From Freya Van Daalen's Perspective
If there was one thing Freya had learned about Aslan, it was this:
once he decided to fight, he became a man of few words.
No speeches.
No threats.
No taunts.
Just action — pure, direct, and devastating.
And that became clear the instant the leader of the Fighting Dogs opened his mouth for the last time.
The man still wore that smug smile, expecting a response, maybe a flicker of hesitation.
But what he received… was a wall.
Literally.
Freya knew what was about to happen.
She had read the ability description in Aslan's shield menu — The Titan's Bulwark wasn't just a piece of defense; it was a living force, a weapon of impact that turned protection into destruction.
But seeing it in action was something else entirely.
When Aslan moved, it wasn't fast.
It was heavy.
Each step carried weight — the kind that made the ground vibrate, like distant thunder rolling closer.
Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
The thirty men ahead glanced at each other in confusion for a brief second… and then he charged.
It was like watching a force of nature come alive.
His body gained speed without losing stability — the shield in front, the axe strapped to his back, and that golden aura beginning to radiate from his armor.
Each footstep landed with a deep metallic thud, mixed with the low hum of energy being channeled.
When the first roar came — the deep sound of the ability activating — Freya felt the air itself change.
The pressure of the barrier folded in on them.
The wind blew backward, and the nearby vegetation bowed as if the world itself were bending aside to clear his path.
The leader of the Fighting Dogs was the first to realize what was coming…
and also the first to be hit.
The impact was brutal.
The shield crashed into his chest, and for a split second, the man simply ceased to exist in front of Aslan — turned into a moving blur.
The sound of impact echoed like a muffled explosion, and his body was hurled several meters back, slamming into a thick tree.
The trunk split down the middle.
The body slid to the ground, leaving a smear of blood and dust.
Freya blinked.
Not even a second had passed.
But Aslan didn't stop.
He kept going — shield forward, body low, his advance steady and crushing.
The energy from the skill, The Moving Wall, created a continuous shockwave that pushed the air and everything in its path.
Two players tried to intercept him from the flank.
The first raised his sword and shouted, but the blow hit the shield and shattered — steel breaking like glass.
The wave of force caught him from the side and sent him flying; his body spun twice before crashing headfirst into the ground.
The second, an archer, tried to roll away, but the pressure of the charge slammed into him like an invisible wall, flattening him to the dirt.
The rest of the group hesitated.
But it was too late.
Aslan was already among them.
What followed was chaos — the sound of bodies being thrown, armor crumpling, bones snapping, screams tearing through the air.
Freya watched wide-eyed; the scene was almost surreal.
Each hit of the shield released a burst of golden energy, warm light that made the shadows dance between the trees.
Players were sent flying like rag dolls, tossed in every direction.
She saw one get slammed so hard he crashed through an entire bush and vanished.
Another was launched upward, spinning wildly before landing with a dull crack.
Two more tried to brace themselves, crossing their weapons — but the blow hit with such force that both were dragged back together, their blades twisting like molten metal.
Aslan's charge split the formation in half.
Literally.
A line of destruction cut through the field — fallen trees, torn earth, scattered bodies.
Freya had to grab the nearest trunk just to stay on her feet.
The shockwaves from his shield whipped the wind into spirals, and for a heartbeat, it felt like watching a battle between gods, not players.
When the noise finally began to fade, the scene before her looked like something out of a war painting.
The ground was carved with deep grooves, as if something massive had plowed through it.
Several of the Fighting Dogs were down, groaning, struggling to rise.
Others simply didn't move.
And at the center of it all — standing tall, motionless, his shield still glowing, helmet lifted toward the horizon — was Aslan.
The man who, moments ago, had faced thirty players… now looked like an army of one.
Freya exhaled — a mix of relief, disbelief, and maybe a hint of fear.
Because no matter how much she trusted him, the truth was impossible to ignore:
watching Aslan fight up close was like witnessing an avalanche rolling down a mountain.
Nothing stopped it.
Nothing survived in its path.
And for a fleeting moment, she almost pitied those idiots.
Only then, amid the chaos, did Freya feel the pull that had been building inside her ever since the barrier rose.
Her whole body thrummed, muscles tense, heart pounding to a rhythm she barely recognized — not fear, but exhilaration.
The distant echo of Aslan's roar still thundered in her ears, the ground trembling from the aftershock of his charge.
But to Freya, that sound wasn't destruction.
It was a call.
The huntress inside her was awakening.
With smooth, natural movements, she lowered her stance, letting her body flow — instinct taking over.
Her eyes changed — the deep green turning sharp, cold, with a predatory gleam.
The world around her slowed.
The sound of men breathing, armor scraping, leaves rustling… all fused into a single rhythm she could read.
Now.
Without hesitation, Freya moved.
Silent. Precise.
She crossed the shattered field in swift, light steps, leaving barely a trace on the torn soil.
Her first target was just ahead — a man with a short axe, still trying to stand, his attention fixed entirely on the living wall that was Aslan farther ahead.
He was panting, nervous, eyes locked on the golden figure that had just decimated his comrades.
He never noticed the shadow creeping up behind him.
Freya got so close she could feel his breath against her blade.
The weapon rose in a simple, almost graceful motion.
No hurry, no waste — the kind of strike born not from strength, but from certainty.
The cut was clean.
The blade slid through his neck like heated butter, and for a brief moment, his body seemed unaware of what had happened.
Then the blood came.
A thin crimson arc sliced the air, scattering droplets that shimmered under the barrier's golden light.
The sound was quiet — a sigh, a crack, and the dull thud of the body dropping to its knees before collapsing sideways.
Freya didn't stop to look.
Nor to confirm the kill.
The smell of blood hit her senses, and the instinct within roared louder, demanding more.
With each step, her focus sharpened to a razor's edge.
The second target was ahead — an archer, panicking as he tried to notch another arrow with trembling hands, unaware of what approached from behind.
She twirled the blade between her fingers, the metal still hot with fresh blood, and advanced —
the look in her eyes that of a predator mid-hunt.