Man Of Steel, Shield Of Ice

Clark

The wind howled like a living beast, the snow swirling in ferocious, chaotic patterns as if nature itself was fighting against them. Clark stood in the eye of the storm, his breath steady despite the freezing cold that should have overwhelmed him. His senses, honed to near perfection, felt every movement of the battlefield, every shift in the winds, and every breath the wildlings took as they fought for their lives.

Around him, the wildlings were engaged in a desperate battle. The wights were relentless, rising from the snow, crawling from the earth, and closing in with only one intent: death. They were the living dead, animated by dark magic, and no matter how many they cut down, more kept coming. The storm of battle raged, but Clark's eyes never wavered from his target.

He could see the White Walkers. They weren't like the wights. They were powerful, ancient, and filled with a cold that radiated through the very air. But Clark wasn't intimidated. He was Superman. They were nothing compared to the enemies he had faced before.

The ground trembled beneath him as the White Walker, a towering figure cloaked in ice, advanced. Its eyes were an unnatural shade of blue, cold and piercing, like the frost itself. This one was different. This was the leader, the one commanding the dead.

Clark's muscles tensed. His body, a blur of strength and speed, shot forward faster than the eye could follow. In an instant, he was in front of the White Walker, his fist colliding with its frozen chest with the force of a freight train.

The ice splintered with a deafening crack, but the White Walker didn't fall. Instead, it staggered back a few steps, unfazed. Clark knew this wouldn't be easy, but he wasn't about to be stopped. He raised his fists again, landing blow after blow—each strike reverberating through the air like thunder.

The White Walker swung its sword, an impossibly sharp blade of ice that glinted with an eerie glow. It slashed through the air at a terrifying speed, but Clark was faster. He dodged the swing with ease, his reflexes lightning-quick, and countered with a devastating punch to the Walker's side.

The blow sent the Walker crashing to the ground, a sound like shattering glass echoing through the storm. But even as it crumpled, the ice around it began to heal, reforming as the Walker stood up, its gaze burning with malevolent intent.

Clark frowned. It wasn't enough. These things didn't die like ordinary enemies. The magic that sustained them was too powerful. He needed to think fast. His eyes scanned the battlefield again, looking for any sign of weakness. There was no room for hesitation.

The wights closed in from every direction, their lifeless eyes glowing with hunger. Clark knew he had to clear a path for the wildlings to regroup. His hands became a blur, as he lashed out, his super-speed making his strikes look like a series of ripples in the air. Wights fell left and right, their heads exploding into ice and bone with every punch. The sound of their bodies breaking echoed through the night, but they kept coming. More would rise from the snow and earth, as long as the Walker commanded them.

Ygritte's arrows flew in from behind him, striking the wights with unerring accuracy. She had been quick to adapt to the chaos, picking off as many of the undead as she could. Her focus was unshakeable. Tormund, too, fought fiercely at her side, his axe cleaving through the wights with brutal force. But even their best efforts couldn't stop the endless flood of the dead.

Clark couldn't hold back anymore. He soared into the air, launching himself high above the battlefield. His cape billowed behind him, but the cold wind didn't touch him. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the landscape, watching the White Walker slowly rise from the ground, its icy form reforming again.

He needed to do something decisive.

---

Tormund

Tormund's axe swung through the air, biting into the frozen flesh of another wight. The crack of bone and the sickening squelch of the undead's rotting bodies didn't faze him. He had lived through worse. But even he could feel the weight of the battle pressing down on him. The White Walkers were powerful, and these wights were relentless. The wildlings were outnumbered, and the magic of the White Walkers seemed to be warping the very air itself.

Tormund's gaze flicked to Clark. The man was a blur of motion, a whirlwind of power, but even he couldn't take on the entire army alone. As much as Tormund hated to admit it, the wildlings couldn't do this without him. Clark was the only one with the strength to stand against the White Walkers directly.

"Clark!" Tormund shouted, but the man didn't respond. He was too focused on the White Walker, and for good reason. They needed to stop the leader, or they would be fighting this battle for days. The Walker wasn't just commanding the wights—it was controlling the battlefield itself.

Tormund swung his axe again, cutting through a wight's neck, but his eyes never left Clark. He was too far away to help, and yet he felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. The wildlings were depending on him, but how long could they hold out?

Then, a sudden gust of wind howled through the battlefield, bringing with it a sharp chill. The temperature plummeted, and Tormund felt his muscles stiffen from the cold. It was as if the air itself was being drained of warmth. He looked up, and his heart sank.

The White Walker was standing tall again, its icy blade raised. It looked directly at Clark with a gaze so cold that Tormund felt it in his bones. The Walker wasn't just a monster—it was a force of nature. The wildlings couldn't fight it alone. But Clark wasn't backing down.

---

Ygritte

Ygritte had always known how to fight. She had learned from the harshest teachers—survival, strategy, and the cold steel of a blade. But this was different. The wights weren't like any enemy she had faced before. They didn't feel fear. They didn't retreat. They just kept coming.

She had watched Clark take down wights with speed and precision, his blows like lightning strikes, sending the undead scattering in pieces. But she could see the exhaustion in his eyes. He was giving it everything he had, but even Clark couldn't keep this up forever. There were too many wights, too many White Walkers. It was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.

She loosed another arrow, the sharp twang of the bowstring cutting through the chaos. The arrow struck one of the wights, but it did nothing. It kept coming. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she refused to give in to fear.

She had to help Clark.

Her eyes locked on the White Walker. It was commanding the dead, manipulating the battlefield with a cold power that no one could understand. But Ygritte had learned long ago to trust her instincts. She could feel something about this battle—something that could give them an edge.

With her dagger in hand, Ygritte sprinted toward Clark. She didn't know what she was going to do, but she wasn't going to let him face this alone. The wind howled louder, the storm seeming to intensify as the battle reached its peak.

---

Clark

Clark hovered in the air, his focus entirely on the White Walker. It was coming for him, sword raised high. He could hear the wind shrieking around him, the dead below rising and falling, but his eyes were locked on the Walker. He could feel the magic coursing through the creature, but it wasn't going to be enough to stop him.

He sped forward again, faster than the wind, his fists raised in determination. The White Walker swung its ice blade, aiming for his chest, but Clark was too fast. He darted around the blade, coming up behind the Walker in a blur, and landed a crushing punch to its back.

The ice shattered. For a brief moment, Clark thought he had won. But then the ice seemed to reform around the Walker, as if it were healing itself. Clark's eyes narrowed. This wasn't just magic. This was something far more ancient.

He needed to end this now.

With a roar, Clark gathered his strength, focusing every bit of his power into one final blow. His fists collided with the White Walker, a shockwave of force that echoed through the battlefield. The Walker's ice shattered, the magic holding it together splintering.

The White Walker collapsed to the ground, its body breaking into thousands of pieces of frozen dust.

For a moment, the battlefield fell silent.