Freya Van Daalen's Perspective
Freya never had a favorite class.
Quite the opposite — she always chose according to her mood, or whatever sounded more fun in that particular game.
There had once been a Tank Freya, heavy and shield in hand.
A Mage Freya, casting bright, destructive spells.
A Healer Freya, keeping entire parties alive.
An Archer Freya, silent and deadly from afar.
Even a Sniper Freya, merciless, hunting enemies from a distance with flawless precision.
Among countless other versions of herself.
But when The Black Tower launched, she decided to take a simpler path.
She chose the warrior class.
And she had never been so thankful for a decision.
Especially after discovering that mages and healers literally had to apply physics, chemistry, and biology concepts in real time to cast their spells. It wasn't just about magic energy — it was about understanding reactions, processes, anatomy.
And archers? At the very least, they had to calculate angles, force, and even wind speed to shoot accurately.
She could only thank God.
Had she picked one of those classes, she would now be stuck with her little troublemakers, forced to study the same concepts she'd hated as a child — just to play a game. For her, that would be pure torture.
Freya hated science.
She hated math.
The warrior class had its own demands, of course.
It wasn't just about swinging a sword and attacking.
You needed a strong body, quick reflexes, the agility to react to anything.
But that, luckily, wasn't a problem for Freya.
Ten years practicing Pilates, plus another ten teaching it to support her little troublemakers on her own, had built something in her that went far beyond discipline: endurance, coordination, and a natural command over her own body.
And now, standing before those four undead guards, she finally saw those unexpected fruits turn into an advantage within the Tower.
She was agile.
She was fast.
She was lethal.
And that was exactly what she intended to prove.
Freya took a deep breath, tightened her grip on the sword, and lunged forward — ready to show the tank before her, and anyone else who doubted, the true weight of a warrior in battle.
The warrior class was described by the system as a pressure class.
And in Freya's opinion, that description couldn't be more accurate.
Constant pressure.
Unending motion.
Relentless strikes that left no room for the enemy to breathe.
That was how a warrior should fight.
And nothing embodied that nature better than the four basic warrior skills.
As soon as the fight began, Freya didn't hesitate.
She immediately activated the two long-duration skills every warrior carried in their arsenal.
Absolute Focus.
The sensation hit instantly — like a fog being ripped away from her mind. Her vision sharpened, the world turned clearer, and the mana in her body surged. Not in fractions, but in a burst of power.
Five times her normal intelligence. Five times the magical energy at her disposal.
Something any mage would kill to have.
Then came Battle Frenzy.
Freya's body ignited with speed. Her muscles responded like compressed springs, every fiber ready to move without hesitation. Her agility quintupled, turning her into something close to a blur under the spectral green light of the torches.
The preparation was complete.
The massacre could begin.
Freya charged in with full strength, choosing her most devastating impact skill:
Piercing Stab.
Her blade gleamed blue, its edge glowing with cutting energy that hummed under compression.
While Alessio kept the first undead pinned with his shield, she slid to the side — swift as a serpent.
A single strike.
Direct.
Surgical.
The sword's tip pierced the enemy's skull with quintupled force, breaking through dry bone as if it were glass. The crack echoed through the hall, mingling with the sound of the blade being pulled free. The corpse fell heavy and still — before it even realized it was dead.
Unfortunately, the skill had a long cooldown — a full ten seconds.
But that didn't bother her.
A warrior didn't need rest.
And Freya had another card to play:
Five Strikes.
In her opinion, an almost absurd ability.
Her next five attacks would deal double the normal damage.
Five chances to punish. Five chances to kill.
The second undead became the victim.
Freya dashed at it, giving no room to react.
The first slash tore through its right arm, cutting hardened tendons and leaving the limb dangling uselessly.
The second blow hit the left arm, slicing deep to the bone, which cracked and gave under the doubled strength.
The third cut was decisive: the blade arced upward and buried itself in the creature's neck, cutting halfway through before completing the swing and severing its head entirely. The body dropped to its knees before collapsing, scattering bones across the floor like loose stones.
Two remained.
But before Freya could advance, the remaining undead noticed her.
They turned in unison, hollow eyes locking onto her — as if realizing the warrior was an easier prey than the tank clad in metal.
They decided to eliminate her first.
Or at least, they thought they could.
The next instant, Aslan roared.
A deep, resonant sound shook the hall's stone walls.
It wasn't just a shout — it was the roar of a lion, fierce and commanding.
The two undead froze for a heartbeat before twisting back toward the tank — forced, like puppets under an invisible command, to focus on him.
Freedom returned to Freya.
And at that moment, she understood something crucial: it really was easier to fight with a tank's support.
He wasn't just a shield.
He was the anchor that held the battlefield together, allowing her to be the blade without worrying about being crushed from behind.
She drew a deep breath.
And smiled.
Now she only had to decide how she would tear apart the last two undead.
And for the first time since entering that strange journey, she felt a genuine spark of pleasure.
Yes...
This little adventure was starting to become quite enjoyable.