


    Rachel glanced back, her sharp gaze catching his distracted expression, but she didn¡¯t comment. Instead, she paused at the corner, listening intently before signaling for him to continue.


    Mason hesitated, then ventured another question, his voice barely audible.


    Mason: Why¡¯d you join Obsidian in the first place then? I mean, knowing all this¡ªknowing what they plan to do... why?


    Rachel¡¯s face clouded over, her expression hardening into a distant coldness. She didn¡¯t look at him, her tone dropping to a harsh whisper.


    Rachel: You should know better than anyone by now, fate isn¡¯t a kind thing.


    Mason opened his mouth, wanting to ask more, to understand, but the sharpness in her eyes silenced him. Her voice dropped to an icy murmur.


    Rachel: One more word out of you, and I swear I¡¯ll leave you here to fend for yourself. Now shut up, or you¡¯ll get us both killed.


    Swallowing his questions, he nodded and fell in line behind her, the quiet settling over them.


    As they continued forward in silence, Rachel suddenly stopped, raising a hand to halt Mason. Her gaze narrowed as she scanned the hallway ahead, assessing something he couldn¡¯t see. Mason, frustrated by the lack of explanation, leaned in, trying to get a glimpse of what she was looking at.


    Rachel: Up ahead is a passageway that leads to the staircase for the fourth floor. But there are guards. Several, actually. It¡¯s clear they don¡¯t want us gaining any ground.


    Mason: So what¡¯s the plan?


    Rachel looked at him with a weary expression, her tone even but steely.


    Rachel: I can get us through without detection, but you¡¯ll need to close your eyes and shut your ears while I do it.


    Mason raised an eyebrow, incredulous.


    Mason: Close my eyes and shut my ears? You can¡¯t be serious. That¡¯s absurd.


    Rachel let out a long, dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes slightly.


    Rachel: Then I¡¯ll poison you again. Make you sleep right through it.


    Mason instinctively jumped back, raising his fists defensively.


    Mason: Absolutely not! That¡¯s... that¡¯s not even remotely an option!


    Rachel smirked, almost amused, shaking her head.


    Rachel: Fine, fine. I expected this. You¡¯re far too stubborn for your own good, you know that? Just... be still and don¡¯t make a sound.


    Mason felt a sharp retort forming on his lips, but before he could say anything, everything shifted.


    He was back in the manor, no he was in a car, but going where. He had school right? No that wasn¡¯t true, it was the summer wasn¡¯t it? If that was the case were parents taking him to Summer school? But as the car approached his old High School he smiled as he remembered finally. Staring at the large banner strum across the school building he laughed, turning to his driver to chew him out.


    He almost forgot, he was gonna be late for Homecoming.


    He blinked, and suddenly he was standing in a completely different room¡ªno, a completely different floor. He could feel it instantly. He had somehow reached the fourth floor without taking a single step. Stunned, he looked around, trying to process what had just happened.


    In front of him stood Rachel, looking mostly the same except for the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead. She was breathing heavily, hands on her knees as she caught her breath.


    Mason opened his mouth to demand answers, confusion giving way to anger.


    Mason: What... how... did you just¡ª?


    Rachel held up a hand, her other hand still gripping her knee as she took a deep breath.


    Rachel: No time for questions. Whatever you¡¯re thinking, save it. We need to move.


    But this time, Mason didn¡¯t listen. He grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to stop. She glared at him, irritation flashing in her eyes, but he held his ground.


    Mason: No. Enough. I need answers. What the hell did you just do?


    Rachel sighed, pushing him back with surprising force, her expression somewhere between frustration and exhaustion.


    Rachel: I don¡¯t have time for your doubts. I don¡¯t need you to understand, I need you to be a good boy and listen to instructions.


    Mason¡¯s patience snapped. He felt his fists clench, his body tense with anger.


    Mason: I¡¯m done with the orders. If you won¡¯t tell me what¡¯s going on, I¡¯ll make you.


    But before he could act on his threat, Rachel¡¯s eyes widened, a look of genuine fear flashing across her face¡ªa rare sight, enough to make Mason¡¯s anger pause. She shouted, her voice sharper than he¡¯d ever heard it.


    Rachel: Move! Now!


    Instinct took over. In an instant, his black flames ignited, propelling him backward with unnatural speed. And just in time. A pair of gleaming steel hands burst from the wall, narrowly missing him as he darted out of their reach. His heart pounded, confusion and alarm flooding him as he realized that the wall itself had just tried to grab him. He looked back to Rachel, who was staring at the wall with something close to horror.


    Mason: What... what the hell was that?


    Rachel¡¯s breath hitched, her face pale.


    Rachel: It¡¯s... him. He¡¯s here.


    Mason¡¯s mind reeled, trying to piece together her cryptic reaction, but before he could ask who she meant, the walls slowly returned to their normal state. The hands retracted, the threat seemingly vanishing into thin air. And then, from the shadowed corner of the hallway, a figure emerged.


    He stepped forward with the casual, relaxed air of someone who owned the very ground he walked on. Everything about him was pristine, from his perfectly tailored, luxurious coat to the designer beret perched artfully on his head. His face was well-groomed, and he wore an expression that exuded a disturbing sort of calm, as if he were strolling through a garden rather than confronting intruders.


    His eyes, a striking and unnatural shade of purple, gleamed with an unsettling sharpness. He regarded Mason and Rachel with a gaze that felt more analytical than hostile, as if he were merely observing curiosities in a controlled environment. His hands were casually tucked into his coat pockets, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he surveyed them both.


    Rachel took an involuntary step back, her voice barely above a whisper.


    Rachel: Victor... Popescu.


    The name hung in the air, cold and heavy. Mason¡¯s pulse quickened as he took in the calm, impeccably dressed figure before them. This man, whoever he was, exuded an aura of authority and control that sent a chill down his spine.


    Victor¡¯s gaze flicked between the two of them, his expression one of mild amusement.


    Victor: Ah, Rachel... and you? The chosen one, Mason Heartson! Well, isn¡¯t that just delightful. Truly, it¡¯s quite an honor for me. But, you know, sneaking through floors that don¡¯t exactly have your names on them¡­, I mean, really, it¡¯s just not the politest of behaviors, wouldn¡¯t you agree? I always say, a place for everyone, and everyone in their place. And you, Rachel, of all people¡ªmy favorite, my trusted vice-captain! Did you think I wouldn¡¯t notice? Silly, silly.


    Victor¡¯s smirk widened, his eyes flashing with something that bordered on delight.


    Mason swallowed hard, struggling to keep his composure as Victor stepped closer.


    The cold amusement in his sharp, purple eyes made Mason¡¯s skin crawl, but he forced himself to hold his ground, fists clenched, his heart pounding. Victor¡¯s gaze swept over them both, settling first on Mason, a hint of disdain tugging at the corners of his mouth.


    Victor: You know, all this effort you put into dodging me¡ªit¡¯s honestly inconsiderate. It would be so much simpler, for both of us really, if you¡¯d just stayed where you were.


    Victor''s gaze drifted lazily to Rachel, his smile twisting into something almost pitying, as if he were chiding a child for attempting something far beyond their reach.


    Victor: And you. Defecting, really? And to think, you''d do it so haphazardly. Did you even consider that you¡¯d end up here, with me? Surely you must have thought this through¡ªor was this just a bit of¡­ misplaced optimism? Did you believe¡ªtruly believe¡ªthat you were somehow owed a bit of... leniency? That line of thinking¡­


    Mason bristled, stepping forward, his fists still ablaze with the black flames of the Astral of Death. He wanted to throw Victor¡¯s arrogance back in his face, to break that smirk.


    Mason: Who¡­ who do you think you are?


    Victor¡¯s expression barely flickered, but a glint of amusement sparkled in his eyes. He continued his speech, his tone dripping with a self-assured superiority.


    Victor: So defiant, so... energetic. It''s almost as if you believe that with enough spirit, the world will bend to your will. Both of you¡­


    Rachel¡¯s face twisted with fury and fear, her voice sharp and desperate as she shouted at Mason.


    Rachel: Run! Now! He¡¯ll kill you!


    But Mason was done with running.


    I¡¯ll teach you to look down on me.


    The black flames around his feet intensified, propelling him at Victor, his fist burning with death¡¯s energy. But Victor didn¡¯t even flinch. He merely smirked as the walls around them shifted, seeming to come alive.


    Steel hands erupted from the walls, reaching to trap Mason, to crush him. He kicked at them, sending bursts of flame against the steel, but they absorbed the impact, pressing him back.


    More hands appeared, surrounding him, while the floor itself seemed to bend and close around his legs, swallowing him whole. Desperation clawed at him as he struggled, realizing he was hopelessly outmatched.


    Before the walls could tighten their grip, Rachel hurled herself between Mason and the steel hands, her body moving with a speed and grace that belied her injuries. She grabbed Mason and threw him back, saving him from the steel¡¯s grasp, but in doing so, she left herself vulnerable. The hands retaliated, slamming her to the ground with brutal force, pinning her in place.


    Mason: Rachel!


    He tried to lunge forward, but Victor merely watched with that same maddening smirk, raising a hand to control the writhing walls and forcing Mason back. Confusion twisted through Mason¡¯s mind.


    How was he doing this? How could he control everything around them?


    Fueled by rage and desperation, Mason launched himself at the steel hands once more. But it still wasn¡¯t enough. The steel resisted, unyielding, and more hands began to close in, threatening to pin him down.


    Despair clawed at Mason¡¯s heart, a weight pressing down on him as he struggled to keep up his flames. But then, he remembered something¡ªthe words of the Astral of Death, the entity that powered his flames.


    I¡¯m just the conduit, the real power comes from the Astral, but if I push¡­ if I reach deeper and add some of my own energy¡­


    He closed his eyes, focusing on the well of energy within him, pulling every last reserve of strength into the flames. He could feel his own life force seeping into the flames, pushing them to a level he¡¯d never dared before.


    Mason: Overdrive!


    His shout echoed through the room as the flames erupted, burning hotter and fiercer than ever before, consuming the steel hands with a relentless, scorching power. The heat was unbearable, even for Mason, and he felt his body scream with the effort, teetering on the edge of collapse. But he pushed through, launching himself once more at the hands that held Rachel.


    The flames shattered the steel, melting through it as Mason broke through, freeing her from the iron grip. He landed beside her, breathing heavily, the pain nearly overwhelming, but his gaze was locked onto Victor, his face twisted in determination.


    Mason: I¡¯m not forgiving you for this.


    But before he could act, Rachel grabbed his pant leg, her face pale and bloodied, a desperate plea in her eyes.


    Rachel:... Please. Run. You can¡¯t win this.


    Mason looked at her, his anger wavering for just a moment as he took in her pleading expression. But then he turned back to Victor, scowling. He¡¯d already made up his mind.


    I¡¯m not leaving until this guy¡¯s dead.


    Victor slowly took his hands out of his coat pocket. His amused smile faltered, his expression darkening as he looked at Mason with a sudden, chilling disgust. He clasped his hands together, the mockery in his voice sharpening into something cold and unforgiving.


    Victor: Ignoring the words of the woman closest to you, all so you can keep that pretty, shiny image of yourself, this savior you¡¯ve convinced yourself you are. What is it? Does the thought of being the brave knight, standing tall and untouchable, fill you with a little thrill?


    He scoffed, the scorn in his eyes intensifying as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.


    Victor: You¡¯re nothing but a pig huh. Greed like yours?. You¡¯d think it¡¯d befit someone worth their weight in the world. But you¡ª you¡¯re not worthy of the greed you carry. Not even close.


    Victor¡¯s gaze bore into Mason, disdain woven into every word as he continued his tirade, his voice dripping with venomous amusement.


    Victor: People like you, who overreach with empty hands, thinking they deserve¡­ what? Respect? Admiration? What exactly do you think you¡¯ve earned? That kind of ambition is reserved for people who stand above, who look down with justification.


    He took a step forward, clasping his hands together.


    Victor: What a pathetic ambition¡­


    Rachel¡¯s eyes went wide with horror as Victor¡¯s hands came together, purple energy radiating from his gaze. She screamed, her voice raw and desperate.


    Rachel: Don¡¯t let him put his palms together! Move!


    But it was too late. Victor¡¯s hands came together, and a pulse of energy rippled through the room, pushing Mason back. The force was immense, pressing him down with an intensity that nearly stole his breath. Victor pointed two fingers at Mason, as if they were guns.


    Victor: Astral Awakening... Immediate Territory.


    In an instant, agony exploded through Mason¡¯s chest, a searing, raw pain that tore through him without warning. His entire body convulsed, as though struck by an invisible force, and his mind lagged behind, struggling to make sense of the horror unfolding before him.


    Slowly, his gaze traveled downwards, dread pooling in his stomach as he took in the sight¡ªa gaping hole, brutally clean and disturbingly precise, piercing straight through the right side of his chest. It was as though someone had carved a tunnel through his flesh and bone, hollowing him out with clinical efficiency.


    Blood poured from the wound, warm and thick, soaking his shirt in deep crimson. He staggered back, a strangled sound escaping his throat as he choked on the hot, metallic taste filling his mouth. The blood seeped out faster than he could comprehend, spilling over his fingers as he clutched at his chest, desperately trying to hold himself together, as if his hands alone could stop the unstoppable.


    His knees buckled, and he felt himself swaying, the strength draining from his limbs with each pulsing heartbeat. The edges of his vision blurred, darkening, closing in as his brain scrambled to keep pace with the shock, the agony, the realization that his own body was betraying him, crumbling under the force of the wound. He could feel his breaths becoming shallower, ragged gasps that barely drew any air into his lungs, as if the very ability to breathe was slipping through his fingers.


    Victor watched, satisfied, as Mason fought to remain standing, his body trembling from the shock and pain. Then, casually, he summoned more hands, directing them toward Mason with a flick of his wrist. The steel fingers reached for him, closing in, ready to crush him completely.


    But before they could reach him, Rachel surged forward again, throwing herself between Mason and the impending steel, shielding him with her own battered body. The hands came crashing down on them both, and with the weight of the steel, the floor beneath them gave way, and they plummeted to the level below.


    As they fell, Victor watched from above, a look of mild amusement lingering on his face.

 Chapter 14: 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¡ªeach 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¡ª


    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¡ªSamuel 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¡ªa 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¡ªdisgust. 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¡ªa 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¡ªa 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¡ªthere 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¡ªthe 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¡ªyour 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 na?vet¨¦, his arrogance, his greed¡ªthey 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¡ªtime 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¡ªuseless, 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¡ªhe 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¨Cno 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¡ªit all faded, and he found himself once again standing in an empty, endless white room.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    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¡ªsolid and merciless¡ªconnected 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¡ªbut 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¡ªan 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¡ª 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¡ªbecause 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¡ªI let them down. Again and again. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    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¡ªthey¡¯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¡ªstop 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¡ªa 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¡ªeach 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¡ªthey 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¡ªyou 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¡ªonly 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¡ªeveryone 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¡ªthat¡¯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¡ªthat¡¯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¡ªnobody¡ªlearns 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¡ªit 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¡ªit 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¡ªthe 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¡ªhe 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.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    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¡ªany 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¡ªanything¡ªto 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¡ªthey 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¡ªbut 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¡ªthe 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¡ªthe 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¡ªdeep, menacing, and drawing closer with each passing second.


    Turning slowly, Mason¡¯s heart pounded as he spotted them¡ªa 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¡ªnot these creatures, not the twisted corridors, not even fate itself¡ªwas going to stop him now.

 Chapter 15: Labyrinth

    Mason had faced a lot of terrifying things in the past 24 hours¡ªassassins, armed soldiers, the Astral of Death itself. But nothing quite prepared him for the absurdity of sprinting through endless hallways with a pack of mutant hyenas hot on his heels.


    As he darted around another corner, dodging a stray piece of rubble, he couldn¡¯t help but think that somewhere, somehow, the universe was laughing at him.


    Mason vaulted over a large chunk of debris, twisting just enough mid-air to keep Rachel steady on his back. His mind raced. He needed a plan¡ªsomething that would take these animals down while keeping Rachel safe.


    And he had to think fast. Victor could arrive any moment, and who knew how many soldiers were right behind him. His body still pulsed with weakness from using the Astral of Death to seal his chest wound.


    As he rounded another corner, he skidded to a halt, spinning on his heel as he turned to face the pursuing beasts. Black flames flickered to life in his hands, the dark energy sparking with deadly intent.


    He tightened his grip, his gaze fixed on the first of the creatures as it sprinted toward him, eyes gleaming with that unnatural hunger. Timing his strike perfectly, Mason aimed and brought his fist down in a brutal arc, connecting with the hyena¡¯s snout in a burst of dark flame.


    The creature yelped, its body crashing to the ground, rolling as it skidded to a halt. For a moment, Mason felt a flicker of hope. Maybe that would buy him some time, maybe¡ª


    But then, he watched in horror as the hyena staggered back up, its injuries knitting together in a matter of seconds. The strike that should have shattered bone and left it incapacitated was barely enough to slow it down. His chest tightened as the realization dawned on him: not only was his output with the Astral of Death weaker than he¡¯d anticipated, but these creatures could heal too¡ªjust like him.


    These things have Astral power too.


    The beasts¡¯ jagged, unnatural bodies, their speed, their resilience¡ªit all fit. They were more than just ordinary animals; they were imbued with Astral abilities. And in his current state, depleted and weakened, he was severely outmatched.


    A cold sweat broke out as he began to turn, ready to flee and rethink his strategy, but before he could even take a step, two more hyenas rounded the corner. Their eyes locked onto him, and without hesitation, they pounced, claws extended, teeth bared, ready to tear him apart.


    As Mason ducked and weaved between snapping jaws and lashing claws, his mind raced with questions and the overwhelming realization that he was nearly out of options. But suddenly, a soft voice reached his ear, startling him.


    Rachel: ¡­ What¡¯s going on?


    Mason barely dodged another swipe from the nearest hyena, twisting to the side as the creature¡¯s claws narrowly missed his arm. His heart leaped for a different reason now as he glanced at Rachel, blushing slightly despite the chaos.


    Mason: Oh, nothing much¡­


    He dodged another lunge, using his shoulder to shove one of the hyenas off course. His sarcastic tone barely masked the strain in his voice as he threw a wild punch, putting as much power as he could muster into his arms.


    Grabbing the nearest hyena, he swung it around and hurled it into the other two, buying them a few precious seconds. Rachel¡¯s eyes widened as the creatures stumbled, her gaze flicking between the monstrous beasts and the dark corridors around them.


    Rachel: We¡¯re in the labyrinth?


    Mason: Yeah, I figured that part out.


    Rachel: No, no¡ªyou don¡¯t get it. This part of the facility should¡¯ve been safe. It was meant for training, security, and storage. The labyrinth isn¡¯t heavily monitored, it¡¯s supposed to be hard to navigate deliberately.


    Mason¡¯s foot slipped slightly as he dodged another attack, regaining his balance just in time to avoid a snapping jaw. He shot her a quick look, frowning.


    Mason: What exactly do you mean?


    Rachel¡¯s eyes darkened as she glanced at the creatures now recovering and stalking toward them again.


    Rachel: Obsidian must have sent these things to track us down. They¡¯re not just chasing us randomly¡ªthey¡¯re following our scent. They don¡¯t need surveillance; they can just track us wherever we go. And if the soldiers follow them¡­


    Mason¡¯s stomach twisted as he punched another creature square in the mouth, only to watch it heal instantly, its snarling grin reappearing as it prepared to lunge once more. He could already feel the exhaustion settling in his musclesr. And as two more hyenas lunged at him, he leaped into the air, narrowly avoiding their claws.


    Mason: How can they heal like that? They¡¯re astral users right?


    Rachel¡¯s voice was tense, but her mind was sharp, fitting the pieces together even in the midst of chaos.


    Rachel: They¡¯re products of the Astral of Death, that¡¯s probably how they¡¯re healing.


    Mason: So if they¡¯re using the Astral of Death¡¯s power¡­ shouldn¡¯t I be able to do something about that?


    Rachel shook her head, grimacing.


    Rachel: The Astral of Death¡¯s soul is split. The power inside these creatures is under the control of the other part. Even I don¡¯t know where the other part is, but it¡¯s clearly under Obsidian control.


    How convenient.


    He barely managed to sidestep as one of the hyenas lunged, its jaws snapping inches from his shoulder. He retaliated with a quick punch, but his attacks barely slowed them down, and even when he landed a solid blow, they healed almost instantly.


    Mason: So if these things heal with death energy like me, how am I supposed to kill them?


    Rachel: Astral abilities only work when the mind, soul, and body are all intact. Destroy any one of those in a single blow, and the Astral can¡¯t function. The creature will die.


    Mason let out a bitter laugh, glancing at her.


    Mason: Easier said than done.


    In my current state, I can¡¯t manage anything close to that kind of power.


    The creatures were circling closer, recovering from their recent blows, their growls growing louder and more menacing. His options were dwindling by the second, and his weakened body was making every movement feel like a monumental effort.


    Without any time left to strategize, Mason turned sharply on his heels, his grip on Rachel tightening as he sprinted down another corridor, the creatures hot on their trail. He called over his shoulder.


    Mason: New plan. What¡¯s it gonna be?


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Mason sprinted through the labyrinth¡¯s endless corridors, the pounding of his own footsteps mingling with the echoing growls of the beasts behind him.


    It was insane, utterly reckless.


    Rachel¡¯s explanation of the plan¡ªif you could even call it that¡ªfelt barely coherent in his mind. It sounded more like a gamble than any real strategy, a vague set of instructions that relied on faith rather than any kind of certainty. But he could hear Granny¡¯s words reverberating in his thoughts.


    Trust.


    He clenched his jaw, glancing over his shoulder as the creatures surged forward. Rachel was gone now, he had no idea what she planned to do or if she would even survive but. He had no choice. He would have to trust Rachel¡¯s plan, as insane as it seemed.


    As he rounded one more winding corner, Mason¡¯s heart raced as he entered a vast, expansive room. Perfect. This was exactly what he needed. The creatures pursued him, barreling into the open space, their numbers swelling as more wolf-like beasts joined the hyenas. His escape through the labyrinth had drawn them together, forming a pack of snarling, bloodthirsty predators, each one hungry to rip him apart.


    But as they filled the room, Mason simply smiled, extending his arms outward, his eyes narrowing as he took in their movements. They charged forward, teeth bared, but stopped just short of lunging, slowing to circle him instead. They moved with a strange caution, watching him, waiting for something.


    Rachel was right.


    These things, they¡¯re controlled by Obsidian, and Obsidian can¡¯t kill me, they just want me captured. So as long as I stay put, they won¡¯t do a thing huh.


    The revelation emboldened him. If they were under orders to avoid killing him, he could afford to be a bit more reckless. Closing his eyes, Mason steadied his breath, reaching into the depths of his soul.


    You¡¯ve been awfully quiet lately.


    The silence in his mind stretched, but then The Astral of Death¡¯s presence flickered, faint and strained, answering with a weary tone that echoed through Mason¡¯s consciousness.


    Astral of Death: That stunt of yours¡ªhealing your wound¡ªit drained us both.


    Mason¡¯s brow furrowed, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he opened one eye.


    Is that even possible? An Astral, dying of exhastion?


    The Astral didn¡¯t respond, its silence pointed and absolute, as if the question itself were beneath consideration. Mason rolled his eyes, dismissing the lack of response, and focused on his goal.


    Alright, fine, keep your secrets. But I need your help. Just tell me¡ªwhat would it take to control a living being with the Astral of Death?Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Another pause. The beasts continued circling him, their movements careful, calculating, as if they, too, sensed the silent exchange happening between Mason and the force within him. Then, with a scoff, The Astral of Death finally broke the silence.


    Astral of Death: Even after everything, you think I¡¯d teach you something like that? No. I refuse.


    Mason¡¯s smile widened, his eyes still closed, the faintest hint of amusement dancing across his face.


    That¡¯s all I needed to know.


    A flicker of confusion pulsed through his mind, the sensation almost tangible as The Astral struggled to understand.


    Astral of Death: ¡­?


    Mason opened his eyes, casting a glance at the creatures circling him, his confidence solidified.


    I just needed confirmation. I don¡¯t need to know the exact technique¡ªyou¡¯ve already told me enough to know that it¡¯s possible.


    The Astral of Death fell silent once more, its presence withdrawing to the far corners of his mind, simmering with an almost begrudging respect. Mason exhaled, his attention turning back to the creatures that surrounded him, their hungry eyes fixed on his every move.


    He had what he needed. With this knowledge, he could test his theory, take control of this situation¡ªand these creatures.


    Mason took a steadying breath and reached out, placing a hand on the nearest creature¡ªa hulking wolf-like beast with muscles rippling beneath its dark, scarred hide. Closing his eyes, he let his consciousness sink inward, navigating through the flickering tendrils of energy that bound him to The Astral of Death.


    He pushed deeper, honing in on where he sensed the creature¡¯s soul, a faint yet pulsing light surrounded by chaotic, tangled threads. This wasn¡¯t the same steady, ominous energy of his own Astral; it was twisted, like a shadow of the true power, its form barely holding itself together.


    He couldn¡¯t waste time dismantling each creature¡¯s soul one by one, and even if he tried, his strength wouldn¡¯t hold out. But the mind? That could be a different story. He wasn¡¯t looking to dominate its will; this creature was already a slave to someone else¡¯s will. No, he only needed a suggestion, a small spark of thought to guide its primal instincts.


    He concentrated, focusing his energy, and sent a single, clear thought rippling into the creature¡¯s consciousness.


    A moment later, he felt a faint shift, like the slightest ripple in still water, and he opened his eyes, a smile forming as he turned his back to the creatures. The others immediately sensed his movement, their growls intensifying as they prepared to lunge. But before they could reach him, the wolf-like creature stepped forward, letting out a low snarl.


    Protect.


    In one fluid motion, it tore into the nearest hyena, its claws slicing through flesh with brutal efficiency, severing the creature¡¯s head in a single blow.


    Mason watched in fascination, his chest heaving with exhaustion but a hint of pride swelling within him. Success. The wolf, now loyal to his subtle command, moved through the crowd of creatures, tearing them apart with savage intensity. He wasn¡¯t sure exactly how he¡¯d managed to plant the thought, but it had worked. He felt his energy draining even more, his head swimming from the mental exertion, but the outcome made it worth it.


    Using the precious seconds bought by the wolf¡¯s rampage, Mason turned and made his way toward the entryway. Behind him, the loyal beast continued to lash out, slaughtering the creatures that filled the room.


    However, Just as he reached the doorway, a powerful crash echoed through the room.


    Mason barely had time to react before a massive figure burst through the nearby wall, sending chunks of debris flying in every direction. The shockwave sent him sprawling backward, the force knocking him onto his back.


    Standing before him was a monstrous figure, a creature straight out of mythology. It was shaped like a bull, but it stood upright, towering above him on two powerful legs, its muscular form radiating a brutal, imposing strength. Its eyes glowed an inky black, filled with a murderous rage, and each breath escaped in heavy, furious snorts that clouded the air like steam.


    Mason¡¯s heart pounded as he scrambled to his feet, the realization sinking in that he was facing something far beyond the ordinary beasts he¡¯d been dealing with.


    Biting his lip, he muttered a curse under his breath, his gaze locked onto the bull-like monstrosity.


    Surely this is too cruel, even for you fate.


    With his last reserves of strength, Mason steadied himself, preparing to face the new challenger.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Victor Popescu leaned back in the dim glow of the surveillance room, his eyes drifting lazily over the scattered monitors. The labyrinth¡¯s grainy footage sputtered in and out, barely managing to capture glimpses of the chaos within.


    His soldiers stood around him waiting for his orders, yet Victor remained relaxed, unbothered. His mind was elsewhere, barely focused on the blurry figures darting across the screens. The frantic, desperate movements of the intruders were of little consequence to him. No, his thoughts had turned to something more enjoyable¡ªa new set of clothes he had acquired recently.


    Sharp, dark fabrics, perfectly tailored. Perhaps he would wear it soon, a small change to mirror the new direction his life was taking.


    Rachel had been a part of that old direction, a memory he had long since dismissed. He almost laughed at the thought of her. What had once been a source of fascination, a curiosity to indulge in, was now little more than a faded chapter, barely worth a footnote.


    She¡¯d had her chance, and she¡¯d failed to live up to his expectations. He would find a new vice-captain soon, someone more fitting of the role¡ªsomeone who understood respect, who could appreciate his power and position as they should. No, Rachel was insignificant.


    But Mason Heartson¡­ now, there was a nuisance he hadn¡¯t quite managed to forget. The boy¡¯s very existence irked him, a reminder of something distasteful. Mason had the audacity to walk freely, to act however he pleased, displaying his insolence in front of everyone, and worst of all, in front of Rachel.


    Victor¡¯s hand clenched slightly at the thought, his lips twisting into a thin sneer. Mason¡¯s lack of respect, his casual disregard for authority, was an insult. The boy was bold, brazen even, acting as though he possessed any true ambition.


    He flaunted himself as if he had the authority to take what he wanted, but he lacked even a shred of the dignity or purpose necessary to earn that right.


    It disgusted Victor, this pathetic display. Mason didn¡¯t know what it meant to wield influence, to command respect, to be feared and admired in equal measure. And for that, Victor wanted nothing more than to watch the boy¡¯s confidence crumble under his grasp, to wipe that insufferable arrogance from his face. He savored the thought, the image of Mason at his mercy, broken and humbled, a fitting end to a misguided life.


    Turning back to the screens, he observed the figures moving frantically through the labyrinth. There was Mason, sprinting with Rachel draped across his back, dodging the twisted, death-infused creatures that pursued him.


    The surveillance was patchy at best due to the labryinth having no need for real security, the screen flickering as the cameras struggled to keep up, but every so often, Victor caught glimpses of them.


    He watched as Mason stopped briefly, setting Rachel down. An argument? Victor narrowed his eyes, his curiosity piqued, but he could only make out vague gestures, a few sharp movements. It was hard to tell what they were saying, though the tension between them was palpable even through the grainy footage. Victor allowed himself a small smile.


    And then, just as he hoped, they went their separate ways. Mason bolted down one path, the pack of beasts hot on his trail, while Rachel moved in the opposite direction. Victor¡¯s heart quickened, his mind calculating.


    This was perfect. Mason, with his reckless arrogance, was drawing the beasts toward him, keeping himself occupied in a futile attempt to evade them. Victor could save the boy¡¯s defeat for later, a moment he would savor in its own time. What truly mattered now was Rachel.


    Victor¡¯s gaze lingered on the enclosed chamber where she had vanished. A new opportunity had presented itself, one that he would not let slip away. Rachel, isolated and vulnerable, was now within his reach. He wanted to be there for her last moments, to see her understand the consequences of her grand greed.


    With a cool, detached satisfaction, he turned to the soldiers standing around him.


    Victor: Follow me.


    The soldiers nodded in unison, their weapons at the ready, their faces expressionless. Victor couldn¡¯t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction at the sight. This was how it should be: obedience. A group that understood the natural flow of authority, with him at its pinnacle.


    There was no need for haste. Victor walked at a leisurely pace, his hands clasped behind his back. Why should he hurry? This was his domain, every inch of it bending to his desires. The labyrinth, the soldiers, even the twisted creatures roaming its halls¡ªthey all existed to serve his will.


    Mason Heartson could run all he wanted, but his fate was already sealed. The beasts would capture him in due time, leaving Victor the pleasure of dealing with the boy¡¯s remains later. As for Rachel¡­ well, she was a loose end he was more than happy to tie up himself.


    The hallways eventually opened into a large chamber. Victor paused, surveying the space before him. It was a training room, he hardly recognized, with various pieces of equipment scattered across the floor. Obsidian had designed it with practicality in mind: weights, combat dummies, and reinforced walls for testing abilities.


    Overhead, a wide balcony stretched across one side of the room, where instructors would have stood to oversee the training below. The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows that danced across the floor, the faint hum of fluorescent lights the only sound.


    Victor raised a hand, gesturing to the soldiers behind him.


    Victor: She¡¯s here somewhere, up to her usual tricks, no doubt.


    His voice was calm, almost bored, but there was an undercurrent of irritation.


    She had no sense of propriety, no respect for the structure and authority that governed the world. It was shameful, really, for someone like her¡ªa woman of such striking beauty¡ªto resort to such undignified methods. He shook his head, the faintest sneer tugging at his lips as he scanned the room.


    After a moment, Victor sighed and activated it, a faint, otherworldly glow enveloping his form as his senses sharpened. He focused, searching the room for any sign of her presence. The air shifted slightly, a subtle disturbance that caught his attention just in time.


    His instincts flared, and he leaped back, narrowly avoiding a strike as a blade sliced through the space where he had just stood. The motion was fluid¡ªaimed to kill.


    Victor blinked, momentarily startled, before a slow, deliberate smile spread across his face. Rachel materialized before him, stepping out of the shadows with a knife in hand, her eyes blazing with fury.


    For a brief moment, her expression caught him off guard. It wasn¡¯t fear or desperation that he saw¡ªit was raw defiance, a fire that burned far brighter than he remembered.


    Victor: Trickery?


    His tone was biting, laced with disdain as he straightened himself. He gestured vaguely toward the knife, as though dismissing the attempt on his life as a minor inconvenience.


    Victor: Deceit and lies¡ªdo you truly believe that¡¯s enough to make the world bend to your will? A vice-captain stooping to such desperate measures¡ªit¡¯s unbecoming, Rachel. Unbefitting, especially for someone with your beauty.


    His voice softened mockingly, dripping with condescension.


    Victor: Must you take everything? The gazes of everyone around you, the attention you command effortlessly¡ªis that not enough for you? Do you feel the need to seize even more?


    Rachel¡¯s glare hardened as she raised the knife, her knuckles white with tension.


    Rachel: God, you¡¯re annoying. Do you ever shut your mouth?


    Her voice was sharp and cutting, slicing through his tirade. She took a step forward, her eyes narrowing.


    Rachel: No more speeches. I¡¯m tired of the sound of your voice, no I could go my whole life without hearing it again. Today¡¯s the day you die, do you understand? Today¡¯s the day I take that authority you like so much.


    Victor raised an eyebrow, intrigued. She was bold but boldness without power was meaningless.


    Victor: And how, exactly, do you plan to accomplish that? Your assassination attempt has failed. So tell me, what makes you think today the world will bend to you?


    Rachel smiled, a slow, confident grin. She tilted her head, her voice calm but laced with venom.


    Rachel: Because that idiot, Mason Heartson, isn¡¯t here anymore. I don¡¯t have to play the helpless damsel now.


    Before Victor could respond, she vanished from his sight, her presence dissipating like smoke. His scowl deepened as he spun around, scanning the room for any sign of her. The faint metallic scent of blood reached him, and his stomach twisted with sudden realization. His gaze darted toward the soldiers who had followed him, and his breath caught in his throat.


    They were all dead. Their throats had been slit, their bodies crumpled on the floor in a silent, lifeless heap. Victor¡¯s fists clenched as his anger flared, his composure slipping for a brief moment.


    Victor: Rachel¡­


    His voice was low, a growl of frustration as his eyes shot upward. There she stood, at the top of the balcony, her arms crossed and a triumphant smile spreading across her face.


    How¡­


    Rachel: Now that I don¡¯t have to hold back, I think I¡¯ll take it all for myself.


    Greedy.

 Chapter 16: Ambition of A King

    Victor Popescu stood frozen, his eyes fixated on the carnage that surrounded him. The room, once filled with his loyal soldiers, was now eerily silent, save for the faint hum of flickering lights above. Bodies lay crumpled across the floor, lifeless and stained with blood.


    His soldiers¡ªhis men, handpicked to follow his command¡ªhad been wiped out. Rage simmered beneath his otherwise calm exterior, threatening to boil over as his eyes darted upward to the empty balcony where Rachel had stood moments before.


    Rachel... that wretched, overzealous fool.


    His teeth clenched as his thoughts spiraled, but just as the rage threatened to consume him, another thought flickered, unbidden.


    And yet¡­ perhaps it¡¯s impressive in its own way.


    He shoved the thought aside, his face twisting into a sneer. Rachel¡¯s actions weren¡¯t a testament to her strength¡ªthey were a crime against order, against him. Her recklessness would end here. His hand brushed against the edge of his coat, straightening it as he steadied himself.


    Victor: Rachel! It seems I¡¯ve been far too lenient. But I¡¯ll fix that mistake.


    His voice echoed through the chamber, filled with righteous indignation as he took a step forward. But above him, Rachel¡¯s defiant laugh rang out, sharp and mocking. She appeared again, stepping forward onto the edge of the balcony, her knife still glinting faintly with the blood of his men.


    Rachel: Spare me the theatrics and speeches. This fight isn¡¯t about Astral abilities, or power, or even authority. The one who has the most will is the one who¡¯ll come out on top. That¡¯s what I¡¯ve decided.


    Victor froze, his mind reeling at the audacity of her words.


    Will?


    What nonsense. His confusion quickly gave way to anger, his lips curling into a disdainful sneer.


    Victor: Will? You speak of will as if it¡¯s some force you¡¯re acquainted with. However, you¡¯re wrong in that assertion. If it is a battle of will, there is no question who will come out on top. Will is ambition, and ambition is power. That is the very nature of my Astral ability. Who could possibly possess more ambition than the man who desires everything.


    He extended his arms, his fingers curling as a faint, shimmering purple light began to gather in his eyes. He closed them briefly, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he announced:


    Victor: Astral of Territory¡­


    He opened his eyes again, the glow intensifying as he focused his energy. The room around him shifted ever so slightly. Every detail of the training room¡ªthe scattered equipment, the balcony, the faint echoes of their voices¡ªfell under his influence. As long as he remained the leading captain of this facility, every room, every inch of space he occupied, would belong to him. It was his domain, and he would bend it to his will.


    This is my will.


    But as the energy of his ability extended outward, a strange sensation rippled through him. Something was wrong. The connection wasn¡¯t forming as it should. The room felt¡­ off. He frowned, his sharp gaze snapping upward to Rachel, who stood on the balcony with a gleaming, self-assured smile.


    Tricks?


    Blinking rapidly, he reactivated his Astral ability, the purple glow intensifying as he attempted to anchor himself to the space. This time, the pieces began to fall into place. The room wasn¡¯t a training chamber.


    The equipment, the balcony, even Rachel¡¯s presence¡ªit was all a fabrication. As the illusions shattered, he found himself standing in a long, expansive hallway, the walls stretching endlessly in either direction.


    Victor¡¯s scowl deepened as the full weight of the deception hit him. Rachel had tricked him, manipulated him into wasting his Astral energy on a phantom space, all while she systematically eliminated all soldiers he had brought in. Rage coursed through him as he took a step forward, his hands trembling with barely-contained fury.


    Victor: Rachel! You damn wench! You think this will¡ª


    His voice faltered as a sharp, searing pain exploded in his lower abdomen. He stumbled, his hand instinctively clutching at the source of the pain, and when he looked down, his breath hitched. There it was¡ªher knife, lodged deep into his flesh, blood staining the pristine fabric of his coat.


    He staggered back, his vision blurring as his mind raced to comprehend what had happened. Rachel¡¯s illusions had drawn his attention, left him vulnerable, and now she¡¯d stabbed him before changing her position. The realization burned, not just from the pain, but from the humiliation of being outmaneuvered.


    Victor: Rachel¡­


    His voice was a strained growl as he gritted his teeth, his fingers trembling around the hilt of the knife.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Mason burst through yet another wall, his body smashing through layers of stone and metal before hitting the cold floor with a sickening thud. His vision swam, his head pounding as bright stars danced before his eyes like mocking little reminders of his pain.


    Seriously, I can¡¯t keep doing this.


    He swatted the imaginary stars away, gritting his teeth as he forced himself to sit up. The ground beneath him felt as though it was spinning, but he didn¡¯t have time to sit around and let the vertigo pass. Not with that thing barreling after him.


    The bull-headed creature lumbered through the hole Mason had just made, its colossal frame seeming to fill the entire hallway with its presence. Unlike the other beasts Mason had encountered, this one didn¡¯t seem particularly concerned with keeping him intact.


    There was no hesitation, no calculated movements¡ªjust raw, destructive intent. And the way its furious black eyes burned holes through him made it clear: this thing wasn¡¯t here to capture him. It was here to end him.


    Mason scrambled to his feet, stumbling slightly as his legs screamed in protest. He thought about trying to control the beast, the way he¡¯d managed to redirect the wolf¡¯s mind earlier. But his thoughts were too scattered, his memory of that moment too hazy.


    He¡¯d acted on instinct back then¡ªno careful planning, no step-by-step process. And right now, he didn¡¯t have the luxury of time to figure it out. Not with a giant, murderous bull breathing down his neck.


    Alright, alright, Plan B it is. Hit it. Hard.


    Black flames ignited around his fist as he raised it, the dark energy crackling and flickering like a living thing. He stood his ground, watching as the creature pawed the ground, lowering its massive head, preparing to charge.


    Mason¡¯s heartbeat quickened, the sound echoing in his ears as the beast thundered toward him, each step shaking the ground beneath his feet. He waited, his muscles tensing, his focus narrowing to a single point.


    Just a little closer¡­ just a little¡­ now!


    He launched himself forward with everything he had, his flaming fist colliding with the beast¡¯s head in an explosion of force and heat. For a moment, it seemed to work¡ªthe sheer impact of the blow rattling through his arm, the black flames roaring like an inferno.


    But as the smoke cleared, Mason¡¯s heart sank. The beast was still standing, barely phased. Its thick hide seemed to absorb the brunt of the attack, and before Mason could react, it reached out with one massive hand, grabbing him like a toy.


    He didn¡¯t even have time to brace himself before the creature hurled him through the air like a ragdoll. He hit the ground hard, skidding across the floor and slamming into another wall. Pain radiated through his entire body.


    Mason coughed, struggling to breathe as he pushed himself up on trembling arms. This wasn¡¯t working. His output was still too weak, his attacks barely scratching the surface of the beast¡¯s seemingly impenetrable defenses. And the more time he wasted, the worse this situation became.


    What do I do? What do I do?


    Despair began to claw at the edges of his mind, urging him to give up. But Mason shook his head violently, swatting the despair away like it was nothing more than a swarm of annoying flies.


    He forced himself to his feet, his legs wobbling but holding firm. He wouldn¡¯t give up. He couldn¡¯t give up. Not here, not now. Not when Rachel was still counting on him, not when he had so many questions left to fight for. He¡¯d find his way forward.


    That was the kind of guy he wanted to be. He¡¯d save who he wanted to save, escape this nightmare, and do it on his own terms. He¡¯d take everything and leave nothing behind.


    The beast pawed the ground again, readying itself for another charge. Mason stood tall, his eyes blazing with determination as he faced it head-on.


    As the beast charged, Mason poured black flames into his legs, feeling the energy surge through him like fire in his veins. Just as the creature closed in, Mason jumped, propelling himself high into the air, soaring far above the beast¡¯s head. For a brief moment, he felt weightless, the world below him slowing as he reached the peak of his jump.


    He closed his eyes, concentrating. This was a gamble, but it wasn¡¯t like he had any better options. He poured flames into his hands, but this time, he didn¡¯t let them stop at his skin. He forced the energy outward, shaping it, stretching it, contorting it into long, rope-like tendrils of fire. The strain was immediate, his body screaming in protest as the flames licked at his flesh, but he ignored it.


    As he began to fall, he lashed out with the flaming ropes, wrapping them tightly around the beast¡¯s thick neck. The creature roared, thrashing wildly as Mason landed squarely on its back, gripping the flames tightly like reins. The pain was excruciating¡ªthe flames burned against his hands, the strain of holding on threatening to rip his muscles apart¡ªbut he held firm, refusing to let go.


    The beast crashed into walls, desperate to throw him off, the impacts sending shockwaves through Mason¡¯s body. But he grit his teeth, pouring every ounce of willpower he had into staying on.


    Come on, come on¡­ time for an improvisation.


    The beast roared again, its thrashing growing more violent, but Mason didn¡¯t waver. Not when he¡¯d made it this far.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Victor Popescu¡¯s boots sank slightly into the soft, unyielding sand of the endless desert. He moved with no urgency, his gait almost lazy as his eyes narrowed in irritation. The oppressive sun beat down on him, relentless and uncaring, and he sneered at the thought of his pristine outfit being sullied by the harsh environment.


    This is unacceptable. Sand, sweat, dirt¡ªit¡¯s a wonder anyone can walk through this wasteland and still maintain their dignity. And yet here I am, subjected to this insult of an environment. Just look at my coat¡ªwhat a disgrace.


    His thoughts drifted as he absentmindedly brushed off an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve, his expression contorting with a simmering anger. But his annoyance was short-lived as a sharp voice cut through his musings.


    ???: Stop fooling around and hurry up. We don¡¯t have time for your nonsense.


    The voice snapped him back to reality, and Victor turned his head lazily to face its owner.


    The man who had spoken stood tall in gleaming, polished armor that reflected the blazing sunlight. His sharp sword hung neatly at his side, unused but ready. He didn¡¯t have a scratch on him, his appearance immaculate, almost annoyingly so. Victor narrowed his eyes slightly, his irritation doubling.


    Ahead of him stood the other captains, their expressions varying between meager disinterest and thinly veiled boredom. It was rare, almost unheard of, for all the captains of Obsidian to gather in one place, but he supposed it was inevitable given the strength of their opponents today. Still, Victor allowed himself a small, triumphant smirk.


    Unscathed. Not even a mark.


    His gaze flicked across the group, taking in their appearances with a critical eye. The man who had spoken¡ªRoger, was it?¡ªstood straight and proper, his armor pristine and his posture stiff.


    Next to him, another captain stood dressed in what could only be described as regal, old-fashioned garments, as though he had stepped directly out of a historical painting. His outfit bore traces of sand, but otherwise, he too was unscathed.


    Further back, Victor¡¯s eyes lingered on a solitary figure clad entirely in sleek armor. The design was meticulous, segmented for mobility while maintaining its imposing structure. Victor frowned slightly.


    A mystery. How does someone like that even become a captain? He barely moves. What¡¯s the point of him?


    Victor¡¯s gaze drifted naturally to the next figure. A blonde woman¡ªno, not a woman. A teenager, perhaps a young adult with two gleaming swords strapped to her back. For the life of him, he couldn¡¯t recall her name, but something about her presence suggested she was significant.


    She had to be. Despite only holding the rank of Vice Captain, she had been included alongside the captains on this mission. Likely due to the fact that the seventh captain''s seat was vacant.


    If that¡¯s the case, why didn¡¯t she fill the empty spot?


    Ignoring the thought, his gaze shifted left of the blonde warrior, to the fifth captain, and his expression darkened. This one was terrifying. A woman who radiated raw, untamed energy, her heaving breaths making the air feel heavy.


    Her hands were coated in blood¡ªthe enemies¡¯, no doubt. Victor had no doubt that, if not for the sixth and final captain¡¯s intervention, she would have torn her opponents apart completely.


    The sixth captain was what truly caught Victor¡¯s attention, his presence undeniable despite his lack of armor. Unlike the others, his attire was casual¡ª a red buttoned shirt, simple, unassuming.


    But his body bore the marks of battle, bruises and scratches visible against the fabric. He carried a small sword at his hip and a larger one strapped to his back, but it was his demeanor that truly set him apart. He stood with one hand extended toward the woman captain.


    Sixth Captain: Calm down, Arnette. We need them alive. You¡¯ve done good.


    Victor watched as the woman, Arnette, flicked her blood-red eyes toward the man. For a moment, Victor was certain she would lash out, tearing him apart in a fit of rage. But instead, something shifted. Her expression softened, almost as if she had been possessed, and she obeyed his command without question. Victor¡¯s teeth clenched involuntarily.


    The ability to command and control so effortlessly. What was required for a feat like that¡­


    The thought was a bitter one, and Victor¡¯s irritation flared once more as the polished knight¡¯s voice called out to him again.


    Roger: Victor! Are you even listening? I told you to focus, damn it!


    Victor¡¯s gaze snapped to Roger, his expression darkening. His voice was sharp, cutting through the air.


    Victor: What kind of man do you think you are, to command me around as if you have the authority?


    Roger flinched, shrinking back slightly under Victor¡¯s fury. But before the tension could rise further, Victor laughed, the sound sharp and mocking, a sudden smile spreading across his face.


    Victor: Relax! They don¡¯t have jokes where you¡¯re from Roger?


    The knight exhaled, his posture relaxing slightly, but Victor wasn¡¯t done. His voice turned light, almost playful.


    Victor: That fight was tough, huh? I almost could have died, you know. Those girls were no joke huh.


    Roger¡¯s brows furrowed, his expression incredulous.


    Roger: Don¡¯t give me that nonsense. You didn¡¯t even come close to dying. If anything, it was the rest of us who took the brunt of the force!


    Victor chuckled again, waving a dismissive hand.


    Victor: Nothing slips past you, does it? But really, you shouldn¡¯t complain so much. After all, you spent most of the fight cowering and hiding, didn¡¯t you?


    Roger¡¯s face flushed with embarrassment, and he opened his mouth to protest, but Victor was already stepping past him, his smirk fading into a look of quiet disgust.


    Pathetic. A man who exists only to be commanded. No ambition, no drive of his own. It¡¯s disgusting.


    Victor¡¯s thoughts simmered as he walked away, the desert heat pressing down on him once again. He had no patience for weakness.


    Victor¡¯s steps were deliberate. His gaze was fixed on the casually dressed captain, the man who had so effortlessly commanded Arnette. That calm, commanding presence¡ªit grated on Victor in ways he couldn¡¯t fully articulate.


    He wanted to press him, to demand respect, to seize the authority that this man wielded so naturally. Victor¡¯s fists clenched at his sides as he considered the possibility of losing to this man, not in combat, but in a battle of ambition. No, he wouldn¡¯t allow it.


    As he drew closer, Victor¡¯s sharp eyes caught something¡ªa flicker. Barely perceptible, so faint that any normal human would have missed it entirely. But Victor, whose Astral extended his senses to every grain of sand in this desert, noticed. His steps halted, his posture straightening as his gaze drifted downward.


    Hiding. How quaint.


    He closed his eyes momentarily, commanding his Astral to reveal what was hidden. Slowly, his vision shifted, sharpening as he focused on the source of the disturbance. There. Laying on the sand, crouched low with a predator¡¯s intensity, was a girl.


    She was young, barely in her teenage years, her frame small but taut with tension. She was completely camouflaged, her presence invisible to the naked eye. Yet she hadn¡¯t escaped his gaze. Not here, not in his territory.


    Victor smirked, his voice slicing through the stillness.


    Victor: You. Are you with the others? The ones we captured?


    The girl didn¡¯t respond. Her eyes, half-hidden by the shadows of the sand, burned with a light so intense that Victor felt it pierce straight through him. It wasn¡¯t fear he saw in her gaze. No, it was something far more profound, far more dangerous.


    Rage? No¡­ it¡¯s something else.


    Her right hand was strategically placed behind her back. She wasn¡¯t just hiding; she was waiting, calculating. His grin widened as he knelt slightly, his tone turning mockingly curious.


    Victor: What¡¯s the matter? You shy? Or perhaps¡­ perhaps you¡¯re ashamed. After all, you could have helped those girls. You could have used that clever little hiding trick of yours to keep them from being captured. But you didn¡¯t, did you?


    The girl¡¯s expression didn¡¯t falter. Her stare remained unwavering, the fire in her eyes growing even brighter. Victor¡¯s words had no effect on her resolve, no hint of guilt or shame crossed her face. If anything, her silence only confirmed his suspicions. He chuckled softly, a sound that barely masked his growing excitement.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    It¡¯s just as I thought.


    He straightened, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his coat as he continued.


    Victor: Why did you let us take your friends? Surely, with your skill, you could have stopped them. Instead, you stayed here, hidden, doing nothing. How cold-hearted.


    His voice dripped with feigned pity, but inside, his thoughts burned with recognition. That look in her eyes¡ª


    The realization sent a shiver of delight through him, his grin widening into something almost feral. He took a step closer, his voice lowering but losing none of its sharpness.


    Victor: What¡¯s your plan now, girl? That knife behind your back¡ªare you planning to use it on me? Or have you realized yet that your position is hopeless? You¡¯ve been found. Your hiding game is over, and now there¡¯s nowhere left for you to go. You¡¯ll be captured, just like the others. And that will be the end.


    He paused dramatically, his voice taking on an air of casual indifference, as if the outcome mattered little to him.


    Victor: Unless¡­ unless you¡¯re smart enough to take another option. You could accept our offer, you know. Live your life however you please, taking whatever you want, whenever you want. It¡¯s simple, really. You could have that sort of life, or you could rot here in this desert, or worse, end up in some fortress, forgotten and miserable. I can¡¯t be bothered to care which one you choose, so hurry up and decide.


    The girl remained silent, her fiery gaze locked onto him. Victor tilted his head slightly, studying her with growing amusement. Despite the overwhelming odds stacked against her, she didn¡¯t falter. That defiance, that burning ambition¡ªit was intoxicating.


    Victor smiled maliciously, his voice dropping to a near-whisper.


    Victor: Go on, then. Say it.


    But he didn''t need to wait for a response.


    He already knew what she would choose.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Victor didn¡¯t spend much time wondering why he had chosen now to rekindle the old memory. He limped through the cold, dimly lit hallways of the Obsidian facility, his steps uneven as blood trailed behind him, stark against the pristine black floor.


    He pressed a hand to his head, the throbbing ache of his wound reminding him of Rachel¡¯s insolence. The poison coursing through his veins made his vision blur, his balance falter. It clawed at his senses, dulling them, twisting them, making every step harder than the last.


    Damn her. Damn Rachel. How much must she think she¡¯s owed to take so much from me? As if killing my loyal soldiers wasn¡¯t enough. As if defying my authority wasn¡¯t enough. No, she must go further. She must strip me of my senses, my pride. How filthy.


    His teeth clenched, his free hand balling into a fist as rage surged through him. He had already decided Rachel would pay for her betrayal, but now that decision hardened into something sharper, crueler. Any hesitation he might have felt about tearing her apart was gone. The thought of dismantling her piece by piece no longer felt like punishment¡ªit felt like justice.


    His lips curled into a grimace as he stopped to catch his breath, leaning briefly against the wall. The poison was potent, dulling his ability to rely on his senses. But Victor wasn¡¯t worried. He didn¡¯t need them. Closing his eyes, he let his breath even out, and a faint shimmer of purple light flickered behind his closed eyelids.


    Victor: Astral of Territory¡­


    The light intensified as the Astral activated, enveloping him in a field of control. With it, Victor could let go of his weakened senses and rely instead on something far greater. His Astral¡¯s ability wasn¡¯t just to dominate a space¡ªit was to make it his.


    Every inch of territory that fell under his control became an extension of his will. He didn¡¯t need to see the hallway to know it intimately; it belonged to him. Every object, every speck of dust was his to sense, to command.


    Tricks, poisons, illusions¡ªthey¡¯re the tools of the weak, the desperate. But this?


    He took another step forward, this time with more confidence. The Astral of Territory filled in the gaps where his senses faltered, guiding him effortlessly through the maze-like corridors. He could feel everything within his domain, the layout of the facility spreading out before him in perfect clarity.


    My will. Nobody else in this facility, on this planet, or anywhere else could match it. Not even her.


    The thought of her reliance on petty tricks made his blood boil, but he let the anger simmer, focusing instead on the task ahead. She was close. He could feel her now, her presence flaring like a spark in his territory. She had moved into another enclosed chamber, no doubt setting up yet another of her little traps. Victor¡¯s lips curled into a sneer.


    His bloodied hand slid against the wall as he turned the corner, and the faint metallic scent of blood mingled with the sterile air of the facility.


    The chamber loomed ahead, its heavy doors slightly ajar. Victor¡¯s eyes remained closed, but the image of the room was clear in his mind, painted by the Astral of Territory. He felt her there, waiting. Perhaps she thought she still had a chance. Perhaps she believed her tricks could outmaneuver him one last time.


    Foolish girl.


    As he pushed open the doors and stepped into the chamber, he allowed himself a small, cruel smile. His voice, calm yet dripping with malice, echoed through the room.


    Victor: I hope you¡¯ve made peace with your mistakes, as this will be the last room you ever enter.


    His eyes remained closed, his head held high as he walked further inside. He didn¡¯t need to see her.


    Victor finally opened his eyes, squinting against the light as his vision struggled to adjust. There she was. Rachel. Sitting triumphantly in a chair at the center of the room, her posture relaxed, her legs crossed, one arm draped lazily over the armrest.


    She looked as though she were seated on a throne, her smug expression only adding to the image. Victor scowled, his Astral flaring briefly as he confirmed the reality of what he was seeing. This wasn¡¯t another illusion. She was here.


    He stepped forward, his body faltering slightly as the poison coursing through him made his legs weak. He stumbled, catching himself on the doorframe. Before he could recover, Rachel let out a tiny laugh, her voice light and mocking.


    Rachel: Do you need a hand, sir? You¡¯re looking a little¡­ unsteady.


    The sound of her voice ignited a fury so intense that Victor stopped dead in his tracks. His chest rose and fell heavily, and then it all came pouring out.


    Victor: What kind of woman do you think you are? Hm? Defying me like this, after everything I¡¯ve done for you? Insolence doesn¡¯t even begin to cover it. Unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable! Do you think this is how the world works, Rachel? Do you think you can bite the hand that fed you and expect no consequences? It¡¯s laughable. Disgusting, even.


    His voice rose, echoing off the walls as he took a shaky step closer, his hand trembling as he gestured toward her.


    Victor: I saved you. Do you understand that? You were nothing when I found you. A nobody. Destined for obscurity. And I, in my generosity, lifted you out of that pit. I gave you purpose. I gave you power. I gave you the perfect life. Vice captain, Rachel. Vice captain! Do you know how many people would kill for that position? How many would grovel, beg, sell their very souls for the chance to stand where you stood? And yet you¡ªyou¡ªthrow it all away. For what? Some insatiable desire for more?


    Victor¡¯s breath hitched, his rant spiraling further as his rage and poison-clouded mind pushed him deeper.


    Victor: You¡¯re filthy, Rachel. Filthy. That¡¯s what you are. You take and take and take, never satisfied, never grateful. How much is enough for you? Tell me! Do you want the moon? The stars? My very existence? Is there no end to your selfishness?


    His voice cracked slightly, his hand clutching his chest as the pain flared again, but he continued, his words spilling out uncontrollably.


    Victor: I should have known. I should have known from the moment I saw you. Women like you bring nothing but strife and trouble to everyone around them. You¡¯re like a pig. A filthy, ungrateful pig that eats from its owner¡¯s plate and still dares to demand more. That type of person deserves¡ª


    Rachel¡¯s loud yawn cut through his tirade, halting his words mid-sentence. Victor froze, his eyes widening in disbelief as she slowly rose from her chair, stretching her arms above her head as though she had just woken from a nap.


    She yawns. She yawns?!


    His teeth ground together, his body trembling with rage as he stared at her, unable to comprehend the audacity. How dare she dismiss him so casually? How dare she interrupt his condemnation?


    Rachel, however, simply smiled, her eyes blazing with that unrelenting fire.


    Rachel: Honestly, I couldn¡¯t care less about your ramblings. I never have.


    Her voice was light, mocking, as she began to pace slowly, circling Victor like a predator sizing up its prey.


    Rachel: In fact, I¡¯ve never cared about you at all. Though¡­


    She paused, tilting her head slightly, her grin widening.


    Rachel: I suppose I should thank you. Without you, I never would have made it this far. And now you¡¯re the only thing standing in the way of me becoming a captain.


    Victor¡¯s scowl deepened, his vision beginning to blur again as Rachel¡¯s words started to slur in his ears. She continued to pace, her tone becoming sharper, more pointed.


    Rachel: Did you really think I¡¯d be satisfied with the position of vice captain? You know it as well as I do. You must have known this would happen the moment you brought me on board.


    Victor swayed slightly, his hand pressing harder against his chest as the poison pulsed through him. He tried to focus, tried to make sense of her words, but they twisted and blurred in his mind. The fire in her eyes seemed to grow brighter, more consuming, and for the first time, a sliver of unease crept into Victor¡¯s chest.


    The antidote. I need the antidote. Before¡­ before it¡¯s too late.


    He took another unsteady step forward, his mind racing even as his body faltered. He had to end this quickly.


    He slammed his hand into the floor, purple energy surging outward in an instant. The chamber responded to his call, his Astral of Territory activating with a raw, desperate power. From the walls, from the ground, from every corner of his domain, hands began to sprout, massive and relentless, twisting and reaching with unnatural speed.


    You¡¯ll kneel. You¡¯ll break. You¡¯ll submit! And then I¡¯ll take everything. Every last bit.


    The hands, strengthened by the natural energy of the facility, shot toward Rachel faster than any normal human could ever hope to avoid. The air cracked with the force of their movements, each one imbued with the strength to crush or capture her on impact. It should have been over in an instant, a decisive blow to end her futile defiance.


    But Rachel wasn¡¯t there. She flipped backward with a grace and speed that defied belief, dodging each hand as though she¡¯d danced this waltz a hundred times before. Her movements were fluid, but most infuriating of all¡ªthey were utterly unrestrained.


    Victor¡¯s eyes widened as she weaved through the barrage, twisting and contorting her body to evade every grasping hand.


    This speed¡­ she wasn¡¯t like this before. Back with Mason, she was slower, weaker. Was she¡­ was she pretending?


    The thought clawed at him, setting his teeth on edge. His voice rose into a furious scream as he pushed more energy into his Astral, the hands moving faster, slamming into the walls and ground as they chased after her.


    Rachel, however, didn¡¯t stop. She outmaneuvered every trap, every attempt he made to corner her. Even when Victor opened holes in the ground beneath her feet, she leaped away with impossible precision, landing gracefully on her toes. She was untouchable, slipping through his grasp like water through clenched fists.


    How? How is she still moving like this? She¡¯s not even using illusions. Just how long has she been planning this? How long has she studied me?


    He stumbled backward, the poison dulling his movements, forcing him to put distance between himself and Rachel as she pressed forward, closer and closer. Pillars erupted from the floor, blades shot from the walls, and yet Rachel dodged them all, her knife gleaming in her hand as she advanced. Victor¡¯s heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of fury and disbelief overwhelming him.


    Unacceptable. Completely unacceptable.


    Finally, she closed the distance. Rachel was mere inches away, her knife raised, ready to strike. Victor¡¯s breath hitched, but he wouldn¡¯t lose.


    With a roar, he summoned the last reserves of his Astral energy, twisting the trajectory of the hands sprouting from the ground. One of them shot upward, its massive fingers clamping around Rachel¡¯s leg. She stumbled, the momentum of her charge broken.


    Victory.


    Victor¡¯s smirk returned as more hands emerged, grabbing her arms, her waist, her shoulders, until she was pinned to the floor in a kneeling position. She struggled, but her movements were futile now. From the neck down, she couldn¡¯t move.


    He limped toward her, his vision swimming, but his smile widening with every step. Finally, he stood over her, raising his hand and placing his palm directly on her face.


    Victor: The antidote. Hand it over now, and maybe I¡¯ll make it quick. For old time¡¯s sake.


    Rachel, however, had other plans. Without hesitation, she sank her teeth into his palm. Victor recoiled with a shout, pulling his hand back and shaking it in disgust.


    Victor: You filthy¡ªhow dare you!


    Rachel: I¡¯ve already decided, Victor. I¡¯m going to win. I won¡¯t grovel or beg or give in to a filthy man like you. Not when my will to win is so much stronger than yours.


    Her voice was calm, her smile sharp as she stared up at him. Victor¡¯s scowl deepened, his body trembling with barely-contained rage.


    Victor: No matter. I¡¯ll take the antidote off your corpse if I have to.


    He placed both palms together, purple energy radiating from his body as he prepared to end it once and for all. The air around him grew heavy, the chamber trembling under the force of his Astral. Forming his hand into the shape of a gun, he pointed his finger straight at Rachel.


    Victor: Astral Awakening¡­ Immediate¡ª


    But he wouldn¡¯t get to finish.


    The chamber trembled violently, the air splitting with a deafening roar as the wall to Victor¡¯s right exploded into a shower of debris. Shards of stone and steel flew outward, scattering across the room, the sheer force of the impact sending a wave of dust cascading over everything. Victor staggered, his arms instinctively rising to shield his face as the sudden gust threatened to knock him off his feet.


    For a brief moment, the entire room seemed frozen, the echo of the explosion ringing in Victor¡¯s ears. Then came the sound¡ªthe deep, guttural bellow of something massive, something primal.


    Victor¡¯s head snapped toward the source, his eyes widening as he took in the figure emerging from the chaos.


    Looming in the dust-filled gap was a colossal bull-headed creature, its massive frame dominating the space. Its thick, muscular body pulsed with raw energy, every movement radiating power as it stepped forward with earth-shaking stomps. Its glowing black eyes burned with unrelenting fury, and its breath came out in visible, steaming huffs, filling the chamber with an oppressive heat.


    But what drew Victor¡¯s attention most wasn¡¯t the beast itself¡ªit was the figure riding atop it.


    Clinging tightly to the beast¡¯s neck was a blonde boy, flaming black ropes crackling around the creature. The ropes danced along his body, licking at his arms and shoulders, casting jagged shadows against the walls. His hands gripped the black ropes on the creature¡¯s thick hide with unwavering strength, and his eyes¡ªthose piercing, determined black eyes¡ªburned just as fiercely as the flames that surrounded him.


    Victor stared, his mouth slightly agape as Mason tumbled from the back of the massive bull creature, his body rolling across the ground before coming to a stop near Rachel. Dust swirled in the air as the beast let out another earth-shaking roar, but Victor¡¯s eyes were locked on the blonde boy sprawled on the floor. Mason groaned, dragging himself upright with a shaky hand.


    Rachel, still bound and kneeling on the floor, scowled at the boy as though his entrance had been some great inconvenience rather than salvation.


    Rachel: Took your sweet-ass time, Heartson. If you took any longer I seriously would have died you know.


    Mason whipped his head around to face her, his face twisted in indignation.


    Mason: Oh, I¡¯m sorry! Maybe if your instructions weren¡¯t so vague, I wouldn¡¯t have spent the last eternity trying to navigate this labyrinth while hauling around a ten-ton goliath!


    Rachel sneered as Mason reached out, activating his Astral. Black flames sparked to life around his hands as the bindings trapping her to the ground twisted and tore apart like paper. She stood up quickly, brushing off dust with exaggerated disdain.


    Rachel: What happened to the hyenas? You didn¡¯t have to bring that thing, you know.


    Mason shot her a sarcastic glare.


    Mason: Oh, sure. Next time, I¡¯ll just tell it nicely to stay put.


    Victor¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line as he watched the two trade insults back and forth. His mind raced.


    Planned? Was this planned? No¡­ surely not.


    But the longer he watched them, the less confident he felt. His grip tightened, his nails biting into his palms as rage bubbled to the surface. This was becoming a drag. It was time to end it. He turned, summoning his energy once more to activate his ability and finish this fight. His hand trembled slightly as he began the chant, but suddenly, his knees buckled.


    Victor stumbled, his balance faltering, and he clutched his chest. The poison. Damn it.


    That moment of hesitation was enough. Chaos erupted.


    The bull-like creature roared again, charging forward with unstoppable momentum. Mason and Rachel dove in opposite directions as the beast slammed into Victor. He summoned a wall of steel from the ground just in time, the structure groaning under the force of the impact. But it wasn¡¯t enough. The bull plowed through, sending Victor sprawling across the floor.


    Victor scrambled to his feet, summoning more defenses, but the beast continued to wreak havoc, crashing through every barrier and leaving destruction in its wake. Its sheer size and relentless energy turned the entire chamber into a battlefield. Even when it wasn¡¯t directly attacking him, its rampage kept him pinned, unable to focus on his true targets.


    Mason darted toward Victor, black flames igniting in his hands as he closed the distance. Victor snarled, slamming his fist into the ground and summoning hands to lash out at the boy. The hands erupted from the floor with blinding speed, but Mason moved faster, dodging and weaving through the attacks with unrelenting determination.


    But then, just as Mason closed the gap, the bull turned its attention back to him, swinging its massive horns. Mason barely avoided the blow, rolling to the side and counterattacking with a burst of flames. The beast roared, unphased, as it charged at him again. Victor saw his opening and prepared to strike, but a blur of motion caught his eye.


    Rachel.


    She came from his blind spot, her knife glinting as it sliced through the air. Victor twisted at the last second, avoiding a fatal blow but feeling the blade bite into his side. He stumbled back, his breathing ragged, his vision spinning.


    What is this?


    Rachel bounced off the walls of the chamber now, her movements erratic and disorienting. Victor screamed, slamming his fists into the ground again, summoning more energy. The walls and floor trembled violently as hands erupted in every direction, attacking indiscriminately.


    Mason pushed forward through the onslaught, deflecting blows with his flames and protecting Rachel as she darted around the chamber. She used Mason¡¯s cover to deliver more slashes to Victor.


    Victor dropped to one knee, his body trembling with exhaustion and pain. He couldn¡¯t focus. He couldn¡¯t think. The poison clouded his mind, and the relentless attacks chipped away at his defenses.


    Enough. Enough of this.


    His eyes locked onto Mason.


    Once he¡¯s gone, Rachel and the beast will fall. I¡¯ll tear him apart first.


    Clasping his hands together, Victor chanted.


    Victor: Astral Awakening. Immediate Territory.


    An ability that allowed him to target any object, or even living being, and manipulate it completely, making it his territory. While such a trump card would weaken his output, it would be necessary if it could end this fight quickly.


    Purple energy surged around him, the walls trembling under its intensity. Forming his fingers into the shape of a gun, he pointed directly at Mason, a malicious smile spreading across his face.


    He fired.


    But in that instant, the world shifted. His vision blurred, the targets in his sights changing places. Where Mason had been standing, the bull now stood. Victor¡¯s breath hitched as realization dawned.


    I missed.


    The command landed on the wrong target, and the bull let out one final, agonized roar before its massive frame crumbled, dismantled in an instant. The beast collapsed into nothingness, its death echoing through the chamber.


    And then Rachel¡¯s voice rang out, cutting through the silence.


    Rachel: Thanks.


    She appeared again, delivering a sharp blow to Victor¡¯s abdomen with her knife. He stumbled, blood spilling from the wound as Mason surged forward, flames roaring to life around him. Victor summoned more hands in desperation, but Mason burned through them, his flames powerful than ever.


    The bull¡­ its death increased his output? How¡ª


    Mason closed the distance, his black flames curling around his fist. Victor panicked, slamming his hand into the ground to encase his arm in metal for a counterattack. But it was futile. Mason¡¯s punch connected, and the metal shattered like glass.


    Victor¡¯s arm exploded into a bloody mess, and he fell to his knees, gasping in pain. Rachel appeared again, her knife striking his back, forcing him further down. Victor knelt, clutching his ruined arm, his vision fading.


    What¡­ what is this?


    He looked up at Mason, the boy standing over him, his eyes burning with resolve.


    Victor: What¡­ is this? How¡­ how could greedy pigs like you do this to me? Do you have any idea, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU¡¯RE DOING!


    Mason stared down at him, his flames flickering.


    Mason: You said it yourself. Rachel and I are greedy. We want and want and want, and we¡¯ll do anything to get what we want. That¡¯s the kind of people we are.


    Mason: And we came up with a greedy plan to take it all. Working together, relying on each other, doing all of this, just to take what we want. There¡¯s nothing more greedy than that.


    Victor¡¯s body trembled.


    Greed¡ª


    No.


    Ambition.


    His breath hitched, his vision swimming as the truth clawed its way into his mind. If Rachel and Mason had been willing to embrace their greed, to work together to achieve their goal, then their combined ambition had far exceeded his own hadn¡¯t it.


    He could never, he would never sink so low as to rely on others to achieve what rightfully belonged to him alone. But maybe¡­


    That ambition¡­


    His lips quivered as he looked up at the duo standing above him, their eyes blazing with unrelenting resolve.


    That ambition surpasses even that of a king¡­


    Victor: How¡­


    Mason raised his fist, black flames roaring to life.


    He didn¡¯t care to let Victor finish.


    Mason: Overdrive!


    He drove his fist into Victor¡¯s chest, the impact devastating. Black flames erupted outward, consuming Victor¡¯s body and crumbling the entire side of the chamber. Mason¡¯s attack carried the full weight of his soul, his will, and his ambition.


    As Victor¡¯s body disintegrated, his lips curled into a final, bitter smile.


    How greedy¡­


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Mason slumped down, his knees nearly buckling as his body screamed in protest. He leaned against the nearest wall, his breath ragged and shallow. To say his body ached was an understatement¡ªit felt as though every muscle, every fiber of his being was unraveling, on the verge of disintegration.


    The overuse of the Astral of Death had pushed him to his absolute limit, and only the influx of death energy from the bull¡¯s demise had carried him this far. Without it, he would have collapsed long before the fight reached its end.


    It¡¯s over. It¡¯s really¡­ over.


    His gaze drifted upward, landing on the figure near the entrance of the chamber. Rachel stood there, her posture relaxed, her chest rising and falling as though the battle hadn¡¯t taken anything from her at all. Her expression, however, was what caught him. That smile¡ªwide, genuine, and brimming with triumph¡ªlit up her face. She stared at the ceiling, lost in some thought Mason couldn¡¯t hope to decipher.


    What¡¯s she thinking about now? Does it even matter?


    He didn¡¯t care. That smile made everything worth it¡ªthe pain, the suffering, the gamble that could have killed them both. He had defeated Victor Popescu, the captain of this fortress. He had survived.


    Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, Mason pushed himself to his feet. His legs wobbled beneath him, but he forced them to move, step by agonizing step, toward the girl who had fought alongside him, the one who had given him a reason to keep pushing forward.


    He opened his mouth to speak, unsure of what words would even come out. Something sarcastic? Something sentimental? He didn¡¯t know. He just needed to say something¡ªanything¡ªto fill the silence.


    But before a single word could escape, the air shifted.


    There was a blur¡ªa flash of movement so fast that Mason¡¯s overtaxed senses couldn¡¯t register it. His body tensed, his instincts screaming at him to react, but he was too slow, too drained, too late.


    His eyes widened in horror.


    Rachel¡¯s body jerked forward, her chest pierced by a blade so white it seemed to glow against the dim light of the chamber. The sound of metal slicing through flesh echoed in his ears, a sound he would never forget. Blood bubbled from her lips as her wide eyes met his for a fleeting, agonizing moment.


    No¡­ no, no, no!


    The blade was withdrawn just as quickly as it had appeared, and Rachel crumbled to the floor, her body lifeless, her once-brilliant smile now frozen in place.


    Mason¡¯s knees gave out, his body collapsing as he stared at the scene before him. His mind raced, his heart pounding so violently it drowned out all other sound.


    Edward: Congratulations on your victory Heartson, what a feat it is to defeat a captain!

 Chapter 17: Corporate Culture

    Man: At last... I finally get to stand face to face with the legendary Lena once again.


    Claire frowned, tightening her grip on her sword as she appraised the man before her. He was different. For one, his armor was massive, heavier than anything she¡¯d seen on the standard Obsidian forces.


    The reinforced plates covering his body gleamed even under the dim, smoke-filled light of the lobby. Segmented for movement, yet appearing nearly impenetrable, the armor looked like a perfect fusion of practicality and power. Sharp, angular patterns lined the edges, giving it a modern, aesthetic.


    Unlike the glossy, functional elegance of regular Obsidian soldier armor, his gear was bulkier, with numerous attachments that made him seem like a walking tank.


    Her chest still heaved with effort as she scanned him, sweat and soot sticking to her skin. Even her injuries screamed for a reprieve, but the sharp glint in her eyes betrayed no weakness. She straightened, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.


    Claire: I¡¯m sorry, who are you?


    The man froze mid-step, as if her words had landed harder than any blade could. Slowly, he cocked his head, scratching it awkwardly with the flat of his blade. A moment later, he let out a low chuckle, his voice taking on a strangely apologetic tone.


    Man: Ah, of course. My mistake.


    He reached up, pulling off his helmet with a deliberate motion. As the heavy piece of armor clattered to the ground, it revealed a sharp, angular face framed by short, black hair. His black eyes gleamed with determination, and his well-built frame now seemed even more imposing without the full helmet to obscure him. He looked no older than his mid-twenties.


    Claire¡¯s lips twitched slightly as she looked him up and down, tilting her head thoughtfully. After a moment, she scratched the back of her head.


    Claire: Sorry, still not ringing a bell. My apologies.


    The man¡¯s smile faltered, his confidence wavering for just a second before he visibly gathered himself. His lips curved upward again, though now his expression seemed more forced.


    Man: No matter. This time¡ªfor certain¡ªI¡¯ll burn the memory of myself into your head.


    Claire didn¡¯t respond immediately, her gaze darting around the room. Smoke still lingered in the air, making it harder to breathe, but she ignored the discomfort.


    Her mind was already at work, cataloging every detail of the environment: the collapsed pillars she could use for cover, the broken furniture that could be thrown as distractions, the smoldering remains of the last explosion.


    She coughed into her arm, her body trembling slightly from exertion, but her grip on her sword didn¡¯t falter.


    Her eyes flickered back to him briefly, taking in his stance, his weapons, the overconfidence radiating off him like heat. She tightened her grip on her sword, a smirk ghosting across her face.


    Let¡¯s see how long he lasts.


    The man surged forward, his massive frame a freight train of force aimed directly at Claire. But Claire did not meet his charge head-on.


    No, she refused him the satisfaction.


    Instead, she pivoted sharply, her body weaving fluidly through the hailstorm of gunfire erupting from the surviving soldiers around her. If she engaged the towering man now, she knew, the crossfire would tear through her like paper.


    The soldiers¡¯ bullets tore through the air, desperate to find their target, but Claire¡¯s speed was unearthly. She danced through the chaos with a grace that bordered on terrifying, flickering like a ghost through the lobby.


    A tornado of destruction followed her every move, her blade carving arcs of death. Blood sprayed, limbs fell, and armor crumpled beneath the might of her strikes. The enemy faltered, overwhelmed not just by her speed but by her sheer presence¡ªan executioner whose every movement defied comprehension.


    Her breathing came in sharp bursts, the pain from her earlier injuries gnawing at her edges. But she couldn¡¯t slow down.


    Focus. Don¡¯t lose momentum.


    The soldiers were just noise. The real threat¡ªthe man in the tank-like armor¡ªstill loomed. She dared a glance at him, her eyes narrowing. He was closing in steadily, undeterred by her evasive maneuvers.


    Vice Captain¡ªthat much was certain. If that was the case, Claire understood that she couldn''t take him lightly as she herself had been...


    Her thoughts cut off there as she weaved through more gunfire. She ramped up the energy coursing through her legs, her strides becoming erratic bursts of acceleration and sudden halts.


    The soldiers couldn¡¯t predict her, couldn¡¯t aim fast enough, couldn¡¯t even comprehend how she seemed to vanish and reappear in a blink.


    A smirk tugged at her lips.


    It was as if she was faster than the bullets. Faster than their pathetic fear. Faster even than the Vice Captain, whose movements seemed painfully ordinary in comparison.


    Still, speed alone wasn¡¯t enough.


    Her blade dripped with crimson as she set her sights on him. The remaining soldiers were paralyzed by terror, their guns trembling in their hands. Claire ignored them.


    With a burst of speed, she dashed toward the Vice Captain, her sword angled for a decisive strike.


    The air seemed to freeze as she closed the distance, her mind locking onto the details: the slight shift in his stance, the tightening of his grip on the blade, the subtle lowering of his center of gravity. A calculated defense.


    But then his armor shifted.


    The metallic plates along his arms groaned and expanded, a mechanical hiss escaping as he raised his fist and slammed it into the ground with earth-shattering force.


    The floor erupted.


    The ground beneath Claire split apart like a faultline during an earthquake, jagged cracks racing outward with terrifying speed. The shockwave hit her before she could adjust, her balance shattering as the lobby became a battlefield of crumbling stone and debris.


    She staggered, her momentum utterly broken.


    Vice Captain: You don¡¯t get to look down on us simply because you were born lucky. I¡¯ll teach you how to raise your head.


    The Vice Captain straightened, his form looming over the fractured ground. His eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction as he lifted his blade, ready to strike the moment she faltered.


    And falter, she did not.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Stager stumbled forward, hands raised in trembling desperation. His voice cracked as he pleaded, words spilling from his lips like a dam broken under pressure.


    Stager: Cromley, please, this doesn¡¯t have to happen! I¡ªI¡¯ve made mistakes, but we can fix this. If you¡¯re unhappy with the company¡¯s direction, we¡¯ll restructure. Hell, you can have fifty percent¡ªno, seventy-five percent! Whatever you want, just name it!


    Cromley¡¯s cold gaze didn¡¯t waver, his pistol still trained on Stager¡¯s head. The metallic click of the hammer cocking silenced Stager mid-sentence.


    Cromley: Shut it, Stager. Another word, and I¡¯ll put a bullet in you right now.


    The sharp edge in his voice left no room for negotiation.


    Cromley: You¡¯re a thorn in my side. Promises and contracts, lies and excuses¡ªyou¡¯ve pulled the rug out from under me too many times. But not this time.


    His lips curled into a grim smile as he gestured vaguely to the men at his sides.


    Cromley: This time, I have the backing and force to end it for good. No second chances. No loopholes.


    Stager¡¯s shoulders sagged as despair overtook him. He opened his mouth to plead again, but a sharp voice cut through the tension like a whip.


    Thomas: Will you shut your mouth already?


    The voice didn¡¯t carry the weight of desperation or fear. It was sharp, dismissive, dripping with disdain. Both Stager and Cromley turned toward the source.


    Thomas, still dressed in his battered janitor uniform, was on his feet. His expression was one of barely concealed irritation, as though the whole situation was more of a personal inconvenience than a life-threatening standoff. He dusted himself off lazily, adjusting his uniform with a scowl.


    Thomas: If you keep whimpering like that, I might just shoot you myself Stager.


    The room froze. Cromley¡¯s men shifted uncomfortably, their weapons snapping toward Thomas in unison. Cromley himself arched an eyebrow, his cold smile giving way to mild confusion. But Thomas didn¡¯t flinch. If anything, he looked bored. His eyes lazily flicked to the armed men, then back to Stager, his lip curling.


    Thomas: Honestly, you¡¯re all pathetic. Unless you¡¯re prepared to be slaughtered by Obsidian, I¡¯d suggest you lower those toys.


    The air shifted. That single word¡ªObsidian¡ªlanded with the force of a thunderclap. Cromley¡¯s confidence faltered, his smile twitching as unease crept into his eyes. His men exchanged uncertain glances, their grips on their weapons tightening but their aim wavering.


    Cromley: Obsidian? What are you¡ª


    Thomas didn¡¯t give him a chance to finish. He sighed loudly, rolling his eyes as though he couldn¡¯t believe he had to explain himself.


    Thomas: What, you weren¡¯t informed? After all the effort I went through to personally hand-deliver Stager to you, and you still managed to miss simple instructions? Typical.


    His tone was casual, almost conversational, but there was a razor-sharp edge beneath it. Cromley¡¯s skepticism was evident, his lips pressing into a thin line as his gaze hardened.


    Cromley: Who are you supposed to be, then? I wasn¡¯t told about some child being involved in this operation.


    The corner of Thomas¡¯s mouth twitched. His expression darkened, the casual facade slipping just enough to reveal the irritation simmering beneath.


    Thomas: Child?


    He took a step forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone.


    Thomas: Let me make something clear. You do not refer to me as a child. I am a soldier. No¡ªa warrior.


    His words hung in the air, heavy with implied authority.


    Thomas: A warrior of Obsidian.


    Stager, still crumpled on the ground, looked up at Thomas with wide eyes, his face a mix of confusion and dawning horror.


    Stager: What the hell are you talking ab¡ª


    Before he could finish, Thomas¡¯s fist lashed out, connecting squarely with Stager¡¯s jaw. The man crumpled to the floor, groaning in pain as Thomas shook out his hand, flexing his fingers as though the punch had been more inconvenient than anything else.


    Thomas: Keep your mouth shut or I¡¯ll lose my patience.


    Cromley¡¯s men glanced at each other, clearly uncertain. Their eyes darted to Cromley, who remained rooted in place, his pistol still raised but his confidence visibly shaken. Thomas turned his attention to the two men, his gaze cold and calculating.


    For a moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the city below and the faint rustle of the wind against the rooftop. Then, with deliberate slowness, Thomas cracked his knuckles.


    Thomas: So, gentlemen. What¡¯s it going to be?


    The words hung in the air, and for a moment, nothing moved. The rooftop was eerily silent save for the faint whistle of the wind and the distant hum of the city below. Cromley, his cold, calculating gaze locked onto Thomas, raised a hand slowly. With a subtle motion, he signaled his men to lower their weapons.


    Cromley: Fine. I¡¯ll bite.


    The tension shifted, but it didn¡¯t disapear. The men exchanged uneasy glances as they cautiously lowered their guns. Cromley stepped forward,his watch catching the dim light as he broke the silence.


    Cromley: Let¡¯s make this simple. What exactly is your position in the process? Why wasn¡¯t I informed about¡­ you?


    Thomas rolled his eyes, a deep, exaggerated sigh escaping him as he crossed his arms.


    Thomas: Do I look like I have the time or patience to explain what I¡¯ve already gone over?


    Cromley¡¯s eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his sharp features. But before he could speak, Thomas straightened up, adjusting his collar with mock dignity.


    Thomas: Since you¡¯re so insistent, I¡¯ll humor you. My job is simple¡ªdeliver Stager here to you, and then you take care of the rest. Dispose of him. Clean up the mess. The usual.


    Cromley frowned, his brow furrowing as the pieces didn¡¯t quite fit together.


    Cromley: Dispose of him? That doesn¡¯t add up. The point of this operation was capture, not execution. What do you¡ª


    His hand twitched almost imperceptibly, his fingers brushing against the trigger of his pistol. His mind raced, and in that instant, the realization dawned¡ªa realization that froze his blood. His eyes widened, flicking toward Thomas, who crouched low in a flash, moving faster than Cromley could react.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    In a single, fluid motion, Thomas pulled a pistol from the inside of his jacket. The gun fired three rapid shots, the cracks echoing across the rooftop. The first two bullets struck Cromley¡¯s men in their legs, their cries of pain ringing out as they collapsed to the ground. But the third bullet veered off course, missing Cromley entirely.


    Cromley, recovering from the shock, raised his gun to retaliate, his aim steady despite the chaos.


    Thomas squinted, closing one eye to focus, and fired again. The bullet grazed Cromley¡¯s eye, forcing him to flinch and miss his own shot.


    For a brief moment, everything froze. Cromley clutched at his face, blood trickling between his fingers, his teeth bared in a snarl. Thomas adjusted his stance, raising his pistol for one final shot. He pulled the trigger.


    Click.


    Nothing. The chamber was empty.


    A fleeting flicker of frustration crossed Thomas¡¯s face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. Without hesitation, he dropped the gun, his movements seamless and unrelenting. His hand shot out, grabbing Stager by the collar and dragging the stunned man to his feet.


    Stager: W¡ªwhat is going on?!


    Stager¡¯s panicked voice was little more than background noise to Thomas as he yanked the man toward the stairwell. Behind them, Cromley, still clutching his eye, staggered upright, his rage bubbling to the surface.


    Thomas: Move, dickhead.


    With a final tug, Thomas threw open the heavy stairwell door and dragged Harrison inside, the clang of the door slamming shut behind them echoing across the rooftop. The two stumbled down the stairs, their frantic footsteps drowning out Cromley¡¯s muffled shouts from behind.


    Thomas: Keep moving.


    His eyes darted down the spiraling staircase ahead.


    But Stager wasn¡¯t built for this. The man stumbled, wheezing like an engine on its last legs. They couldn¡¯t afford delays, not when death could be waiting just a flight below.


    Stager: Are you... are you with Obsidian?


    Thomas froze mid-step, his shoulders stiffening. Slowly, he turned his head to glare at the man dragging behind him. His lips curled into a scowl so sharp it could have cut through the tension hanging in the air.


    Thomas: Of course not, you wanker.


    He slowed his pace, ears straining as a sound reached him. Footsteps. Approaching from below.


    Thomas raised a hand, motioning for Stager to stop. The older man looked confused, but he obeyed, leaning against the wall to catch his breath. Thomas, meanwhile, pressed his back to the cool concrete, closing his eyes for a moment.


    Focus. Think. Breathe.


    The distant voices of men barking orders carried upward, mingling with the faint jingle of equipment. He opened his eyes, the gears in his mind already turning. He turned to Stager, his expression sharper than ever.


    Thomas: Alright, I think I get pieces of this now.


    He jabbed a finger in Stager¡¯s direction.


    Thomas: Cromley. He¡¯s some sort of business associate, yeah? You pissed him off¡ªno, scratch that¡ªyou pissed off a whole lot of people, didn¡¯t you? And now they want you dead.


    Harrison blinked, his face pale, but he said nothing. That wasn¡¯t good enough.


    Thomas grabbed the man by the lapels of his suit, shaking him violently. Harrison let out a startled yelp, but Thomas didn¡¯t care.


    Thomas: RIGHT?


    The word echoed in the stairwell, harsh and unforgiving. Harrison finally nodded, his face a mix of fear and shame.


    Stager: Yes... but it¡¯s not that simple.


    Thomas: Not that simple?


    He took a step back, running a hand through his disheveled hair.


    Thomas: Then enlighten me. Why the hell is Obsidian involved? Cromley¡¯s grudge I get, but Obsidian? Guards, assassins¡ªthis is way too messy.


    Stager hesitated, his lips tightening into a thin line. His silence was deafening.


    Thomas: Don¡¯t you dare clam up on me now, Stager.


    Stager flinched, his eyes darting to the ground. Finally, he spoke, his voice trembling.


    Stager: Fine. You want to know? It started when I was younger. Obsidian approached me, offering resources, data analytics, funding. Everything I needed to build my company into an empire. And I... I took it. I took it all.


    Thomas listened, his expression unreadable as Harrison continued, each word spilling out like a confession.


    Stager: With Obsidian¡¯s help, I didn¡¯t need Cromley anymore. I cut him out, severed ties with my old associates. My company thrived... until I found out the cost. And when I tried to break away, when I uncovered things I wasn¡¯t supposed to see, they turned on me.


    Thomas: What things?


    Stager shook his head, his eyes hollow.


    Stager: You wouldn¡¯t understand. No one would.


    Thomas¡¯s jaw tightened, frustration bubbling. Whatever Stager had found, it didn¡¯t matter now. What mattered was piecing together the rest of this nightmare. A double-crossed co-founder and a rogue client.


    Thomas¡¯s scowl deepened, his hands clenching into fists. This wasn¡¯t just business. This was chaos, and he was caught in the middle of it.


    But before he could follow that train of thought any further, the sound of boots on metal brought him back to the present.


    The gunmen were getting closer.


    Thomas turned to Harrison, his eyes blazing.


    Thomas: Stay quiet. Follow my lead. And if you so much as breathe wrong, I¡¯ll let them have you.


    Without waiting for a response, Thomas moved.


    The muffled clatter of boots against the metal stairs echoed ominously, growing louder with every passing second. Thomas crouched low, his muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap. The moment the first man¡¯s head appeared above the railing, Thomas leapt into action.


    He dropped from above with the precision of a predator, his weight crashing onto the lead gunman like a cannonball. The man let out a strangled cry as he crumpled under Thomas¡¯s assault. Before anyone else could react, Thomas seized the man¡¯s gun, spinning with fluid grace as the remaining group froze in shock.


    These lot¡­


    They¡¯re just businessmen at heart, aren¡¯t they? Not warriors.


    But me?


    Thomas¡¯s fighting style wasn¡¯t polished, not in the way of trained soldiers or martial artists. It was raw, unrefined, and animalistic¡ªan extension of his instincts rather than learned technique. He didn¡¯t calculate his next moves; he didn¡¯t need to. His body acted faster than his brain could process.


    He darted toward the second man, dodging wild gunfire as he shoved the unconscious body of the first into the line of fire. Shots ricocheted off the stairwell walls, the confined space amplifying the chaos. Thomas dropped low, sweeping the second man¡¯s legs from under him before driving the butt of the stolen gun into his chest.


    More men rushed up from below, their faces obscured by masks but their panic palpable. They collided with each other in their desperation to reach him, their coordination faltering in the cramped stairwell.


    He fired shots haphazardly, not aiming to kill but to disable. Knees buckled, arms went limp, and yells of pain echoed up and down the stairwell. Thomas reached for whatever he could find to keep up his assault.


    His eyes landed on something peculiar amidst the chaos¡ªa baseball bat, abandoned and oddly out of place. It didn¡¯t matter where it had come from. He swung wildly, the dull thuds of impact reverberating as the bat connected with bodies.


    Thomas wasn¡¯t fighting with finesse or strategy; he was fighting to dominate. The businessmen-turned-gunmen could barely keep up, their lack of combat experience laid bare in the cramped, suffocating space.


    Finally, Thomas allowed himself to breathe. He stood at the center of the carnage, his chest rising and falling heavily as he surveyed the damage. Unconscious bodies lay sprawled across the stairwell, some groaning faintly while others were completely still. Blood stained the walls and floor, but none of the men were dead.


    But there was no time to rest. He picked up a fresh gun from one of the downed men. He found Stager crouched low near the wall, trembling like a leaf. The man had wisely avoided the conflict altogether, keeping his head down and out of the fray.


    For a split second, Thomas felt a flicker of relief. Stager was alive, which meant the information he needed was still intact. But as he reached out to drag the man to his feet, something caught his attention¡ªa faint sound, barely audible over his own breathing.


    Thomas turned his head, his instincts screaming too late as he stared at the barrel of Cromley¡¯s gun. The businessman¡¯s face was a mask of rage, blood trickling down his cheek where Thomas¡¯s earlier bullet had grazed him. His finger rested firmly on the trigger, his eyes burning with fury.


    Cromley: Well, well... aren¡¯t you full of surprises, child.


    For the first time since the fight began, Thomas¡¯s smirk faltered.


    Cromley¡¯s steps echoed against the stairwell walls as he moved toward Thomas, the gun in his hand raised with a deadly precision. The smirk etched across his bloodied face was maddening, and his every movement oozed overconfidence.


    Thomas, for his part, didn¡¯t move immediately. His body was stiff, his mind racing to conjure a way out of this mess.


    Thomas¡¯s gaze flicked down to Harrison, who sat trembling at his feet. His body acted before his brain caught up, and in one swift motion, Thomas grabbed the collar of Stager¡¯s suit and yanked him up like a human shield. Pressing his own pistol to Stager¡¯s temple, Thomas barked, his voice sharp and commanding despite the panic bubbling underneath.


    Thomas: Stop! One more step, and I¡¯ll blow Stager''s brains out of his skull!


    Cromley froze mid-step, his expression shifting. He tilted his head, the gun in his hand still aimed squarely at Thomas.


    Cromley: You think I care if that man dies?


    For a moment, Thomas hesitated. The smugness in Cromley¡¯s tone was palpable, and Thomas could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck. But he didn¡¯t falter. If Cromley wanted a game of nerves, he¡¯d give him one.


    Thomas: You don¡¯t care, sure. But what about Obsidian? You think they¡¯re going to be thrilled when they find out you let their investment get his head blown off because you couldn¡¯t keep your trigger finger in check?


    The mention of Obsidian hit its mark. Cromley¡¯s expression flickered¡ªjust for a second. His finger wavered slightly on the trigger as his mind worked to process the implications. Thomas caught it, his smirk returning as his confidence surged.


    Obsidian¡¯s got you by the balls, doesn¡¯t it? So, sit down, shut up, and let me think for a sec¡ª


    Before he could finish the thought, Cromley moved. Faster than Thomas expected, the man raised his gun and fired.


    The bullet tore through Thomas¡¯s hand, a sharp, searing pain that ripped through his nerves. He yelled in agony, his gun dropping to the ground as blood poured from the wound. The momentum of the bullet carried through, striking Stager in the shoulder behind him. Stager cried out, collapsing back against the wall as Thomas stumbled, clutching his mangled hand.


    Cromley smiled, stepping forward with a victorious glint in his eye.


    Cromley: See, that¡¯s the problem with you young folk. Your problem is bluffing. You¡¯re not very good at it. And that¡¯s why you lost.


    He didn¡¯t waste time gloating. With one swift motion, Cromley raised his boot and delivered a brutal kick to Thomas¡¯s face, sending the boy sprawling onto the ground. Pain exploded across Thomas¡¯s skull, his vision swimming as he struggled to breathe.


    Thomas tried to push himself up, his bloodied hand trembling as he propped himself against the cold, unforgiving ground. But Cromley was faster. The barrel of his gun was already pressed against Thomas¡¯s temple, cold and unyielding.


    Bang, Bang, Bang!


    Three deafening shots rang out in quick succession, reverberating through the stairwell like thunder. Cromley¡¯s body jerked violently, his smirk fading into a look of shock as he crumpled to the ground. Blood pooled beneath his lifeless head, his once-gleaming watch now dull under the dim stairwell light.


    Thomas blinked, his mind struggling to catch up. He turned his head slowly, wincing from the pain, to see Harrison Stager standing shakily a few feet away. The man¡¯s hands trembled as he held Thomas¡¯s fallen pistol, his chest heaving with shallow breaths.


    Thomas: Stager...?


    Harrison¡¯s face was pale, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stared at Cromley¡¯s lifeless body. His grip on the gun loosened, and it clattered to the ground with a metallic clang.


    Thomas collapsed on the cold concrete stairs, his chest heaving, his bloodied hands trembling as he pressed them to his face. His body screamed for rest, but the pounding of his heart wouldn¡¯t let him stop. He wiped at his nose, smearing blood across his face and sleeve, then let out a shaky breath. His shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he just let himself collapse further.


    The smell of blood and sweat clung to the stale air. Everything felt heavy¡ªthe silence, the fatigue, the weight of too many unanswered questions. Thomas let his head hang, his messy hair falling over his eyes as he stared at the ground beneath him.


    Too many. Too many bodies on the floor. Too many dead eyes staring back. Too many damn pieces, none of them fitting together. What¡¯s the point of all this?


    Beside him, Harrison Stager sank to the steps as well, clutching his shoulder where Cromley¡¯s bullet had struck. The man hadn¡¯t said a word since he pulled the trigger earlier, and his face was twisted into an expression Thomas couldn¡¯t quite place¡ªdisgust, regret, anger, or maybe all three at once. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, but he made no move to wipe the sweat pouring down his pale face.


    Thomas glanced at Stager out of the corner of his eye. The man was practically steaming now, his body heat radiating unnaturally in the cool stairwell.


    What¡¯s running through his head? Maybe he¡¯s not thinking at all.


    Whatever it is, it¡¯s too damn late for guilt trips now.


    Thomas forced himself to move, dragging his exhausted body upright. His legs wobbled, but he stayed standing, determined not to let the weight of his fatigue crush him. He reached down, grabbing Stager by the collar and pulling him to his feet. The man staggered, leaning heavily against the wall, but Thomas didn¡¯t let him rest for long.


    They stumbled their way up to the rooftop. Thomas couldn¡¯t stop the flood of thoughts racing through his mind.


    The stairwell¡¯s heavy metal door creaked open with a groan, and the cold rooftop air slammed into Thomas like a wave. His lungs welcomed it, despite the sting it left against the ache of his ribs. Dragging Harrison Stager up the last step, Thomas nearly collapsed, his knees buckling as he stumbled forward.


    Thomas dropped Stager onto the ground near a rusted pipe, letting the man slump against it like a discarded bag of laundry. For a moment, all was quiet except for the distant hum of the city below and their labored breathing.


    And then it hit.


    The explosion tore through the night, shattering the stillness with a deafening roar. A brilliant array of dust and concrete erupted in the distance, painting the dark skyline. The ground beneath them seemed to tremble, the vibrations reverberating up through the rooftop and rattling the worn metal fixtures around them.


    Thomas staggered, one hand instinctively grabbing a nearby vent for balance. His eyes snapped to the source of the explosion, wide and searching, heart thundering against his ribs.


    Claire? No she¡¯s downstairs in the lobby. No, it¡¯s gotta be Grace and Kazuki. Right? But that doesn¡¯t add up either.


    Thomas: If Obsidian¡¯s so desperate to get their hands on you¡­


    Then why the hell would they send Astral users to guard you in the first place? Why hire them, only to turn around and pull a stunt like this?


    Thomas exhaled sharply, pacing a short line on the rooftop as the question hung in the air. His tone shifted, frustration seeping into his words as he continued, addressing no one in particular.


    Thomas: It¡¯s like they¡¯re playing both sides of the board. One moment, they¡¯re your loyal protectors, throwing Grace and Kazuki into the mix like they¡¯re here to keep you alive. The next, they¡¯re tearing apart your building with Cromley and his crew. What¡¯s the game here?


    Stager¡¯s eyes flickered up to meet Thomas¡¯s for a fleeting second before darting away, his lips pressed into a thin line.


    Thomas: This whole situation¡ªit''s a puzzle with half the pieces missing. And every time I think I¡¯ve got a handle on it, something else gets thrown into the mix.


    He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch something, to tear apart the mess of confusion swirling in his head.


    He wanted to go home.


    Thomas clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as a bitter laugh escaped his throat. What an idiot he was. No, not just an idiot¡ªa damn fool.


    He had truly believed, hadn¡¯t he? Believed he could be the one. The one to save everyone. The one to walk through fire and ash and somehow emerge unscathed, dragging everyone else to safety without a single sacrifice.


    He had failed.


    Margarett was dead because of him. That innocent woman¡ªdragged into a nightmare because he had chosen to meddle.


    Cromley was dead, too. Thomas replayed the moment over and over in his head¡ªthe sound of the gunshots, the look on Cromley¡¯s face as his body hit the ground. That man hadn¡¯t been a saint, far from it, but his death¡­ it was unnecessary. Pointless.


    He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.


    Thomas pressed the heel of his palm into his forehead, grinding it against his temple as if sheer pressure could force clarity into his spinning thoughts. He let out a heavy, frustrated sigh.


    If only I were a little brighter, I could probably figure this whole thing out in one go huh. What a disaster.


    He glanced back at Stager, who still hadn¡¯t moved or spoken. The man was a broken puzzle piece himself, but Thomas knew one thing for sure¡ªhe needed him alive. Stager was his key to Obsidian, to Mason.


    With Stager''s help, the path ahead seemed clear enough¡ªor at least as clear as things ever got in a tangled mess like this. If anyone held the answers to finding Mason, it was the man slumped against the rooftop access door.


    Stager had knowledge, connections, and¡ªwhether he wanted to admit it or not¡ªa heavy hand in the chaos around them. It was a simple enough plan: extract the information, regroup with Claire, and get the hell out of here.


    But still...


    Thomas¡¯ gaze drifted back toward the horizon, where a faint column of smoke rose in the distance, marking the site of the explosion. His fists clenched at his sides as a pang of guilt shot through him.


    Grace and Kazuki.


    Those two were still out there, still fighting, still holding the line for reasons Thomas couldn¡¯t begin to understand.


    It wasn¡¯t right.


    How exhasting.


    Thomas groaned. Every muscle in his body protested, but he ignored the pain. Turning back to Stager, he managed a crooked grin, his voice light despite the weight in his chest.


    Thomas: Be good and sit tight, yeah? And when I get back, I want all the juicy details.


    Stager blinked, looking up at him with confusion etched across his face.


    Stager: Where are you going? Hey! Who are you? What the hell are you even doing all this for?


    Thomas paused, scratching the back of his head as if the question were too much effort to answer. Then, with a shrug and a small, tired smile, he replied.


    Thomas: Hell if I know.


    Before Stager could argue, Thomas turned and sprinted toward the edge of the rooftop. Without hesitation, he leapt, his feet finding purchase on the next building as he slid down a ladder and kicked off toward the explosion.

 Chapter 18: Untouchable

    The sun hung low in the sky, its rays weak against the creeping gray of evening. The old man shifted his weight, his knees groaning with every step. Ahead stood his target¡ªa crumbling relic of neglect. Its walls were cracked, its windows dirt-caked, and ivy coiled tightly around its frame.


    He stopped in his tracks, squinting at the dismal sight. His lips curled into a scowl.


    Old Man: What a dump.


    The front door creaked open reluctantly, a sound like a groan of protest from the structure itself. Inside, the air was stale, thick with dust that danced in the dim light filtering through grimy windows. The old man sneezed and waved his free hand dismissively at the nearest web.


    Old Man: Ugh, nothing¡¯s worse than a lazy caretaker.


    A young man behind the desk near the entrance jerked to attention at the noise. He was barely past his twenties, his expression a mix of surprise and concern as he rushed toward the old man.


    Young Man: Sir, are you alright? Let me help¡ª


    Old Man: Kakakaka!


    He swatted the young man¡¯s hand away with surprising strength.


    Old Man: Help? What¡¯re you doing, boy? Trying to smother me with kindness? Coddling the elderly is why we all die young.


    The young man stepped back, blinking in confusion.


    Young Man: ¡­I¡ªuh¡ªsorry?


    Old Man: Sorry for what? Being foolish and unhelpful? Don¡¯t apologize for things outside of your control, it puts an ugly look on your face.


    The assistant frowned, clearly torn between offense and concern.


    Young Man: Sir, if I may ask¡­ what brings you to the Haven¡¯s Light Foundation?


    The old man stopped, turning slowly. His grin softened into something unreadable, and for a moment, the weight of his gaze seemed far heavier than his frail body suggested.


    Old Man: I¡¯m here because of your problem upstairs. Take me to the one they call Grace.


    The young man swallowed hard, his confusion replaced by unease, before retreating back to his desk. The old man watched him go, his grin fading into something closer to a smirk.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    The assistant shuffled awkwardly as he guided the old man through the remains of the haven. The old man grumbled under his breath, his cane clacking sharply against the uneven wooden steps.


    Old Man: You¡¯d think a place like this could afford basic repairs right? Where¡¯s all that money going huh?


    Young Man: It¡¯s, uh¡­ It¡¯s not usually like this.


    Old Man: Kakaka! A liar and a fool. Get moving, boy. I haven¡¯t got time to die in this rickety coffin.


    The assistant didn¡¯t dare respond, pressing on with an awkward stumble as they reached the top of the stairs. The hallway stretched out before them like the maw of some decaying beast. The walls were warped with rot, black mold clawing its way up the corners. Bugs skittered along the cracked floorboards, vanishing into the shadows as the two passed by.


    At the very end of the hallway stood a single door. Unlike the others, which sagged with age and neglect, this door was polished and new. The stark contrast made it feel out of place. There was no nameplate, no number¡ªjust the door, standing alone in silent defiance of the decay around it.


    The assistant hesitated, his hand hovering near the knob. He opened his mouth to speak but he never got the chance.


    The old man didn¡¯t wait for permission. His hand shot forward, turning the knob with surprising force for his wiry frame.


    The assistant let out a startled cry of protest, but it was too late. The door swung open with a loud creak, revealing the room beyond.


    Before the old man could take another step, a heavy wooden staff hurtled toward his face. His reflexes kicked in instantly. He caught the staff mid-swing, the force of the impact sending a jolt up his arm. His eyes flicked down to the other end of the weapon.


    There, clutching the staff with both hands, was a little girl.


    She was tiny and slight, her frame almost drowning in the oversized hoodie she wore. Her pale skin was fair, and her eyes shot up, a beautiful deep shade of green.


    The old man tightened his grip on the staff, easily wrenching it from her grasp.


    Old Man: What a greeting!


    He leaned forward to loom over her.


    Old Man: Swinging before introductions. Rude guts, but guts all the same.


    He straightened, examining the staff in his hand with a raised brow before tossing it aside with a careless flick of his wrist. The weapon clattered to the floor, rolling to a stop by the wall.


    He turned his sharp gaze back to the girl, his expression unreadable as the assistant finally stumbled into the room behind him.


    Young Man: S-Sir, you can¡¯t just¡ª


    Old Man: Shut it.


    Silencing the assistant with a glare he fixed his attention back on the girl.


    Old Man: You¡¯re the one they call Grace, aren¡¯t you?


    The girl didn¡¯t respond immediately, her eyes darting to the assistant and back to the old man. Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed like she might lash out again. But then she sighed, crossing her arms as she leaned against the far wall.


    Old Man: Kakaka! Then I¡¯d say it¡¯s time you and I had a little chat.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    The old man leaned back against the soft embrace of Grace¡¯s bed, letting out a satisfied sigh as if he¡¯d just found the world¡¯s best-kept secret. His hands stretched above his head, his legs sprawled carelessly, and a look of childlike wonder danced across his wrinkled face.


    The mattress was far too comfortable for a place like this. It should¡¯ve been stiff, lumpy, barely fit for someone to sleep on¡ªbut no, it was springy, cozy, downright luxurious. It clashed with everything he¡¯d seen of the dilapidated building. His gaze lazily scanned the room. Polished walls, a neat array of colorful decorations, and toys scattered across the bed and floor as if it belonged to a pampered child in a loving household, not some forgotten corner of a crumbling foundation.


    Old Man: What a life you¡¯ve got here.


    He shifted his weight, bouncing on the bed like an overgrown child testing its springs. His antics were so absurdly out of place that Grace, standing rigid near the door, couldn¡¯t help but stare at him in disbelief.


    Old Man: Something wrong?


    Grace didn¡¯t answer, her lips pursed into a tight line.


    Seeing her frozen silence, the old man sprang up suddenly¡ªhis movements unnaturally swift for someone his age. He landed in a sitting position, hands gripping the edge of the bed. Grace flinched, her shoulders stiffening under the weight of his scrutiny. His eyes weren¡¯t just looking at her; they were peering into her.


    For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Finally, Grace broke the stalemate, her gaze dropping to the floor.


    Old Man: Kakaka! I knew it. You really are guilty, huh?


    Grace¡¯s head snapped up, her expression defiant despite the pink flush creeping into her cheeks.


    Grace: You should leave. Now.


    Old Man: Oh, not yet.


    The old man strode leisurely across the room, examining the decorations on the wall as if he hadn¡¯t just been dismissed. He laughed again, before turning to face her with a grin that stretched unnervingly wide.


    Old Man: You haven¡¯t even asked who I¡¯m supposed to be yet.


    Grace¡¯s brow furrowed.


    Grace: You¡¯re here to punish me, aren¡¯t you?


    Old Man: Punish you? Not quite.


    His grin softened into something almost fond as he gestured around the room.


    Old Man: You¡¯ve made the most of your situation here. I can¡¯t really fault you for that, even if your methods were quite poor. After all, a hated child thrives in this world, don¡¯t they?


    The phrase caught Grace off guard, her expression faltering.


    Grace: Hated child¡­?


    The old man crossed his arms, leaning casually against the wall.


    Old Man: My name is Kazuki. I was waiting for you to ask but it seems you¡¯re not going to. Even if you¡¯re young, you still need to learn the basics of manners you know.


    Without giving her a chance to even respond, he continued.


    Kazuki: I¡¯ve traveled like hell to get here because it¡¯s about time I took you out of this place.


    Grace: Why would you¡ªwait. You know what I¡¯ve done, don¡¯t you?


    Kazuki¡¯s grin widened, sharp and knowing.


    Kazuki: Of course, I know. You¡¯ve been using that nasty little ability of yours to take and take. Coercing the other kids in this foundation into cleaning your room, handing over their toys, making them your little servants. A clever setup for someone your age. But with that ability of yours, it¡¯s easy, isn¡¯t it?


    Grace stiffened, her breath hitching.


    Grace: Ability?


    Kazuki waved a hand dismissively.


    Kazuki: Oh, don¡¯t bother lying, girl. You¡¯re just starting to grow on me the way things are going. I can see it¡ªthe very thing in your soul that makes you special. You¡¯ve been using it like a damn y¨­kai.


    Grace¡¯s fists clenched at her sides.


    Grace: What are you going to do with me then? I won¡¯t let you take it away¡­ no I won¡¯t let you.


    Kazuki: Take it away?


    He stepped closer, his grin fading into something more serious.


    Kazuki: Why would I go and do something like that? I told you already¡ªI¡¯m taking you out of here.


    Kazuki: And I¡¯ve decided, I¡¯m gonna give you a taste of the real world.


    Grace blinked, completely at a loss.


    Grace: The real world¡­? ¡­Why? You¡¯re going to reward me for all the things I¡¯ve done? You don¡¯t even know the half of what¡­


    Kazuki crouched down in front of her, his face now level with hers. His grin returned, more mischievous than ever.


    Kazuki: Reward you?


    He poked her forehead with a bony finger. She stumbled back a step, her eyes wide.


    Kazuki: Don¡¯t misunderstand, little miss. I never said a word about rewards. In fact, you¡¯re going to wish you were back here, taking it easy, getting everything you wanted handed to you.


    He rose to his feet, towering over her small frame.


    Kazuki: No, I¡¯m going to work you to the bone and use you¡¯re ability until you¡¯ve got lines on your face as deep as mine. Kakakaka! What do you say to that, little miss.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ???: Gonna keep daydreaming, or ya actually gonna fight me?


    Kazuki¡¯s vision swam as he forced himself upright, his old bones groaning in protest. Dust and smoke clung to the air, mixing with the acrid stench of scorched metal and crumbled concrete.


    He spat blood onto the cracked pavement, the vivid red staining the gray like a defiant statement.


    Kazuki¡¯s gaze sharpened, locking onto the massive figure a few feet away. The armored man stood with his dark katana humming faintly at his side.


    ???: If your old age is slowing you down, ya should¡¯ve just died back then. That¡¯s what I think anyway.


    The taunt stung, but Kazuki clenched his teeth and ignored it. His body protested as he dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding the man¡¯s blade as it crashed down with devastating force. The asphalt split beneath the impact, sending shockwaves rippling outward. Cars screeched as they were thrown aside like toys, debris raining down from nearby buildings.


    Kazuki rolled to his feet, his shoulder aching from the rough landing. He turned just in time to see the armored man pulling his blade from the wreckage with an almost lazy ease.


    ???: Still nimble, huh?


    His voice was filled with amusement, the tilt of his head almost mocking.


    ???: But I can feel it. You¡¯re softer than before.


    Kazuki pressed a hand to his ribs, wincing.


    Kazuki: Soft? Kakaka! Maybe my heart just isn¡¯t in this one.


    The armored man¡¯s laughter roared back.


    ???: Your heart, huh? Guess you¡¯ve finally started to feel the weight of it.


    The titan swung his blade again, sending a gust of energy slicing through the air. Kazuki dove back, his feet skidding on the broken pavement as he narrowly avoided the blow.


    Kazuki: Kuma!


    The name escaped his lips like a command, and immediately bounced through the air, using his increased strength to propel himself forward.


    The armored man met Kazuki¡¯s attack head-on, his katana arcing upward to intercept with unrelenting force. Sparks erupted as their blades collided, the sheer impact sending shockwaves rippling through the air.


    Kazuki¡¯s chant infused his strikes with an overwhelming, bear-like strength. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though Kazuki¡¯s raw power might overpower his opponent. But even with the strength coursing through him, it wasn¡¯t enough.


    The armored man twisted his katana, deflecting Kazuki¡¯s blade and using the momentum to shove him back.


    The armored man rested his katana on his shoulder, his grin audible.


    ???: I¡¯ll be disappointed if this is how ya go out.


    Before Kazuki could react, the armored man blitzed forward, a dark blur of motion. Instinct took over¡ªKazuki ducked low, the blade missing him by a hair.


    But the follow-up came just as fast.


    The armored man swung the katana downward, the sheer force of the strike creating a shockwave that tore through the air like a thunderclap. The energy slammed into Kazuki, sending him stumbling backward as the ground beneath his feet cracked and crumbled.


    The shockwave¡¯s impact rippled outward, slamming into a nearby building and reducing its facade to rubble. Dust and debris rained down, filling the air with choking clouds of gray.


    Kazuki¡¯s eyes darted to the collapsing structure. Through the haze, he spotted two figures¡ªbystanders frozen in fear near the base of the building.


    Kazuki: Damn it!


    Without a second thought, he moved.


    Kazuki: Ch¨©ta!


    A surge of speed coursed through him, his body blurring as he raced toward the bystanders. The world seemed to slow around him, the collapsing debris appearing almost frozen in mid-air.


    He reached the pair in seconds, grabbing one under each arm and propelling them away from the danger just as a massive chunk of concrete slammed into the ground where they¡¯d stood moments before.


    Kazuki skidded to a stop several yards away, gently setting the bystanders down.


    They hesitated for a moment, their eyes flicking between Kazuki and the carnage behind him, but a single glance at the armored man striding toward them was enough to spur them into motion. They bolted down the street, disappearing into the distance.


    Kazuki exhaled, relief washing over him¡ª


    But it was short-lived.


    Kazuki barely had time to turn before an armored boot slammed into his chest. The force of the kick sent him flying backward, his body skidding across the cracked pavement before coming to a stop in a heap. He coughed violently, blood spattering the ground as he struggled to push himself upright. His ribs screamed in protest.


    ???: You¡¯re a fool.


    The armored man strode toward him, his katana resting casually on his shoulder.


    ???: Why are ya so confident you can save others and protect yourself at the same time? Ya should be worried ¡®bout yer own life in a situation like this.


    Kazuki forced himself onto one knee, his breath ragged but his gaze unwavering. He wiped the blood from his mouth.


    Kazuki: That¡¯s the problem with you youth.


    He pushed himself to his feet.


    Kazuki: You don¡¯t care about anyone besides your own damn selves. Always thinking about what you can take, never about what you can give. This old man could still teach you a thing or two ya¡¯know, Orion.


    Orion¡¯s laughter boomed across the desolate battlefield, his armored shoulders shaking with mirth. He swung his katana lazily, the blade¡¯s energy humming through the air as though it shared in his amusement.


    Orion: Learn a thing or two? From ya? To me you¡¯re practically a damn teenager?


    Kazuki straightened, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His chest heaved, but his grin was unyielding.


    Kazuki: A teenager, huh? Guess that makes me a spry one after all.


    He spat blood onto the cracked pavement, the vivid red stark against the gray. Rolling his shoulders, Kazuki¡¯s fingers flexed as he readied himself. The lingering pain in his ribs, the burn in his muscles, the taste of iron in his mouth¡ªnone of it mattered now. He had one job left to do.


    Kazuki narrowed his eyes, focusing on Orion¡¯s stance. The armored man had stopped his relentless barrage, his sword held loosely in one hand.


    But Kazuki¡¯s instincts screamed at him that something was off.


    Before Kazuki could react, Orion stomped down hard with one massive boot. The impact sent tremors rippling through the ground, and in an instant, debris and rubble from the destroyed street shot upward, a chaotic storm of jagged stone and twisted metal hurtling straight at Kazuki.


    Kazuki twisted his body, narrowly dodging the first chunk of rubble. He pivoted sharply, avoiding a large shard of steel, then ducked low as a chunk of concrete whizzed past his head.


    He managed to clear the immediate onslaught, but as he straightened, his instincts flared too late.


    A shadow loomed above him.


    Orion descended like a thunderbolt, his katana raised high, the blade cutting through the air with a hum. He had no time to raise his weapon, no time to defend himself.


    Damn it. This is it¡ª


    But then, it wasn¡¯t.


    Kazuki¡¯s body jerked abruptly, his surroundings shifting in an instant. The cracked pavement that had been beneath his feet a moment ago was gone, replaced by the position he¡¯d occupied just seconds earlier. His boots hit solid ground again, his breathing sharp as he scanned the battlefield, disoriented.


    What just¡ª?


    Grace: Hey, sir, don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re getting slow!


    Kazuki whipped his head around, his gaze landing on a girl sprinting toward him. She was slight, barely more than a teenager, but her presence was anything but ordinary. Adorned in casual streetwear and dripping with mismatched jewelry, her vibrant green eyes practically glowed with an unrelenting fire.


    Kazuki¡¯s heart skipped a beat.


    Kazuki: Grace?


    The girl skidded to a stop, her sneakers kicking up dust. She smirked at him.


    Grace: You look like you¡¯re getting the shit knocked out of you, y¡¯know. This sort of thing always seems to happen when I¡¯m left out.


    Kazuki¡¯s mind reeled. She¡¯s here. Of course, she¡¯s here. And that means¡ª


    Orion: Yo!


    Orion¡¯s growl cut through his thoughts, venom dripping from the single word. His gaze shifted to Grace, his expression hardening.


    Orion: Why¡¯d ya think bringing the brat in changes anything? What was that about teaching me about being noble and whatnot. Ya just ordered this lovely little lady to die along with ya. That kinda thing¡¯s despicable isnit?


    Kazuki barked out a laugh, the sound raspy but filled with renewed energy.


    Kazuki: Underestimate the youth, will you? Damn fool. That goes for me and this little miss.


    He adjusted his stance, his grip on his weapon tightening as he glanced at Grace. The girl gave him a confident nod. Kazuki felt it¡ªthe connection between them reestablishing itself, pulsing with the energy of their shared contract.


    Kazuki: Don¡¯t you dare look down on the strength of this new generation.


    Without waiting for a response, he charged forward. Orion didn¡¯t hesitate, swinging his katana with brutal force. The blade sliced through the air, releasing another devastating shockwave that barreled toward Kazuki.


    The old man¡¯s instincts flared, but just as the shockwave neared him, his body shifted again, reverting back to the position he¡¯d occupied seconds earlier. The shockwave passed harmlessly through empty space.


    Orion¡¯s eyes narrowed.


    Kazuki laughed, circling to Orion¡¯s side and closing the distance.


    Orion swung his blade again, each arc generating shockwaves that tore through the street and surrounding buildings. But every time the energy neared Kazuki, his position shifted, placing him just out of harm¡¯s way.


    Grace stood at a distance, her fingers moving deftly as she manipulated her Astral ability. Her reversion glimmered faintly around Kazuki, an invisible shield that kept him one step ahead of Orion¡¯s relentless attacks.


    Orion¡¯s movements became erratic, his frustration mounting.


    Orion: Tch. Annoying little brat.


    Kazuki took the opening, darting behind Orion and delivering a strike to his armor. The enhanced strength from his Kuma invocation amplified the blow, causing Orion to stumble forward.


    Grace smirked, her green eyes gleaming with determination as she focused on keeping the old man in motion.


    Grace: Keep up, sir. You¡¯re making me work harder than I should.


    Kazuki¡¯s grin widened as he launched another attack.


    The contract between Kazuki and Grace was risky of course. Allowing Grace to have complete control of Kazuki¡¯s body, to reverse any action that he would make, it was something that required the utmost trust. But still, with this contract the two were¡ª


    Together the two were¡ª


    Kazuki: Untouchable! That¡¯s what we are, kakaka!


    Orion¡¯s smirk faltered, his narrowed eyes locking onto Kazuki¡¯s face. The armored man¡¯s frustration, evident in every twitch of his muscles.


    Orion: Untouchable, huh? Is that what ya think?


    His voice was low, venomous. Orion took a deliberate step back, his katana lowering to his side. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though he might retreat.


    But Kazuki knew better.


    Before he could utter a word of warning to Grace, Orion¡¯s body surged with energy. His movements blurred, propelling him forward with a speed that defied reason. The sheer force of his acceleration caused the air to crackle and ripple in his wake.


    Grace¡¯s green eyes widened, her fingers frantically weaving reversion. Her Astral ability flared to life, pulling Kazuki out of Orion¡¯s path in the nick of time. But the strain was evident¡ªher breaths came in sharp gasps, her movements slowing as she struggled to keep up.


    Kazuki landed safely, his boots scraping against the cracked pavement. Relief flickered across his face, but it was short-lived.


    Orion didn¡¯t stop.


    The armored juggernaut shifted his trajectory seamlessly, barreling toward Grace with unrelenting momentum. The air around him seemed to warp, his katana gleaming withas he closed the distance.


    Grace froze, her body trembling. She knew she wouldn¡¯t be able to reverse herself in time.


    Kazuki¡¯s eyes darted to her, and his decision was instantaneous.


    Kazuki: Damn it all!


    Kazuki: Seiry¨±!


    With a burst of raw desperation, Kazuki launched himself back into Orion¡¯s path, his body propelled purely by instinct. He reached Grace just as Orion¡¯s katana descended, shoving her out of the way with all his might.


    Grace stumbled, falling to the ground with a startled cry. She barely had time to process what had happened before a sickening sound tore through the air¡ªa sharp, wet slash.


    She turned, her heart plummeting into her stomach.


    Kazuki staggered, dropping to one knee. His left arm was gone, severed cleanly at the shoulder. Blood poured freely from the wound, staining the ground in vivid red. His free hand clamped over the injury, attempting to staunch the flow, but the damage was done.


    Grace: Sir!


    Her voice cracked, the horror in her tone cutting through the chaos. She scrambled toward him, her trembling hands reaching out.


    Kazuki¡¯s glare snapped to her, sharp and unwavering.


    Kazuki: Focus, damn it! Don¡¯t fall apart now little miss.


    His words were biting, but the strain in his voice betrayed the pain coursing through him. Grace froze, her outstretched hands hovering in the air.


    She shook her head violently, guilt washing over her in waves. Reversion couldn¡¯t undo this. Her Astral ability was powerless against wounds inflicted by an external force. She¡¯d failed him.


    Kazuki¡¯s lips curled as he read the anguish on her face. He opened his mouth to say more, but a slow, deliberate laugh interrupted him.


    Orion.


    The armored man strode forward, his katana resting on his shoulder as he surveyed the scene. His gaze flickered to Kazuki¡¯s severed arm before settling on Grace, his smile widening.


    Orion: Untouchable huh.


    He paused, his posture relaxed, almost mocking. The glow of his dark katana intensified, shadows twisting around the blade like living entities.


    Kazuki¡¯s body tensed as an oppressive weight settled over him. His knees buckled slightly under the sudden increase in gravity, the ground beneath him cracking from the pressure.


    He glared at Orion, his teeth bared.


    Kazuki: How in the world have you gotten this technique Orion? What the hell did you¡ª


    Orion¡¯s laughter rang out again, cold and unfeeling.


    Orion: Relax, relax, jeez. I didn¡¯t do anything crazy like ya think. I¡¯m just borrowing Liu¡¯s katana for a little while¡¯s all.


    Kazuki¡¯s jaw tightened, his growl rumbling low in his throat. The name Liu was enough to send a chill down his spine. The effects of the weapon were unmistakable¡ªOrion had managed to weigh down both Kazuki and Grace.


    Kazuki: You bastard¡­


    Orion tilted his head, his grin widening as he watched Kazuki struggle to remain upright.


    Grace looked up at Kazuki, watching her master tremble slightly, fighting back the pain in his severed arm.


    Grace: Sir?


    Kazuki: Listen to me. It¡¯s not¡­ It¡¯s not your fault. Clear your mind. Now! That¡¯s an order. Do not think about anything except for victory. That¡¯s what I want you to do. Focus only on succeeding, nothing more.


    But even as Kazuki spoke these words he knew it was impossible.


    The young girl could not absolve her guilt. She knew it was her fault Kazuki had gotten caught in Orion¡¯s attack. He was now missing an arm because she had been too slow to move out of his way. No matter what Kazuki could say it was hopeless, and as such, this crushing weight would swallow both of them.


    Kazuki¡¯s body trembled, his lone hand clutching the bloodied stump where his arm had once been. His breathing was shallow, his vision blurring.


    Orion took a step forward, his armored boots crunching against the debris-strewn street. He moved with leisure.


    Kazuki: Tch...


    He had survived worse odds, had fought monsters more fearsome than this arrogant bastard before him.


    But no.


    His mind raced as his body betrayed him. The strain of Seiry¨± had drained him dry, and his energy flickered faintly. There was nothing left. No tricks, no reserves, no divine interventions.


    It was over.


    Kazuki¡¯s lips twitched, a bitter smile forming despite himself. There was still something he needed to do but he¡¯d have to let fate handle the rest. He¡¯d reached the end of his path.


    But then.


    A faint sound¡ªso subtle it almost went unnoticed amidst the constant destruction.


    A sharp whistling.


    Orion¡¯s body stiffened.


    His expression shifted¡ªnot to worry, but to confusion¡ªas he felt a strange pressure behind him. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he looked down at his chest.


    And there it was.


    The tip of a blade protruded cleanly through his armor.


    For a moment, everything seemed to stop. The shadows around Orion¡¯s katana dissipated, and the crushing weight pressing down on Kazuki and Grace eased.


    Orion¡¯s brow furrowed, his confusion morphing into disbelief as he took in the sight of the small security guard who had impaled him from behind.


    Thomas: Sorry for taking so long. The traffic was terrible as usual. Seriously, talk about an unwalkable city, right?

 Chapter 19: Will

    Thomas ran, his legs burning with every stride, the distant sound of the explosion driving him forward like a starting pistol fired directly into his chest.


    The image of Grace and Kazuki flashing before his eyes.


    He ignored the constant pain in his palm, from the bullet wound he had recieved earlier. He had more important things to worry about, what was a little pain.


    As he sprinted past the wreckage of the Stager building, his eyes caught on a glint of steel buried in the rubble. Without thinking, he skidded to a stop, his boots crunching against shattered glass and debris. A sword jutted out from the ruins, its blade caked with dust but still sharp enough to gleam under the faint light of the fires around him.


    Better than nothing.


    He yanked the sword free with a grunt, settling it into his hands with surprising ease.


    Where had this sword even come from? Was it just abandoned here during the chaos? His mind flickered to Claire, who should have been somewhere on the ground floor by now.


    Thomas tightened his grip on the weapon, shaking his head sharply.


    No. Claire doesn¡¯t lose.


    It wasn¡¯t arrogance or blind faith¡ªit was just fact. For some reason, he knew, deep in his bones, that she would be fine. That certainty gave him focus, grounding him as he forced his legs to move again.


    Without wasting another second, he bolted forward.


    As he rounded a jagged corner, the devastation unfolded before him. The earth was scarred, jagged cracks spiderwebbing out from the epicenter of the blast. Dust licked at the edges of collapsed buildings, their smoke curling into the darkened sky.


    And there, amidst the wreckage, he saw them.


    Kazuki knelt on one knee, his head bowed and blood pooling beneath him. Grace was beside him, her hand clutching her side as she struggled to stay upright. The sight of her trembling form, barely holding on, sent a jolt through Thomas¡¯s chest.


    Thomas lunged forward, his feet pounding against the ground. His breath caught in his throat, a single thought consuming him: the warrior would turn around.


    A man like this¡ªsomeone who had brought both Kazuki and Grace to their knees¡ªwould surely hear him, would intercept him, would tear him apart before he could even get close.


    And yet, he didn¡¯t stop.


    Keep moving. Just keep moving.


    His grip tightened on the sword as he drew it back, his muscles coiled like springs.


    One shot. He had to make it count.


    The blade drove forward, slicing through the air with a sharp whistle.


    It connected.


    Thomas¡¯s sword pierced straight through the thick plating of the warrior¡¯s armor, cutting cleanly as if the steel had been paper. Blood welled from the wound, dark and viscous, trickling down the blade before pooling at his feet.


    Thomas froze.


    He had expected resistance¡ªan impossibly fast counterattack, a crushing blow that would have stopped him in his tracks. But none of that came. The warrior hadn¡¯t even turned around.


    He didn¡¯t see it coming?!


    This man, the one who had effortlessly defeated Kazuki and Grace, hadn¡¯t noticed him?


    Thomas: Sorry for taking so long. The traffic was terrible as usual. Seriously, talk about an unwalkable city, right?


    The humor felt hollow.


    Kazuki, slumped on the ground and clutching what remained of his arm, scowled fiercely. His lips twisted into a grimace, but no words came. Blood seeped through his fingers, dripping in uneven splashes onto the charred ground.


    Grace, meanwhile, was utterly still. Her wide, trembling eyes locked onto the scene before her, but her body refused to move, as though the weight of the battle had pinned her down completely.


    At least they¡¯re alive.


    The thought brought him a fleeting sense of relief, enough to steady his breath as he turned his attention back to the man he¡¯d impaled.


    The warrior hadn¡¯t fallen. He hadn¡¯t screamed. Hell, he hadn¡¯t even flinched. Instead, the armored giant stared down at the blade protruding from his chest with an expression that could only be described as¡­ annoyed.


    Thomas¡¯s stomach twisted. This wasn¡¯t right. A normal person would¡¯ve been writhing in pain, crumpling to the ground. But him? He looked irritated, as though Thomas had inconvenienced him by stabbing him through the chest.


    What kind of monster is this guy?


    The oppressive air around the armored monster hadn¡¯t lessened. If anything, it felt heavier now, pressing against Thomas like a weight.


    He tightened his grip on the sword, preparing to twist it for a killing blow, but his hands hesitated for a fraction of a second.


    And in that second, his mind betrayed him.


    The memory of his own words surfaced, unbidden.


    I don¡¯t get to decide who lives or dies. I¡¯m not some divine executioner.


    I¡¯ll do it my way¡ªwithout sacrificing anyone.


    The sentiment felt distant now, like an echo of a man he no longer was. It hadn¡¯t worked. None of it had worked. Margarett was dead. Cromley was dead. He had killed soldiers¡ªmen who probably had families waiting for them. His so-called ideals had done nothing to save them.


    Thomas¡¯s jaw clenched, his knuckles turning white around the hilt of the sword.


    So what¡¯s the point?


    If sparing his enemies didn¡¯t change anything¡ªif it only brought more pain, more death¡ªthen why bother pretending he could control who lived or died?


    If it doesn¡¯t matter anymore¡­ then I¡¯ll do what I have to.


    His gaze sharpened, focusing solely on The armored man. The hesitation melted away, replaced by cold resolve. If abandoning those old ideals meant protecting Kazuki and Grace, then so be it.


    He adjusted his stance, his body moving before his thoughts could catch up. His grip tightened again, the blade trembling slightly in his hands¡ªnot from fear, but from the sheer force of his resolve.


    This time, I won¡¯t hesitate. This time, I¡¯ll kill him.


    Thomas yanked the sword free from the armored man¡¯s chest, blood spraying out as he stumbled back a step. His hands gripped the hilt tightly, the blade gleaming faintly as he redirected it in one smooth motion.


    His target was clear¡ªthe thick, exposed neck of the towering figure in front of him. He swung with all his might, the blade slicing through the air with precision and force.


    Before the strike could land, a massive hand shot up and grabbed the sword mid-swing.


    The blade stopped, completely halted as though it had struck an immovable wall.


    Thomas¡¯s eyes widened.


    The man hadn¡¯t even flinched. His fingers curled around the blade effortlessly, holding it in place as if it were nothing more than a toy. Then, as if to mock him further, the armored figure let out a slow, exaggerated yawn.


    Armored Man: Tch. What¡¯re ya thinking striking me like that?


    The words were casual, dripping with disdain.


    Thomas gritted his teeth.


    He lashed out with his foot, kicking the armored man square in the chest. The impact reverberated through Thomas¡¯s leg, a dull shock that shot up to his hip.


    The armored man didn¡¯t move.


    Instead, the force of the kick seemed to bounce off his thick exterior, leaving Thomas stumbling back with a grimace.


    Damn it.


    He yanked with all his might, his muscles straining as he pulled the sword out of The armored man¡¯s grip. The armored man let go, almost lazily, as Thomas staggered backward, retreating further toward Grace and Kazuki.


    The armored man scoffed, his voice cutting through the tense air like a blade.


    Armored man: The hell¡¯s all this then?


    He tilted his head, his sharp gaze narrowing on Thomas as if inspecting an insect that had somehow wandered into his line of sight.


    Armored Man: Another brat? But this one ain¡¯t even got a speck of nature energy on him.


    He barked out a laugh, the sound harsh and grating.


    Armored Man: The fuck¡¯s up with that then? Ya tryna sell me short or somethin¡¯, Kazuki?


    Kazuki didn¡¯t respond. He didn¡¯t even look at the armored man. Instead, his eyes were locked on Thomas, his expression hard despite the pain etched into every line of his face.


    Kazuki: You need to leave, bocchan.


    Thomas blinked, momentarily stunned by the seriousness in Kazuki¡¯s tone.


    Thomas: What? No. Don¡¯t be ridiculous.


    He gestured toward Kazuki¡¯s mangled arm, his voice rising slightly as he continued.


    Thomas: You don¡¯t have to act all tough, Kazuki. Look at you¡ªyou can¡¯t keep fighting like that.


    Kazuki¡¯s scowl deepened.


    Kazuki: This battlefield isn¡¯t safe for you, boy. The little miss and I¡ªwe¡¯ll handle Orion. You can¡¯t. You know that, don¡¯t you? Victory for you¡­ it¡¯s impossible.


    Thomas shook his head, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips despite the tension in the air.


    Thomas: Impossible, huh?


    He tightened his grip on the sword, raising it slightly as he stepped forward.


    Thomas: What if I said I¡¯m the type of guy who can fit a square peg into a round hole. All you have to do is leave what you need to to me and I¡¯ll do it old man. That kind of thing sounds much better than tucking tail and leaving you and Grace to die.


    Kazuki¡¯s eyes narrowed, frustration flickering across his face before he turned his gaze toward Grace. She was still kneeling on the ground, her body trembling as she struggled to move.


    Kazuki let out a slow breath.


    Kazuki: There is¡­ a way.


    Thomas perked up, his grin widening slightly.


    Thomas: Yeah? Let¡¯s hear it.


    Kazuki gestured toward Grace, his voice low but firm.


    Kazuki: The little miss over here can stop the bleeding. If she focuses, she can recover our strength¡ªmomentarily. If we can manage that, the three of us might have a shot at taking him down.


    Thomas frowned, his grip on the sword loosening slightly.


    Thomas: So what¡¯s the problem?


    Kazuki looked back at him, his eyes hard.


    Kazuki: We need time. At least thirty seconds to finish the process.


    Thomas blinked, then let out a short laugh.


    Thomas: Thirty seconds? Is that all? You had me worried for a second there.


    But Kazuki didn¡¯t laugh. He exchanged a grim glance with Grace, her expression mirroring his own.


    He opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn¡¯t have time to escape his lips.


    Orion: You idiots forget I¡¯m here or somethin¡¯?


    He took a step forward.


    Orion: Keep ignoring me, and I¡¯ll blow ya all away like the maggots you are.


    Thomas turned back to face him, his expression calm despite the pressure building around them. He raised his blade, pointing it at Orion with a sharp, deliberate motion.


    Thomas: Patience is a well-trained virtue, you know. You should try building up that discipline.


    Orion tilted his head, his mouth curling into a twisted grin.


    Orion: Patience? Ain¡¯t no one alive knows more ¡®bout patience than me.


    Thomas smiled back, the confidence in his expression unwavering.


    Thomas: Good. Then your patience will be rewarded, because your challenger is ready.


    He turned to Kazuki and Grace, nodding firmly. Orion¡¯s eyes narrowed as he watched Kazuki and Grace stumble away.


    Orion: The hell¡¯s this? They just abandoned you?


    He barked out another laugh, his tone mocking.


    Orion: That¡¯s cruel, even for a rotten guy like Kazuki. Leaving you to die alone?


    Thomas didn¡¯t falter. He kept his gaze locked on Orion, his voice sharp as he answered.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Thomas: You don¡¯t get it do you?


    He raised his blade again.


    Thomas: This is about trust. And I¡¯ll teach you what that means.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Grace strutted onto the playground, her chin held high, her small hands tucked confidently into the pockets of her designer jacket. The other kids scattered as she passed, their chatter quieting to hushed whispers. She liked it that way. She expected it that way.


    Grace: Outta the way. Grace is here!


    Her voice carried an air of command, far too bold for a five-year-old, yet somehow fitting for her. She paused by the swings, eyeing the group of kids gathered around, her lips curling into a smirk.


    Grace: You. Swing''s mine now, m¡¯kay?


    The boy sitting on the swing looked up, hesitating for only a moment before scrambling off. Grace climbed on, swaying gently as she surveyed her kingdom. She was stronger than them, faster, smarter¡ªbetter. Everyone knew it.


    At school, her reputation was untouchable. Teachers sighed when they saw her name. Kids avoided her unless they wanted to curry favor. Grace ran the playground with an iron fist, issuing commands and making demands that no one dared question.


    Even when she was called to the principal¡¯s office for her antics, she played the part of the angel.


    Grace: It wasn¡¯t me, ma¡¯am. I was only trying to help.


    She¡¯d flash her innocent smile, and her parents¡ªever doting¡ªwould swoop in to defend her, brushing off any complaints as misunderstandings.


    Grace always got her way.


    At home, her reign extended. Her parents adored her, bending over backward to cater to her whims.


    That day was no different.


    Grace burst through the front door, tossing her backpack onto the floor without a second thought.


    Grace: Mom! I¡¯m home!


    Her mother¡¯s voice called back from the kitchen, warm and familiar.


    Mother: Welcome back, sweetheart. Dinner¡¯s ready!


    The smell of her favorite dish of homemade chicken alfredo wafted through the house, and Grace¡¯s eyes lit up. She skipped into the dining room, hopping onto her chair as her mother placed the steaming plate in front of her.


    Grace: Yes!


    Her fork stabbed into the food almost immediately, her appetite voracious as she dug in, savoring every bite. She barely noticed her parents at first, their hushed voices blending into the background as she ate.


    But then she did notice.


    They weren¡¯t paying attention to her.


    The usual routine¡ªturning on her favorite show, asking about her day, hanging up her backpack¡ªwas absent. Instead, her parents sat at the far end of the table, leaning close and murmuring to each other, their expressions serious.


    Grace slammed her fists on the table, the sound sharp and jarring in the quiet room.


    Grace: Hey! What are you doing?


    Her parents paused, turning to look at her. Her mother¡¯s concerned expression softened into a practiced smile.


    Mother: Just a minute, sweetheart. Your father and I need to discuss something for a second.


    Grace scowled, her tiny fists clenching.


    Grace: More important than me?!


    Her voice rose, sharp and indignant. She slammed her fists on the table again, tears of frustration welling in her eyes.


    Grace: Pay attention to me!


    Her mother hesitated, glancing toward Grace¡¯s father as if asking for help. He sighed, standing and walking over to his daughter.


    Father: Grace, that¡¯s enough.


    He grabbed her small hands, holding them firmly as she struggled.


    Father: Stop acting like a baby. This behavior is unacceptable.


    Grace¡¯s brown eyes widened in shock as her father stared blankly into them.


    Unacceptable?


    She yanked her hands back, glaring up at him with fury.


    He pointed toward the stairs, his voice stern.


    Father: Go to your room. Now.


    Grace froze, her chest heaving as she stared at him.


    Who does he think he is?


    Her thoughts raced. This man¡ªthis man who just happened to live in her house¡ªwas commanding her? Telling her what to do? As if whatever they were talking about could possibly be more important than her well-being.


    The thought made her blood boil.


    That kind of thinking can¡¯t go unpunished.


    She thought, as her eyes began to melt into a violent shade of green.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Grace¡¯s breath came in short, uneven gasps as she knelt beside Kazuki¡¯s prone body. His face was pale, his chest rising and falling in shallow movements as blood continued to seep from the stump where his arm had been.


    Her hands trembled as she tightened her grip on the staff she still held, the wood worn and familiar against her fingers.


    Her eyes drifted to Kazuki¡¯s face, then to the crimson pool beneath him.


    Focus.


    She closed her eyes, her breathing slowing as she forced herself to block out everything¡ªthe blood, the faint tremor in her hands, even the distant sounds of the battle raging on.


    Grace: Astral Awakening... Alpha Reversion.


    The words left her lips, soft at first, then louder as the energy surged through her body. It moved like a tidal wave, rushing to her hands and into the staff, the force of it almost overwhelming.


    Her staff began to glow, the light shifting and rippling as the wood morphed in her grasp. It shrank and expanded, cycling through various forms¡ªsharp, blunt, curved¡ªbefore finally settling into a small wooden knife that fit snugly in her palm.


    Grace opened her eyes, staring at the blade.


    Without hesitation, she tore a piece of fabric from her shirt, her hands moving quickly despite their trembling. She fashioned a makeshift bandage and pressed it against Kazuki¡¯s arm, the fabric already staining red as she tied it tightly to stop the bleeding.


    Her hands stilled for a moment, her breath catching as she looked down at him.


    Grace: Why did you do that to him, sir?


    Her voice cracked slightly, the question hanging in the air.


    Kazuki didn¡¯t answer. His eyes stared straight ahead, unreadable and distant.


    Grace: Don¡¯t ignore me.


    Her voice was firmer this time, her hands clenching into fists. She shook her head, blinking back the sting in her eyes.


    Grace: I know you can¡¯t lie to me. You never have been able to.


    Gritting her teeth, she pressed the knife to Kazuki¡¯s arm¡ªor what was left of it¡ªand drove the blade into the open wound.


    Kazuki¡¯s body tensed, his breath hitching as pain shot through him, but he didn¡¯t scream. He didn¡¯t even flinch. His eyes stayed locked on some distant point, his expression as stoic as ever.


    Grace punctured the wound again. And again. Five deep cuts.


    Kazuki gasped, his chest heaving, but still, he stayed silent.


    Grace¡¯s voice wavered, her frustration spilling over.


    Grace: Why would you sacrifice him like that?


    Kazuki¡¯s jaw tightened, his gaze finally shifting to her.


    Kazuki: If the two of us died, no one would be left to take him down. You know that. It¡¯s better if we live now, so we can finish this. That¡¯s what I think.


    Grace scowled, shaking her head as her grip on the knife faltered.


    Grace: That¡¯s your justification? Sacrificing a kid just to live a little longer?!


    Grace: He came back to protect us. And now we¡¯re using him like this?


    Kazuki¡¯s silence was answer enough.


    She raised the knife, her expression hardening as she turned it on herself.


    Without hesitation, she stabbed the blade into her palm, the sharp sting radiating up her arm. Blood welled up immediately, dripping down her fingers as she drove the knife into her arm next. Five punctures on her palm. Five on her arm.


    Her breath came in sharp gasps, her vision blurring slightly as the pain burned through her, but she didn¡¯t stop.


    Grace: Astral Awakening, Beta Reversion.


    Her voice was quieter this time, the words almost a whisper.


    She turned her wounded arm over, letting the blood drip onto Kazuki¡¯s open wound. The crimson drops splattered against his skin, mingling with his own blood as Grace closed her eyes again.


    The energy surged once more, this time slower but steadier. The flow of blood from Kazuki¡¯s wound began to slow, the gash sealing itself as the surrounding cuts and scratches on his body faded away.


    Kazuki¡¯s breathing evened out. He blinked, his strength returning in a gradual wave as he sat up, his eyes meeting Grace¡¯s.


    Kazuki: You know¡­ I admire him.


    Grace frowned, her hand still pressed against his wound.


    Grace: Thomas?


    Kazuki nodded, his expression softening slightly.


    Kazuki: Coming back like that, to protect us. He¡¯s the kind of person who tries to save everyone. Someone with that kind of will, that kind of belief¡­ it¡¯s admirable.


    Grace¡¯s scowl deepened.


    Grace: Then why¡ª


    Kazuki: But people like that don¡¯t live long lifes y¡¯know. Not one¡¯s full of meaning anyway. People who take on extreme goals like trying to protect, people who stretch their hands out in order to grab stuff that¡¯s way beyond their reach, those are the people who end up suffering the most.


    He looked away, his gaze distant once more.


    Kazuki: There¡¯s nothing we can do for him now.


    Kazuki: All we can do is see how far his hands can reach.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    75 seconds.


    That was how much time had passed since Kazuki and Grace had left. The street around Thomas was unrecognizable now¡ªa chaotic mess of rubble, dust, and destruction.


    Thomas stood hunched over, one hand clutching his side, the other gripping his sword tightly. Blood streamed down his face, trickling into his eyes and blurring his vision.


    He could feel it¡ªhis ribs were broken, at least a few of them. The left side of his body was a dead weight, his leg refusing to respond, and his arm, the one that still held his sword, was starting to go numb.


    Damn it¡­ stay up. Just stay up.


    His face throbbed, hot and swollen, no doubt covered in cuts and bruises. There were other wounds, too¡ªones he couldn¡¯t see, ones he couldn¡¯t even feel yet.


    And still.


    Still, he stood.


    The man, no the animal¡¯s voice, cut through the haze, sharp and mocking.


    Orion: Bug. The fuck ya still doin¡¯ standing around like this?


    Thomas forced himself to look up. The massive figure loomed before him, more beast than man. Orion¡¯s hulking frame was illuminated by the faint glow of the fires surrounding them.


    Orion: If ya wanna die so bad, just lie down and stick yer ass up or somethin¡¯. Hell, toss that little toothpick down and beg me for it.


    Thomas didn¡¯t answer.


    He tried to smile, but the pain made even that impossible.


    Orion clicked his tongue, taking a step closer.


    Orion: Tch. Look at ya. Barely standing, barely even breathin¡¯. If this¡¯s yer idea of fightin¡¯, then you¡¯re really startin¡¯ to piss me off.


    Orion: Yer makin¡¯ me feel bad, y¡¯know that? Knockin¡¯ a little bug around like this¡­ it¡¯s pathetic. Makes me look like a damn bully. If yer gonna die, at least make it interestin¡¯, huh?


    Thomas gripped his sword tighter, his knuckles whitening. He wanted to respond, to spit back some snarky remark, but his body refused to cooperate.


    80 seconds.


    The number flickered in his mind. He shouldn¡¯t have been counting. He couldn¡¯t afford to shift his thoughts elsewhere. But still, the seconds lingered.


    Just¡­ hold on. A little longer.


    Surely they would¡­


    His thoughts barely had time to form before Orion moved.


    The air shifted, a rush of force that sent a jolt through Thomas¡¯s battered body. He barely had a second to react. Orion lunged at him, closing the distance in an instant.


    His sword came up reflexively, the angle awkward and desperate. He couldn¡¯t see Orion¡¯s strike¡ªhis movements were too fast, but Thomas guessed, positioning the blade where he thought the attack would land.


    Metal clashed against metal, a screeching sound that sent shockwaves through his already trembling arms. The force of the impact was overwhelming, and even though his sword had intercepted the strike, it didn¡¯t stop the sheer power behind it.


    Too strong¡ª!


    He was thrown backward, his body crashing into a car with a deafening clang. The dent in the vehicle was massive, the frame buckling under the force of the collision.


    Thomas slumped against the crumpled metal, his chest heaving as he tried to push himself up.


    Pain exploded in his spine.


    It hurts. It hurts.


    The thought repeated in his mind. His head lolled forward, blood dripping from his forehead onto his lap as his vision swam.


    Orion didn¡¯t wait.


    Before Thomas could catch his breath, Orion lunged forward, his massive hand reaching for him. Thomas barely registered the movement before a crushing grip closed around his leg.


    No¡ª


    His thoughts were cut off as Orion lifted him effortlessly, swinging him and slamming him into the concrete.


    The impact sent a shockwave of pain through his body, his vision blurring from the force. He was lucky¡ªif he had landed on his head, that might have been the end. Instead, he hit the ground hard on his leg, a sickening snap echoing in his ears as the bone gave way.


    Thomas bit down on a scream, his jaw clenched so tightly he thought his teeth might crack.


    Stay awake. Stay awake!


    He tumbled across the rubble-strewn ground, his body rolling like dead weight. His head spun, but he fought to stay conscious, dragging his battered form to a stop.


    But Orion didn¡¯t let up.


    Thomas had barely stilled when Orion was on him again, closing the distance with terrifying speed. A massive knee drove into Thomas¡¯s gut, the force of it lifting him off the ground and sending him soaring backward.


    Thomas¡¯s back collided with the side of a building, the wall crumbling under the impact. He crumpled to the ground in a heap, his breath wheezing out in a broken gasp.


    It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.


    His chest felt like it had caved in, his broken ribs screaming with every shallow breath.


    Orion stepped closer, his shadow falling over Thomas.


    Thomas¡¯s body refused to move.


    He was done.


    His left leg was useless, his arms trembling from sheer exhaustion. Even the sword in his hand felt like an impossible burden. He couldn¡¯t take another hit. Not from this monster.


    This guy¡­ he¡¯s not human.


    His gaze flicked up to Orion, the massive figure moving with an ease that defied logic. His strength, his speed¡ªit was beyond anything Thomas could comprehend.


    The fuck is he?


    His thoughts drifted back to Grace. To the way she had explained what an Astral really was.


    Back then, it had seemed like nothing more than a neat trick¡ªmagic pulled from a storybook, some convenient power-up that made fights more interesting.


    But staring at Orion now, Thomas realized how wrong he had been.


    This wasn¡¯t a neat trick.


    This wasn¡¯t magic.


    An Astral elevated a person beyond the limits of humanity. It transformed the individual.


    That¡¯s what he is.


    Orion wasn¡¯t human.


    Whatever his Astral had given him, it had turned him into a force of nature¡ªsomething beyond the reach of anything Thomas could hope to overcome.


    Thomas gritted his teeth, his bloodied face contorting as he forced himself to stand. His legs wobbled, the pain screaming at him to stay down, but he ignored it.


    He had to keep standing.


    He had to.


    90 seconds.


    Orion stopped, tilting his head as he looked down at Thomas with something between curiosity and disdain.


    Orion: C¡¯mon, c¡¯mon. At least let me in on somethin¡¯.


    Thomas didn¡¯t answer, his breaths rasping as he tried to steady himself.


    Orion: Why the hell did ya come here in the first place, huh? What¡¯re ya standin¡¯ here for? Takin¡¯ this sad-ass beatin¡¯ like a dumbass. I¡¯d get it if ya had a reason.


    He gestured vaguely, his massive hand slicing through the air.


    Orion: If ya had some power, sure. If I killed yer parents or somethin¡¯, maybe. But ya don¡¯t even know me. Hell, for all I know ya barely know Kazuki or that little green-eyed brat. So what the fuck are ya killin¡¯ yerself for?


    Thomas¡¯s lips twitched, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. The break was welcome, but his body wasn¡¯t recovering¡ªit was shutting down.


    He opened his mouth, blood trickling from his cracked lips as a grim smile spread across his face. His teeth, stained red, flashed towards the animal in front of him.


    The question echoed in his mind.


    Why? Why was he doing this?


    Why was he suffering for people he barely knew?


    The answer sat somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought he didn¡¯t want to confront.


    Thomas shook his head, his voice hoarse and quiet.


    Thomas: I¡­ dunno, mate.


    Orion¡¯s expression darkened, his scowl deepening.


    Orion: Tch. Useless bug.


    He lunged again, closing the distance in an instant. Thomas braced himself, raising his sword to intercept the attack.


    He couldn¡¯t see Orion¡¯s movements¡ªcouldn¡¯t anticipate them¡ªbut he guessed. He swung his blade in the direction he thought the strike would land.


    This is it.


    He understood it completely.


    He wouldn¡¯t survive another hit.


    But he refused to fall.


    His will¡ªnothing more than sheer defiance¡ªwas the only thing keeping him on his feet.


    He didn¡¯t think about the two who had left him.


    He didn¡¯t think about the pain consuming his body.


    Endure.


    He clenched his jaw, raising his sword one last time.


    100 seconds.


    A voice shattered the tension.


    ???: Suzaku!


    The word rang out, reverberating through the rubble-strewn street.


    Thomas¡¯s eyes widened as the ground shook violently beneath him. A figure descended from above, landing with an explosive impact that sent dust and debris flying in every direction.


    Thomas raised a hand, shielding his face as the smoke began to clear. His vision blurred, the swirling dust obscuring everything for a moment.


    When it settled, he froze.


    Kazuki stood in the center of the battlefield, his lone arm gripping a katana that burned with brilliant vermillion flames. His expression was hard, determined, as his gaze locked onto Orion who¡¯s sword was tangled with his.


    Behind him, a light, mocking voice rang out.


    Grace: Sorry we¡¯re late! Damn traffic, huh?

 Chapter 20: The Scorpion Hunter

    Lena.


    Just Lena.


    The moment Simon Felix heard that name, goosebumps prickled up his arms. It was strange how a single memory could still have that effect, how something buried so far in the past could claw its way back to the surface with such raw clarity.


    Back then, Simon had been just a boy.


    A boy with dreams, someone who aspired to be something great. He¡¯d walked the halls of the training facility with his chin high, his chest puffed out.


    And then she arrived.


    A small girl, younger than anyone else in the program¡ªhell, she couldn¡¯t have even been ten years old. Yet from the moment she set foot in that place, everything shifted. The other trainees, boys and girls twice her size, glanced at her as though sensing something in the air that they couldn¡¯t explain.


    No, not the air.


    The balance itself had changed.


    Simon could still picture her perfectly¡ªstanding there in the middle of the room, her posture unnervingly straight, her face devoid of emotion. Those cold, unblinking eyes had fixed on him, staring through him like he didn¡¯t matter.


    And it was then that Simon had realized, with a certainty that shook him to his core¡ª


    He was no longer the boss of that facility.


    And now, the warrior¡ªLena¡ªstood before him once again, over a decade and a half later.


    Simon¡¯s breath hitched.


    She was surrounded, his soldiers forming a circle around her. Their guns were raised, fingers hovering over the triggers, the barrels trembling ever so slightly.


    Simon didn¡¯t blame them.


    The lobby was a wreck¡ªsmoke swirled through the air in suffocating clouds, shards of broken glass glittered on the floor, and splintered concrete jutted out from the earth like broken teeth. What little remained of the overhead lights flickered erratically, casting the space in half-light, half-shadow.


    Lena stood in the center of it all, her body low, her blade steady despite the gashes on her arms and soot smeared across her face.


    Simon stared at her and something twisted deep in his gut.


    No one should look like that.


    Not when they were surrounded. Not when they were staggered and outmanned, with nowhere to run.


    And yet, Lena¡¯s gaze was cold.


    Don¡¯t underestimate her.


    He thought the words over and over again.


    But that look in her eyes, that same look she¡¯d had all those years ago, was impossible to ignore. Here she was, surrounded by his men, reduced to a vulnerable position on the floor of a ruined lobby.


    And yet¡­


    Why does it feel like I¡¯m the one at a disadvantage?


    He shook the thought off, glaring hard to steady himself.


    How unfair.


    That word again. It always came back to that.


    Lena, the warrior who embodied perfection. Her existence was one of privilege. It was etched into her blood, carved into her bones, and refined to an art in the vessel of her body. The gift of natural strength beyond reckoning. Speed beyond comprehension. Endurance beyond the reach of human limits.


    How does one contend with someone born as perfection incarnate?


    The answer was simple. You don¡¯t.


    Not as you are.


    And so, Simon had improvised.


    Years. He had clawed his way through the bowels of Obsidian, facing squad after squad of monsters who scoffed at his humanity. They¡¯d called him expendable, tossed him aside, and dragged him back into the furnace of blood and steel. He worked. He trained. He bled. He crawled his way all the way from Obsidian¡¯s third division for this.


    It was all for this moment.


    Yaotl Mk.3.


    His perfect creation. The suit hummed with energy as Simon adjusted the output, servos singing. This was proof. Proof that humanity, fragile and feeble as it may be, could rise to challenge the monsters who prowled this planet.


    Simon¡¯s grip tightened around his sword, the servos hissing with amplified force. A warrior forged from nothing.


    Lena stood before him. She didn¡¯t move.


    Simon surged forward, Yaotl roaring as it carried him, the blade raised high to unleash a blow that could tear through stone and steel. The air cracked, the force of his charge shaking the ground beneath him.


    But then, Lena moved.


    The space she once occupied turned to emptiness, her body no longer there. In the same instant, she was in front of him. Before Simon¡¯s brain could grasp the shift, his blade met resistance¨DLena¡¯s sword.


    The clash of metal screamed through the air, sparks bursting into a fleeting galaxy between them.


    Simon¡¯s eyes widened.


    Lena held firm, her sword locked against his. She parried it cleanly. As if it were nothing.


    Simon: ¨D¨D¨D¨D!


    With a grunt, he shoved forward, the servos of Yaotl grinding as they forced his weight against her.


    Lena shoved back.


    Calm. Unshaken. Those unsettling eyes never wavering, even as Simon pushed harder, his teeth grinding in frustration.


    Simon: You¡¯re still¨D!


    She vanished.


    Simon blinked. The sudden absence was disorienting, his brain scrambling to process what his eyes refused to accept.


    Then came the sharp tug at his back.


    Simon: ¨DTch!


    He whirled around, his sword cutting through empty air. Gone again.


    Simon: You¨D!


    Desperation gripped him as he spun again, armored boots shrieking against shattered stone. His senses strained, searching for her.


    And then he saw her.


    Dancing.


    She wasn¡¯t moving.


    She was dancing.


    Lena wasn¡¯t even trying.


    A single soldier staggered, his gun slipping from his grasp as his body hit the ground. Another screamed¨Da shrill, fleeting sound¨Das her sword carved through his armor, the spray of blood casting thin crimson arcs through the air.


    Simon¡¯s head snapped around.


    Simon: Focus on her! Don¡¯t stop shooting!


    But the order was meaningless.


    Lena moved.


    No, she cut through them.


    Another fell. And another. The gunfire faltered.


    A soldier screamed as Lena vaulted over him, her blade cutting a clean line across his chest. Another turned to flee¨Donly to meet her, sword already piercing his stomach.


    Simon¡¯s chest heaved, the rage within him bubbling over. The suit hummed as he overclocked the systems.


    Simon: Enough!


    With a sharp hiss, Simon¡¯s gauntlet snapped open, releasing a compartment at his wrist. A small device shot into his palm, a compact sphere, its surface pulsing with faint blue light.


    He hurled the device at her, the sphere splitting apart mid-flight into a whirlwind of fragments.


    CRACK!


    The air warped as electric arcs burst outward, a net of searing blue energy expanding toward Lena. Sparks hissed and screeched as the cage of light closed in around her, targeting her movement, matching her speed.


    BOOM.


    The shockwave exploded outward¨Da violent surge of power. The ground trembled. The air cracked. Fractured stone and glass erupted in all directions as the building groaned in protest.


    The blast caught her mid-dash. Her body was thrown back, smashing through the remains of a half-collapsed pillar. The force carried her into the side of a crumbling building, the wall crumbling in a storm of dust and debris that swallowed her whole.


    Simon staggered, his armor hissing as it recalibrated, steam pouring from the vents. Sweat trickled down his brow as silence fell, broken only by the hesitant footsteps of his soldiers.


    Simon: Close in. Now.


    Their weapons raised, the soldiers advanced cautiously. Simon followed, his boots crunching over the shattered glass and stone.


    Simon: She¡¯s not invincible. She¡¯s not a monster. Do not be afraid! Advance!


    He said it aloud. To himself, or to them, he wasn¡¯t sure. But even as he spoke, the thought felt wrong.


    The stillness, the quiet, it was wrong.


    Simon slowed, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the wreckage. He searched for any trace of her, but the smoke obscured everything. His soldiers piled on top of the rubble, preparing to dig through in search of Lena¡¯s body.


    Then he saw it.


    A faint glow.


    Simon: ¨D¨D¨D¨D!


    Before he could react, the building erupted.


    A shockwave of fire and smoke burst from the wreckage, a crimson hurricane that tore through the soldiers like ragdolls. Screams echoed, bodies flung aside, weapons scattered as the flames consumed everything in their wake.


    Simon stumbled back, raising an armored arm to shield his face. Heat scorched the air. The sound of fire, of destruction, roared in his ears.


    And then¨D


    She emerged.


    From the inferno, Lena stepped forward. Her silhouette wreathed in smoke and ash, her blonde hair streaked with soot, fluttering like a banner of war.


    She was smiling.


    Simon froze.


    That smile, it was not triumphant.


    Not cocky.


    Not smug.


    A memory of the earlier encounter when Lena had gotten behind him, the brief tug he had dismissed in the heat of battle.


    His eyes widened in shock.


    Simon: No... it can''t be...


    His hand shot to the back of his armor, fingers fumbling over the now-empty clasp where it had been secured.


    The Tezcatlipoca


    A compact, advanced directed-energy weapon designed to unleash concentrated electromagnetic pulses. When activated, it emitted a high-energy pulse capable of ionizing the surrounding air, creating a plasma channel. Through this channel, an electromagnetic pulse could travel with dispersion, delivering devastating energy to the target area.


    The result: instantaneous combustion of materials, structural disintegration, and electronic systems rendered inoperative. His trump card, the pride of Yaotl. A weapon that could only be used once. A weapon that had taken years to develop, and¡­


    She used it against us.


    His mind raced, piecing together the sequence of events, the shockwave, the flames, the utter devastation that had befallen his unit. How had she known about the weapon. How could she have moved this well against Yaotl in the first place? No human, no soldier should have been able to do all this. It was as if Lena herself was¡­


    Lena: Well then¡­


    She rolled her shoulders, that unsettling smirk widening as she tilted her head to meet Simon¡¯s gaze.


    Lena: Do you care to begin?


    Simon¡¯s breath hitched. Rage coiled in his chest, a futile attempt to smother the chill running through him.


    Simon: Monster.


    Her expression did not change.


    Those eyes fixed on him with an intensity that set his heart pounding.


    The Yaotl came to life, the servos straining as he lifted his blade once again.


    Lena tilted her head.


    Lena: After you, then.


    And so, the vice captain¡¯s duel began.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Grace sat on the weathered park bench, her small legs dangling, unable to reach the ground. The world around her was bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, but the warmth of the sun did little to touch her. Her brown eyes softened as they fixed on the scene in front of her.


    A boy, just a little boy, sat high on his mother¡¯s shoulders. He smiled, his laughter ringing out. The mother¡¯s hands clutched his legs tightly, her laughter joining his. Together, they painted a picture of something whole.


    For a long moment, Grace stared.


    Her fingers curled into the hem of her skirt, and without realizing it, her body rose to move.


    Step by step, her small form carried her forward. She didn¡¯t know why she moved, nor what she would do when she reached them. But something inside her stretched. Her arms felt heavy, her chest tight, yet she moved anyway.


    Closer.


    And then, she stopped.


    A figure blocked her path. Arms crossed, posture unyielding, Kazuki stood before her.


    The old man¡¯s dark eyes peered down at Grace. His stance wasn¡¯t threatening, but it was resolute.


    Grace blinked, her teeth gritting as anger bubbled up.


    Grace: Move.


    Kazuki didn¡¯t flinch.


    Grace: Move, old man!


    Kazuki: What¡¯ll you do when you get there?


    Grace froze. Her breath hitched as the question pierced through her chest. What would she do? She didn¡¯t know. Her lips parted, but no words came.


    The silence felt heavier than any response could have.


    Kazuki: If you don¡¯t know, there¡¯s no reason to go right?


    His voice carried no mockery, no cruelty. Just a simple truth. But it made Grace¡¯s frustration increase. She clenched her fists, her face twisting as she took a step forward.


    Grace: I don¡¯t care! Just move already!


    She shoved him¡ªsmall hands striking against an immovable wall. Kazuki¡¯s outstretched hand met her attempt, firm but gentle, halting her advance again.


    Grace: Move! I hate you! I hate you! You ruin everything!


    Her voice rose in pitch, her chest heaving as tears welled in her eyes.


    Grace: I hate this life! I hate traveling with you! I wish you¡¯d never come!


    Kazuki didn¡¯t move. He didn¡¯t speak. He stood there, quiet and immovable, as Grace screamed every bitter word, every jagged fragment of her heart.


    Grace: Move out of the way!


    Her voice cracked.


    Her sobs broke free.


    Kazuki sighed. A long, quiet sound that seemed to absorb everything around them.


    And then, he moved.


    Grace stepped back instinctively as Kazuki approached her, his hand lowering to his side. Her body tensed, her Astral ability flaring to life as she prepared to fight. The air crackled, her anger demanding an outlet.


    But Kazuki didn¡¯t stop.


    Closer.


    And then¡ª


    He wrapped his arms around her.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Grace¡¯s body went still.


    The tension vanished, as though the strings holding her together had snapped all at once.


    Grace: ¨D¨D¨D¨D.


    Her voice faltered into silence as she felt Kazuki¡¯s arms hold her tight.


    She broke.


    Her sobs echoed through the empty park. Her tears fell freely as her small hands clutched at Kazuki¡¯s coat, as though she were trying to hold herself together.


    And through it all, Kazuki held her.


    Kazuki: Your soul says something different, little miss.


    His voice was low. Soft. Understanding.


    Kazuki: You don¡¯t have to hold it anymore. All that weight, all those feelings¡ªjust let them go.


    He stroked her hair as she sobbed, his movements slow and gentle. Grace didn¡¯t know how long she cried. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside fading until it was just them.


    Kazuki: The past, the things you¡¯ve done, the person you were... all of that is gone now. What matters is what comes after.


    Grace shuddered against him. She could hear the words, but they felt distant, muffled by the weight in her chest.


    Kazuki: When you let those feelings go, they don¡¯t come back. Just like the things you love that are lost forever, the parts of you that you hated can disappear too.


    Kazuki¡¯s arms tightened slightly, grounding her.


    Kazuki: So cry, Grace. Let it out. Let it all disappear. And when you¡¯re done, we¡¯ll walk forward. Together.


    Her sobs slowed. Her breathing steadied, though tears still trickled down her face. She looked up just in time to see the mother and son disappear from view, their silhouettes fading into the golden light of the setting sun.


    She couldn¡¯t reach them.


    She never could.


    And yet, held in Kazuki¡¯s embrace, Grace felt something shift. The edges of her pain blurred, just a little.


    Kazuki: Together, we¡¯ll go forward, free of all that pain.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Grace tilted her head upward, her eyes fixed on Kazuki. His breathing had steadied, the color returning to his face, though the strain still lingered in his posture. Thanks to her ability, Beta Reversion, she had halted Kazuki¡¯s bleeding, as well as return the strength, stamina, and energy he had lost during the battle against Orion.


    Grace: ¡®All we can do now is see how far he can reach¡­¡¯


    Her words, soft and quiet, hung in the air as though seeking confirmation from the silence.


    Kazuki rolled his shoulders, the motion casual, dismissive.


    However, before he could utter a single word, a sharp fist collided with his skull.


    Kazuki: ¡ªGhuh!


    Kazuki stumbled, the blow sending him sprawling to the ground. His head spun from the impact as he groaned, one hand reflexively rubbing his jaw. Squinting up at Grace with a mixture of irritation and confusion, he muttered:


    Kazuki: What are you¡ª?


    Grace: What am I thinking?


    She stood over him, her shoulders trembling as her clenched fists hung rigidly at her sides.


    Grace: How could you even think of leaving that kid to die?


    Kazuki¡¯s brow furrowed, the sting of her words cutting deeper than the pain in his jaw.


    Grace: Thomas came all this way for us¡ªfor you! And you¡¯d just abandon him?


    Her voice cracked, though she pressed on, her frustration spilling out in jagged, uneven waves.


    Grace: If you want to leave the past behind, fine! Go ahead and do it! But don¡¯t expect me to follow you if all you¡¯re going to do is pile up regrets!


    Her fists unclenched as her arms fell limply to her sides.


    Grace: ¡­If I can keep moving forward, then I will. But I won¡¯t leave everything else behind. If I¡¯m in the present, I¡¯d like to minimize my suffering for the future. That¡¯s at least a little fair I think.


    Her gaze lifted again, fierce and unyielding, and she took a step closer to him.


    Grace: If I have to drag your sorry ass with me, Kazuki, then so be it. But we¡¯re going, sir, you understand?


    For a moment, Kazuki said nothing, his expression unreadable. He rubbed his jaw again, the ache fading as he stood, his gaze never leaving hers.


    Then, he laughed.


    It was low and soft, the kind of laugh that could almost be mistaken for bitterness.


    Kazuki: Guess I¡¯ve got more to learn from the youth too, huh.


    Grace blinked, her anger momentarily giving way to confusion.


    Grace: What the hell does that mean?


    Kazuki: Don¡¯t worry about it little miss.


    With that, he waved her off, the smirk on his face betraying none of the thoughts that lingered behind it.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Now, the present struck with an intense blow.


    Kazuki stood before Orion, his sword blazing with vermillion flames that roared and twisted like a living soul. The air shimmered with heat, the flames crackling as they danced across the blade.


    At his feet lay Thomas, his body battered and bruised.


    Kazuki had arrived just in time, the arc of Orion¡¯s blade inches away from delivering a fatal blow.


    Orion sneered as he pressed against Kazuki¡¯s blade with his own.


    Orion: Why the hell would ya step in now? That brat didn¡¯t even leave a scratch on me.


    The sneer on his lips deepened as he cocked his head.


    Orion: Tch. Comin¡¯ in now instead of waiting it out is an amateur move. If you¡¯d waited for a sneak attack, maybe it¡¯d¡¯ve been worth somethin¡¯.


    Kazuki didn¡¯t flinch. His sword still burned bright, the vermillion flames flickering in the air between them.


    Kazuki: That¡¯s another thing I guess this youth¡¯ll have to teach you.


    He paused, tilting his head slightly as though reconsidering.


    Kazuki: Nah¡­ Grace would probably be better at teaching you that.


    Orion froze for a moment, blinking as if the words themselves were incomprehensible. Then, he scowled.


    Orion: The hell¡¯s that supposed to mean? I haven¡¯t got a damn clue what yer runnin¡¯ your mouth about.


    Orion: Not that it matters. You can ramble all you want, I¡¯ll just tune those senile thoughts out. I¡¯m tired of this.


    Without waiting for a response, Orion raised his katana high. The blade pulsed, the air around it distorting violently as he swung it down.


    The ground beneath them shattered, the force of the strike creating a crater that sent shockwaves through the battlefield once again.


    Kazuki¡¯s feet slid dangerously close to the crater¡¯s edge, the sheer power of the blow threatening to swallow him whole. But despair couldn¡¯t take hold.


    The flames on his sword burned brighter. His movements grew sharper, his reactions more precise.


    As Orion¡¯s blade tore through the ground again, Kazuki¡¯s body shifted instinctively, narrowly dodging the attack. He leapt back, unscathed, his blade poised as the dust began to settle.


    Even with just one arm, Kazuki¡¯s prowess with his blade was impressive.


    Orion lunged forward, his speed blinding. The air cracked with his approach, his katana aimed directly at Kazuki¡¯s chest.


    But just as the blade seemed poised to strike, Kazuki¡¯s form shimmered¡ªand vanished.


    Orion¡¯s eyes widened, his momentum carrying him forward as he realized too late what had happened.


    A sharp voice cut in.


    Grace: Alpha Reversion!


    She stepped forward, her staff in hand. Its surface flickered and glowed, shifting rapidly between different forms¡ªspear, shield, knife¡ªuntil it settled into a massive wooden battleaxe.


    The weapon appeared light as she hoisted it over her shoulder.


    Alpha Reversion.


    It was a technique Grace had poured years into mastering, a painstaking process born from trial, error, and determination to perfect what seemed impossible. On the surface, the astral ability, reversion, appeared straightforward: the power to reverse an object or person to a state from the past. Yet, the complexity behind it was staggering, and the limits it imposed were far from trivial.


    Ordinarily, the range of a normal reversion was confined to a mere five minutes. She could restore any object or person within her contract back to a position from five minutes earlier or less. Anything beyond that threshold was untouchable. But she had refused to let those limits define her.


    Five minutes wasn¡¯t enough.


    Grace had known that if she were to rely on such an ability in battle, those constraints would render it almost meaningless. Rewinding time was powerful, yes¡ªbut only if it could be used flexibly, without restrictions.


    And so, she devised a method. A way to defy the inherent limitations of reversion.


    By activating the technique on an object and ¡°storing¡± its position, Grace discovered she could hold that state indefinitely. That stored position would then serve as a checkpoint, allowing her to revert the object to that precise state as many times as she desired, so long as Alpha Reversion remained active.


    But even this innovation wasn¡¯t without its cost.


    The ability¡¯s scope was limited to a single target. Only one object or person could be affected at a time. To make the most of this restriction, Grace had turned her ingenuity toward the staff she carried.


    Carefully, she carved the staff¡¯s form into a variety of shapes, each designed with a specific purpose in mind: a spear for piercing, a hammer for crushing, a blade for slashing, and countless others. After carving each form, she applied Alpha Reversion to them, locking those forms into memory.


    With her preparations complete, Grace could now shift the staff into any of its stored forms at will, regardless of how long ago the state had been saved.


    Of course, maintaining Alpha Reversion required intense focus, the kind that could falter under the strain of battle.


    Yet Grace wouldn¡¯t waver. She couldn¡¯t afford to.


    Orion clicked his tongue, his lips curling into a snarl.


    Orion: What, ya think ya can handle me better than that senile Japanese bug?


    Grace gritted her teeth, her hands tightening around the shaft of her battleaxe as she charged forward. The sound of her axe cutting through the air was a thunderous roar.


    Orion met her strikes head-on, his katana weaving a deadly dance against the weight of her weapon. For a moment, Grace thought she saw hesitation in his movements, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Her attacks had forced him to recalibrate, to take her more seriously than he had expected.


    But surprise alone wasn¡¯t enough.


    I can¡¯t let this drag out...


    Orion clicked his tongue, an irritated sneer cutting across his face.


    Orion: Tch. I¡¯m so tired of this shit. Stop wasting time so I can go home ya maggot.


    His eyes shifted. The bright irises seemed to deepen, turning into twin voids of grey, as if the light around him was devoured into their depths. His katana pulsed with shadows.


    Grace¡¯s breath caught in her throat. The aura pressed against her chest, a force that made her instinctively raise her axe in preparation for his counterattack. But before she could swing, a horrifying realization clawed its way into her mind.


    Her arms¡ªshe couldn¡¯t lift them.


    The axe slipped from her grasp, crashing to the ground with a deafening clang. Her arms hung uselessly at her sides, as though the very weight of the air around her had become unbearable. Panic surged through her veins, her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she struggled against the invisible force binding her.


    What is this.


    Orion blurred into motion. His figure vanished from Grace¡¯s view in an instant, replaced only by a sharp crack of air as he blitzed toward her. His katana, cloaked in shadow, aimed directly for her heart with supersonic precision. The sheer speed of his advance left no time for thought, no room for escape.


    Grace could only watch as the end hurtled toward her¡ªuntil a sudden force shoved her sideways, knocking her off balance. The world spun for a heartbeat before she hit the ground hard, her gaze snapping to the side to see Kazuki, his katana once again intercepting Orion¡¯s strike.


    The clash of their weapons shook the air, the flames of Kazuki¡¯s sword flaring wildly as they collided with the shadows. The ground beneath them cracked, the shockwave rippling outward as the two forces ground against each other.


    Orion: Tch, why do ya have to keep butting in? Yer just making this longer for everyone.


    Kazuki didn¡¯t answer. His blade moved like liquid fire, parrying Orion¡¯s katana. The clashechoed across the battlefield, drowning out Orion¡¯s complaints.


    Kazuki turned his head slightly, his voice cutting through the chaos with an almost casual confidence.


    Kazuki: Little miss, keep your head up.


    Grace blinked, startled by the calm in his tone.


    Kazuki¡¯s katana flared brighter as it met another swing, the shadows curling back under the sheer force of his flames.


    Kazuki: This man¡¯s astral ability comes from that weapon of his. That¡¯s where his astral is anyway. His astral draws it¡¯s energy from guilt. His katana feeds on it, thrives on the very concept. The more you feel it, the stronger he becomes. At least that¡¯s as simply as I can explain it.


    Grace¡¯s chest tightened as she processed his words.


    Guilt.


    Kazuki¡¯s tone softened, though his movements remained sharp.


    Kazuki: So, if guilt is what fuels him.


    His blade countered another of Orion¡¯s strikes, knocking him slightly off balance.


    Kazuki: Look forward to the celebration we¡¯ll have after we slay this lousy man. Lift that big head up little miss!


    Grace¡¯s breath hitched. She stared at Kazuki, her eyes wide, unable to look away from the fluidity of his movements, the way his blazing katana seemed to defy the shadows themselves.


    Orion¡¯s katana pulsed with darker energy, the shadows twisting and lashing outward like living tendrils. They lashed toward Kazuki, snapping at him with vicious intent. But Kazuki¡¯s flames burned brighter still, the vermillion glow consuming the shadows as he cut through them again.


    Grace felt her heart pound. She had known Kazuki was strong¡ªbut this strong? It was almost incomprehensible. He fought like a man who had no intention of losing, no matter the cost.


    Her mind reeled, and Kazuki¡¯s earlier words echoed in her ears. Guilt fueled Orion¡¯s power. If that was true, then she couldn¡¯t let herself be consumed by it anymore. Feeling herself lighten she absolved herself of the guilt.


    The guilt from burdening Kazuki¡­ Thomas¡­ Thomas!


    Her thoughts snapped into focus, and she turned abruptly, her heart sinking as she realized she had completely forgotten about him. The boy who had risked his life¡ªwhere was he?


    Grace scrambled over the rubble, her eyes scanning the battlefield until she saw him. Thomas stood in the distance, barely holding himself upright as he leaned on his sword. His breathing was ragged, his bloodied face twisted in pain. One leg was bent at an awkward angle, and his swollen features made it clear just how much he had endured.


    She reached his side, her hands trembling as she gripped his shoulders.


    Grace: Are you alright? What the hell is wrong with you? You didn¡¯t have to go this far for us.


    Thomas looked up at her, his lips parting to speak, but all that came out was a choked, bloodied rasp. His swollen mouth struggled to form words, but he forced them out anyway.


    Thomas: I¡­ I need¡­ to fight¡­


    Grace: Fight?! You can barely stand! You¡¯re gonna stay¡ª


    She stopped short as Thomas pushed past her. His movements were sluggish, his body swaying, but he refused to stop. He limped forward, his determination written on every bloodied inch of his face.


    Grace: The hell are you doing? You can¡¯t¡ª


    Another explosion rocked the battlefield, cutting her off mid-sentence. The ground trembled violently, a blast of wind and debris kicking up from where Kazuki and Orion clashed. The shockwave hit with the force of a battering ram, knocking Grace and Thomas off their feet.


    Grace hit the ground hard, the air knocked from her lungs as dust and rubble rained down around her. She coughed, struggling to push herself up, her ears ringing from the blast.


    Through the haze of dust, she saw Kazuki and Orion still locked in combat, their blades blazing with opposing energies. The intensity of their strikes sent tremors through the earth, and the flames and shadows seemed to consume everything around them.


    She turned to Thomas, who was also sprawled on the ground, struggling to get back up. His hand still clutched his sword, and despite the pain etched across his face, there was no hesitation in his eyes.


    Why¡­ why does he want to kill himself so badly?


    Her thoughts were a whirlwind, but she couldn¡¯t think for long. Another crash from the battlefield sent a fresh wave of dust and wind barreling toward them, forcing her to shield her eyes.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Kazuki¡¯s hands tightened around the hilt of his katana. The flicker of the fire seemed to embody the fiery soul of the man it drew power from.


    Across from him, Orion stood still, his katana cloaked in the hungry, writhing shadows that pulsed.


    Kazuki raised his sword, flames crackling as he summoned every ounce of energy he could muster. The blazing vermillion bird seemed to cry out with him as his shout rang across the battlefield.


    Their blades collided.


    The impact sent pure energy rippling outward, the ground beneath them trembling violently. Sparks of fire and tendrils of shadow burst into the air, clashing and dancing together like warring spirits.


    Kazuki strained, his muscles screaming as he held against Orion¡¯s strikes.


    Kazuki: Is that all? Kakaka! Your output¡¯s dropping. Out of fuel or somethin¡¯?


    Orion¡¯s smirk widened, his voice low and taunting.


    Orion: No guilt? You¡¯ve gotta be kidding me.


    He leaned forward, his blade pressing harder against Kazuki¡¯s.


    Orion: Look around. This battlefield reeks of it. Hell¡­ yer drowning in it.


    Kazuki¡¯s expression faltered for a split second.


    Orion: You think I can¡¯t feel it? That weight ya carry? Grace almost died back there, and whose fault is that? She wouldn¡¯t even be here if ya hadn¡¯t dragged her along. She wouldn¡¯t be in this mess if it weren¡¯t for ya.


    The words hit harder than the blade, and Kazuki¡¯s footing wavered. His flames flickered, the energy of the vermillion bird trembling under the weight of his mounting guilt.


    Orion seized the moment.


    Orion: Let me show ya what true guilt feels like!


    The smirk on Orion¡¯s face widened, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction as he pressed his advantage.


    He swung his katana in a brutal arc, the force of the strike slamming into Kazuki¡¯s guard and sending him skidding across the cracked rooftop.


    Orion: When that little maggot of a boy gave you the chance¡­ ya should¡¯ve taken it. Cut yer losses, y¡¯know?


    He surged forward, his shadows trailing behind him like venomous stingers.


    Orion: Running would¡¯ve made this fast for me and for ya. Maybe you and the girl maggot could¡¯ve lived a few more days. Maybe.


    With a twist of his wrist, Orion knocked Kazuki¡¯s blade aside and followed up with a vicious kick to his chest. The impact sent Kazuki sprawling, his back slamming against the edge of a nearby building.


    Orion: But no. Ya had to come back. Couldn¡¯t leave well enough alone, huh? Had to play the saviors. Lay your lives down for the boy maggot, like that would change a damn thing.


    Kazuki groaned, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his katana as he pushed himself up.


    Orion: Coming back here, dragging that girl withya¡ªit¡¯s not bravery. It¡¯s stupidity. That¡¯s what I think anyhow.


    He swung his katana again, the shadows lashing out like coiled serpents. Kazuki blocked the blow, but the force sent him staggering.


    Orion: Two is greater than one, right? Simple math. So why the hell would ya throw away two lives for one? What¡¯s the point? Ya couldn¡¯t absolve yer guilt or somethin¡¯?


    With a sudden burst of force, Orion slammed his katana down, knocking Kazuki¡¯s blade aside and following up with a spinning strike that sent the older man crashing to the ground.


    Orion: But yer biggest mistake. By far yer most fatal error was thinking a numbers advantage was enough to take a guy like me down. Throw in ten more men, nah, throw in a ¡®hundred of ¡®em. Bring ¡®em all to me and I¡¯ll cut ¡®em all down one by one. After all, I was given this hunt, and once I¡¯m personally given an assignment, I can¡¯t stop ¡®till it¡¯s carried out to completion. Thus is the nature of myself, Orion.


    He swung his blade with devastating force, the impact slamming into Kazuki¡¯s katana.


    Orion: The Scorpion Hunter.


    The fiery sword managed to block the strike, but the sheer power of it sent Kazuki hurtling backward.


    Kazuki: Gah!


    He shot upwards, tumbling into the side of the building, the impact shattering stone and glass as the structure groaned under the force.


    He barely had time to breathe before Orion was on him again. A second strike from the shadow-laden katana tore through the air, catching Kazuki mid-recovery. The force sent him soaring upward, crashing through the roof of the building.


    Kazuki landed in a crouch on the rooftop, the flames of his katana flickering weakly. He staggered to his feet, his gaze sweeping over the battlefield below.


    The streets were in ruins. Civilians scrambled through the chaos, desperate to escape the destruction that surrounded them.


    A¡­ disaster.


    But there was no time to let the weight of it settle.


    Orion appeared again, his figure blurring as he leaped through the air. Shadows trailed behind him like the tail of a comet, his katana poised to strike.


    Flames roared to life once more, pushing back against the oppressive shadows. The two forces collided with a deafening crash, the rooftop shuddering under the strain.


    Orion¡¯s grin returned, his eyes narrowing as he pressed closer, his voice dripping with malice.


    Orion: But tell me somethin¡¯¡ª


    Kazuki braced himself, his breath coming in labored gasps.


    Orion: Is Grace really what ya feel most guilty about?


    Kazuki froze.


    Orion¡¯s smirk twisted into something darker, his eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction.


    Orion: Or is it the soul of the katana I¡¯m wielding that¡¯s got ya all messed up? The one that belonged to that damned hag. What was her name again.


    Kazuki¡¯s face dropped, and Orion flashed his teeth, nearly bursting with glee.


    Orion: Oh yeah that¡¯s right. The old White Tiger¨CLiu Fang.


    The name hit Kazuki like a thunderclap. His body stiffened, the weight of the shadows around him suddenly magnified a hundredfold.


    Kazuki¡¯s limbs refused to move, his katana trembling in his grasp as the shadows immobilized him completely. Orion pushed forward, sprinting at the immobilized old man, determined not to let him slip from his grasp this time.


    Orion: Stay put and maybe now, I¡¯ll get to go home ya old maggot!


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Grace¡¯s breath caught as the ground beneath her trembled. Her wide eyes locked onto the crumbling building where her master had disappeared.


    Grace: Sir¡­


    The word barely escaped her lips before Thomas surged forward.


    Grace blinked, snapping out of her stupor as she saw him rushing headlong toward the wreckage. His movements were unsteady, his legs barely supporting him as he staggered toward the chaos.


    Grace: Stop!


    She lunged after him, her fingers wrapping around his arm.


    Grace: Answer me! What are you thinking? You can¡¯t fight in that condition!


    Thomas wrenched his arm free with surprising force, his face twisted in anger.


    Thomas: Fuck off!


    The words hit her like a slap. She froze, stunned, her hand still hovering where it had held him.


    Thomas turned his back to her, his swollen face set in grim determination as he pressed on toward the building.


    Grace: Damn it, Thomas!


    Her chest tightened, frustration bubbling under her skin. She clenched her fists, swallowing the sting of his outburst.


    If she couldn¡¯t get him to stay, she at least wouldn¡¯t let him slow her down.


    She darted forward, grabbing him before he could protest. In one swift motion, she hoisted him onto her back.


    Thomas: Mmf¡ª!


    His muffled screams of protest came out as incoherent noises, his swollen lips rendering his words unintelligible.


    Thomas thrashed weakly, but his strength was gone. Grace adjusted his weight on her back, gritting her teeth as her sore muscles screamed in protest. She poured as much energy as she could into her body, forcing herself to maintain the weight of the boy.


    Grace: If you¡¯re going to be stubborn, at least let me make sure you don¡¯t get yourself killed.


    She carried him toward the side of the building, her eyes scanning the crumbling structure until she spotted a half-destroyed ladder clinging precariously to the wall. The sight of it made her stomach turn, but there was no time to hesitate.


    Thomas let out another garbled protest, but Grace ignored it as she gripped the ladder. Her fingers dug into the cold, rusted metal.


    The structure trembled ominously with every movement. Dust and debris rained down from above, stinging her eyes and coating her skin.


    A little farther. Almost there


    She climbed as fast as her weary limbs would allow. The building shuddered again, a violent tremor that nearly knocked her off the ladder.


    Grace squeezed her eyes shut, her heart pounding.


    Grace: Please, be okay, old man. Please¡­


    The weight of Thomas on her back made every step harder, but she refused to stop. The thought of what might happen if she didn¡¯t reach the top in time kept her moving, her focus narrowing to the next rung, and the next.


    Finally, she reached the top.


    With a grunt, Grace threw Thomas onto the roof, his body landing with a thud as he rolled to a stop. She followed, leaping from the ladder and pulling herself onto the crumbling edge.


    Grace: Stay put!


    She didn¡¯t wait for a response, her gaze snapping to the center of the rooftop.


    There they were.


    Grace¡¯s chest tightened as she watched.


    Kazuki stood at the edge of the rooftop, his posture rigid, his sword hanging limply at his side.


    And through his chest, piercing cleanly through his heart, was Orion¡¯s blade.


    The world blurred around her. The distant sounds of battle faded, replaced by the deafening roar of her heartbeat.


    Grace: Kazuki¡­


    Her voice cracked, her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe.


    Kazuki¡¯s head tilted slightly, his weary gaze meeting hers. His lips moved, but no sound came out.


    And then, his body began to fall.


    Grace¡¯s scream tore through the air, raw and desperate.


    Grace: Kazuki!


    And as the old man¡¯s body descended onto the floor of the rooftop, Grace''s trembling hands reached out, powerless to stop the weight of her world from shattering.