Chapter 463: A God?
The threat of death and the overwhelming pressure emanating from the Multi-Arm Leviathan Lord seemed to heighten Freya’s battle awareness and skill to their utmost limits. Her body moved faster and faster, guided purely by instinct. She dodged the monster’s massive, clawed hands by the barest margins, each swing of its limbs creating a gust of wind sharper than any blade. Her mace struck with overwhelming power whenever an opening presented itself. Yet it was painfully clear that she was nearing her end.
More and more wounds appeared on the Viking princess’ body—long, ugly gashes across her arms and legs, deep bruises forming where blows had nearly broken bone. Her breathing grew ragged, and her armor—already battered—now hung in shards around her frame. Freya’s situation was nothing short of catastrophic.
Far away, Ouroboros and Jormungandr clenched their teeth in rage and frustration. They witnessed Freya’s desperate struggle against the monstrous foe. There was nothing they wanted more than to rush to her aid, to break free from their own titanic battles and lend their strength. But the Manticore Leviathan Lord and the Kraken Leviathan Lord kept them thoroughly locked in combat. The hive mind was cunning. Sensing its chance to finally eliminate one of the key figures who had sown chaos and death among its troops, it refused to let any of the Sky Seed Depravitas break free. It would not waste such a golden opportunity.
On the battlefield, Grand Marshal Anglius, King Viserin, Ned, and all the other powerful human warriors fought with grim resolve. They saw the monstrous Leviathan Lord threatening Freya. They wanted to help her, yet the Leviathans created a living barrier, a writhing mass of claws and chitin that kept the human champions at bay. No one could intervene. No one could stop the fight unfolding at the heart of the chaos. Freya was alone.
Freya herself fully understood the dire nature of her predicament. Her left arm had gone completely numb, refusing to rise even when she willed it. A massive gash ran along her right leg, cutting so deep that her bone gleamed through torn flesh. Several of her ribs were cracked, each breath sending jolts of pain through her entire torso. Still, she did not lose her fighting spirit or will for an instant.
She was a Viking princess, forged in the crucible of endless struggles. If she had to die here, she would do so fighting until her last breath. Her mace moved faster, fueled by desperation and fury, striking out whenever she could muster the strength.
And then it happened.
"BOOM!"
A kinetic blast echoed across the battlefield as the Multi-Arm Leviathan Lord struck Freya’s mace with such ferocity that it flew out of her grasp, spinning through the air before clattering far out of her reach. In that instant, a wicked grin spread across the Leviathan Lord’s monstrous face. It had seized the advantage. Without hesitation, it focused every ounce of its overwhelming might into a barrage of blows, intending to crush the young woman to a pulp right then and there.
With no weapon and one arm nearly useless, Freya’s situation was beyond desperate. The monstrous arms closed in, fists and claws poised to strike a deathblow.
Time seemed to freeze for Freya. In that suspended moment, memories flooded her mind. She recalled her modest beginnings in Valhalla, gaining the favor of Odinvaldr and voyaging into new worlds. Finally, she envisioned herself sitting beside a young man and a small yellow cat. It was as if her entire life had rushed before her eyes, presenting her with every choice and victory, every hardship and triumph.
Realizing what these memories signified, Freya did not despair. Instead, she smiled fiercely, pure resolution etched into her face. Though death hovered over her, the Viking princess would not yield. She would fight until the very end.