From Freya Van Daalen's Perspective
Freya took a slow step back, eyes fixed on the golden barrier shimmering around them — as if the forest itself had been swallowed by an artificial halo.
The air inside vibrated with energy, thick enough that every breath scratched at her throat.
Even so, she kept her composure — steady breathing, sharp gaze, body ready for what was to come.
Without a word, she moved away from Aslan.
Choosing a nearby tree with a broad trunk and raised roots, she carefully set the two cubs down on a patch of moss-covered stone — with the gentleness of someone handling something fragile.
She watched them for a moment.
The little ones instinctively huddled together, the warmth between their golden bodies keeping them still.
The soft rhythm of their breathing mixed with the faint rustle of leaves — calm, serene, completely unaware of the chaos forming around them.
If there was one thing Freya had learned about those tiny creatures in the short time they'd been together, it was that their sleep was unbreakable.
Nothing could wake them.
Not thunder, not roars, not the metallic clash of battle.
Their slumber was that of beasts — deep, instinctive, safe.
She smiled faintly.
Even faced with thirty hostile players, she knew few would make it past them.
And it wasn't arrogance.
It was certainty.
Because even if she hadn't witnessed Aslan's fight against the Lich, she knew enough.
She knew that man — or whatever Aslan had become — was a force that defied logic.
The way he moved, the weight behind his words, the look from beneath his helmet… none of it belonged to an ordinary player.
If the Green Moon Lich had fled, it wasn't out of mercy.
It was out of fear.
But she had no intention of merely watching.
Since awakening her Essence, something inside her burned — a restless heat, a primal instinct demanding release.
She needed to test her limits, to feel just how far her new power could take her.
For this battle, she had no intention of being a spectator.
She crouched one last time, ran her hand over the cubs' fur, and whispered,
"Stay quiet… mama's going hunting."
The smile that followed was thin, almost imperceptible — but there was a spark of thrill hidden within it.
When she straightened, the light sword at her hip slid naturally into her hand, the motion smooth and familiar.
The blade's tip caught the golden glow of the barrier, and for an instant, Freya saw her own reflection there — feline eyes, slow breathing, the calm of a predator before the strike.
Yet, despite the pulse of anticipation in her veins, their enemies seemed more interested in talking than fighting.
The largest of them — clearly the leader, both in stance and in the lazy arrogance he radiated — stepped forward.
His voice was loud and drawling, heavy with that false confidence of someone convinced victory was already his.
"So you're the ones who picked a fight with my boys…" he said, spreading his arms as if delivering a generous offer.
A wide grin stretched across his face, revealing yellowed teeth and a showy, almost theatrical smugness.
"Now look, I've got no taste for blood today… so how about you just hand over your gear, and I'll let you walk away?"
Freya raised an eyebrow.
For a moment, she thought she'd misheard him.
But no — he had actually said that.
A quiet, disbelieving sigh escaped her lips.
His tone, his posture, his choice of words… everything about him screamed fraud.
She had seen his type before — players who preyed on newcomers, exploiting the ignorance of those who didn't yet understand the Tower's rules.
That speech had probably worked a few times before.
But not with her.
And definitely not with Aslan.
The irony was that, buried beneath the stupidity of his words, there was a technical impossibility she couldn't ignore.
Equipped items couldn't drop upon death.
The system simply didn't allow it.
It was a fundamental rule.
They could rip Alessio's helmet off with their bare hands, and the system still wouldn't register it as "lootable."
It was impossible.
The man had to know that.
Or more likely, he knew — and was betting on the ignorance of his targets.
How many naive players had fallen for that same lie?
How many had handed over their gear in fear, not realizing the system itself would've protected them?
Freya exhaled sharply through her nose.
If she had to guess, this was nothing more than a performance — a cheap act before the real attack.
But then something caught her attention.
His eyes.
While he spoke, he wasn't looking at her — nor even at Aslan as a whole.
His gaze locked onto a single point, and the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable.
The shield.
The Titan's Bulwark.
Freya tightened her grip around the sword's handle, the truth clicking instantly in her mind.
This wasn't a negotiation.
It was a setup.
He wanted the shield.
And by the look of greed burning in his eyes, he probably didn't even realize the level of the artifact Aslan carried — but that didn't stop him from wanting it.
After all, even idiots knew how to recognize treasure.
She glanced sideways at Aslan, waiting for him to say something.
But he didn't.
Not a word.
Not a gesture.
The silver helmet reflected the golden barrier's light, and the only thing that moved within it was the faint glint of his eyes.
The silence that followed was almost tangible.
The thirty men on the other side waited for a response.
The leader still smiled, certain he was in control.
But the answer he expected…
never came.
What he received instead —
was the impact of a wall.