Eleanor Whitmore's Perspective
To be honest, Eleanor had already noticed that the player called Aslan was somewhat handsome.
Not just her — her friends had noticed too.
And though none of them would ever admit it, not even under torture, there had been small bits of gossip about it.
But there was a difference.
Between noticing someone is handsome from a few meters away —
That was one thing.
And having the chance to see someone's face clearly from just a few centimeters away —
That was something else entirely.
Aslan's face seemed sculpted in strong, striking lines.
A firm, almost sharp jawline gave him a natural seriousness, as if every word from his mouth carried weight.
His lips, well-defined, were pressed together in a focused expression that didn't fade even in the chaos of battle.
A straight nose completed the austere symmetry of his features.
But it was his eyes that truly held her.
Deep, with an intense honey-gold shade, carrying a gravity that made her forget, for a moment, that this was just a game.
There was no softness in them, only a near-cruel determination — the look of someone who knew too well the burden of fighting.
And yet, within that ferocity, Eleanor almost thought she glimpsed something human: a flash of pain, maybe fatigue, like cracks in a rock that seemed unbreakable.
Seen up close, his face wasn't just handsome. It was stunning.
And she only got to see it because Aslan was on top of her.
But not to kill her.
Thankfully, even after the massacre that had turned the hall into a nightmare of blood and steel, he still held on to a fragment of sanity.
His intent, it seemed, wasn't to harm her — but to save her.
She realized that because of the massive lightning bolt that tore through the air above them just seconds after he had shoved her down, covering her with his own body.
At first, she thought he would immediately get up.
Not that she was complaining — after all, the chance to see his face this close felt surreal.
And honestly, if not for the Tower's rule of keeping the same body and face as in real life, she would've sworn such looks were computer-generated.
But seconds passed.
And Aslan didn't move.
His body remained motionless above hers.
A chill ran down her spine.
Maybe he was injured.
Maybe he had been struck by something that paralyzed him.
Instinctively, Eleanor lifted her hands and began channeling healing magic, trying to mend any hidden wound.
Golden light spread across his chest… but nothing happened.
Still motionless.
Then his voice, low and honest, reached her ears:
"Sorry… I can't move my body. Could you push me to the side?"
She didn't quite understand what was happening, but there was something in his voice…
A raw sincerity, without pride, without masks.
So she complied.
Carefully, she pushed him off to the side, freeing herself.
Aslan's body collapsed to the floor, heavy as dead weight.
His arms, his legs, his torso — none of them moved.
The only things alive in him were his head and his eyes, still fixed intensely on her.
Slowly, the hall began to quiet.
The explosions ceased.
The roars were swallowed by silence.
The suffocating heat of magic still hung in the air but faded into smoke and ash, leaving behind only the scent of burnt iron and charred flesh.
At the far end of the chamber, the boss lay still.
Pinned against the wall like a broken puppet, limbs dangling lifeless.
In the center of his forehead, an arrow.
Straight, perfect, piercing his skull in a single flawless point.
The shaft still vibrated faintly from the shot, as if it had landed only a second ago.
There was no need to check, no need to ask.
Eleanor knew.
It was Hana.
Only she had that icy precision, that absurd calm that bore fruit even amid chaos.
A shot impossible for most, turned into a final sentence in her hands.
Her companions were already running toward them, their footsteps echoing across stone like hammer blows of relief.
But for a moment, Eleanor couldn't care about anything else.
Her eyes returned to Aslan.
His eyes were closed now.
The fright hit instantly, her heart pounding.
Without thinking, she placed a hand on his neck, feeling the strong pulse beneath hot skin.
"Aslan! Aslan!" she called, panicked, her voice trembling.
His eyes opened slowly, his reply calm, contrasting with the chaos just ended:
"Yes."
Eleanor's face flushed with embarrassment at her overreaction.
"Are you okay?" she blurted before she could stop herself.
"Yes. Just body shock, from the strain," he answered calmly, his eyes still on her.
And then she understood.
The Black Tower made players collapse when they pushed their abilities too far.
It wasn't a flaw, but a rule.
A silent mechanism ensuring no one could surpass the body's limits without paying the price.
Cruel, perhaps.
But also… consistent.
And so, the scene before her made sense too.
If endless fighting, sustained by infinite healing, had been possible… that would have been strange.
That would have broken the Tower's cruel but fair logic.
Eleanor realized this as she looked at Aslan lying there.
He wasn't weak.
He wasn't defeated.
He was simply paying the price for crossing a line no other player would dare.
And in a way, that made him even scarier.
And even more… fascinating.
"How long will it last?" she asked, her voice low, almost a whisper.
"At most a few minutes," he replied casually, as if lying paralyzed on the floor was no big deal.
That was when the others finally arrived.
"Aslan! You're alive, man!" Matteo shouted in relief as he rushed closer.
Aslan rolled his eyes at the display, and Eleanor couldn't help but smile.
There was something almost endearing in how he reacted to his friend's excessive enthusiasm.