The Legion: Heartson

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—his men, handpicked to follow his command—had 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—they 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—the scattered equipment, the balcony, the faint echoes of their voices—fell 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—it 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—

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—her 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. 

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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—just 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—no 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—the 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—the flames burned against his hands, the strain of holding on threatening to rip his muscles apart—but 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.