Hana Takayama's Perspective
The fight against the boss was, in truth, easier than facing the goblin hordes.
This time, she had freedom.
She could move around the room, choose her angles, fire with composure — and every arrow found its mark in the goblin shaman's body, making him writhe in pain, unable to retaliate effectively.
Even when he tried to strike back, it changed nothing.
His spells were intercepted before they could touch them, smashed against walls of stone and earth rising at the perfect moment.
Matteo, nervous but disciplined, raised his barriers like an obsessive architect, blocking every flame, every bolt, every curse the shaman hurled.
The poor boss looked… cornered.
A mage outnumbered, hunted without mercy like nothing more than prey.
A rat inside its own den.
For a moment, Hana almost felt pity.
Almost.
Because the truth was clear: she was only fulfilling her role, and the Black Tower left no room for pity.
And if she still doubted that, all she had to do was look at Cassandra.
The redhead showed not a shred of compassion.
Staff in hand, eyes blazing with excitement, Cassandra looked ecstatic.
With no need to defend herself, she turned the battlefield into her personal stage.
Shards of ice cut the air with sharp cracks, each arrow freezing the ground it touched. Some exploded on impact, scattering razor-like shards that ricocheted off stone walls like invisible blades.
Right after came the fireballs — incandescent orbs that lit the hall like miniature suns, exploding against the shaman or the stone pillars that held the ceiling. Each blast spread living flames across the floor, forcing the goblin back like a cornered beast trapped in a wildfire. The heat was so intense that Hana could feel her skin burn even from meters away.
And between one spell and the next came the arcane missiles.
No warning, no buildup — just a piercing whistle as invisible projectiles materialized at the last instant, striking the enemy's body in precise points.
The cadence was absurd — almost like the continuous fire of a magical machine gun.
Each impact ripped a roar from the goblin shaman, each volley made him stagger under the relentless bombardment.
Cassandra didn't breathe.
She didn't pause.
Her spells poured like a flood, a storm of destruction that turned the chamber into a field of fire and ice where the enemy had nowhere to hide.
It was a massacre.
Plain and simple.
And indeed, an easy fight.
Exactly as Aslan had promised.
But Hana wasn't naïve.
She knew an archer couldn't afford to keep her eyes fixed on a single target.
She needed to watch everything — every movement, every detail in the room.
And that was when she understood.
Their fight — hers, Cassandra's, and Matteo's — seemed simple.
Seemed clean, almost comfortable.
But only because someone else was shouldering the hard part.
At the far end of the chamber, Alessio was locked in a struggle that looked more like a duel against fury itself.
Two guards.
Two hulking brutes of steel and muscle, each wielding a greatsword heavy enough to cleave an ordinary man in two.
They were nearly as strong as the sub-bosses that had nearly drained the group — and yet here they were, both focused on a single target.
But Alessio did not yield.
His raised shield was his wall.
Every impact against it made the air vibrate, thunder rolling through the hall.
The blades sparked against its surface, trying to crush him with the combined weight and speed of their strikes.
And still, Alessio answered.
He deflected wide swings, twisting his body and redirecting the blows with his shield.
He blocked others, softening the force with his iron forearm, shoving back to throw the enemy off balance.
When he couldn't avoid a hit, he received it head-on, angling the shield so the power slid off the side instead of crushing him.
It was a cruel dance.
Raw force against cold calculation.
Two frenzied warriors against a Tank who seemed immovable.
The axe in his hand never rested.
Not devastating swings — there was no room for that — but quick, sharp cuts, each one biting into the guards whenever the slightest opening appeared.
A tendon struck, a joint weakened, a blow landed in the gap between armor plates.
Blood sprayed in crimson streaks across cold stone.
And behind him stood Eleanor.
Her hands glowed with golden light, casting spells that stitched Alessio's wounds before they could deepen.
Her eyes never blinked, locked on the Tank as if nothing else existed.
Every breath measured, every spell cast at the razor's edge.
When a blade slipped under Alessio's shield and tore into his thigh, Eleanor's light wrapped him within seconds, sealing the wound before he could limp.
When a brutal strike hurled him into the wall, cracking the stone at his back, her healing came instantly, restoring strength to his arms so he could lift the shield again.
It was a spectacle of endurance.
Alessio was the wall.
Eleanor, the invisible pillar holding it firm.
And from a distance, Hana understood: that pair carried the true weight of the fight.
If they faltered, not all the arrows in the world could save them.
She and the others were hunting easy prey.
But the Tank and the Healer were facing hell in silence.
Even so, Hana had no intention of breaking formation.
She wouldn't run across the chamber to try helping Alessio and Eleanor.
It would be pointless.
Their role was to hold the guards; hers was to bring down the boss.
All she could do was focus on the main target.
And finish him as quickly as possible.
To do that, she knew she'd have to push harder than she had so far.
She couldn't just fire casually.
Every arrow had to carry weight, precision, impact.
The storm of arrows that had devastated goblins in the first hall was out of the question.
Her body still remembered the price of that madness, and the pain she'd felt upon waking was reminder enough.
But she didn't need that overload.
If she kept a steady rhythm of Quick Shots, combined with the Piercing Arrow skill, it would be enough.
One strike after another, piercing through the shaman's defenses until nothing remained.
She drew a deep breath, fingers steady on the string, her gaze fixed on the enemy still muttering guttural words, trying to weave spells against them.
With every shot, Hana was certain:
the sooner that shaman fell, the sooner the entire battle would become bearable.