The Legion: Heartson

Fear was a force more insidious than any blade or bullet—a 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—he 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 naïve he had been.

This—this—was 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—the 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—

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—nothing 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—a 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—thin 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—knives, 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—small, 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. 

And then—

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—it all blurred around him. His heart pounded, his mind racing, searching for something—anything—he 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—a 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—much 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.

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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—her 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: —?

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

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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—the 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—soldiers, 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—a 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—

???: 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—only 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—you 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.