Perspective: Alessio Leone
Alessio was starting to wonder if the people destined to become legends within the Black Tower were made of a different material than the rest of mere mortals.
Last night, he had placed his life — not just once, but several times — in the hands of Eleanor Whitmore.
A novice.
A player with only two days of experience.
And yet, she had managed to remain calm and precise the entire night.
It wasn't as if she hadn't made mistakes.
There were obvious slips, errors that even Alessio — someone with no real experience in how a healer's mechanics worked — could easily notice.
But the mistakes didn't define her performance.
What stood out was her composure.
The ability to maintain control, to keep clarity in the middle of chaos.
It was she who kept him alive, even when Alessio fought like a true lunatic against the boss's guards.
And that alone was something no one would expect from a rookie.
Certainly not from someone who had just entered the Tower.
It was a display of natural talent — the kind that can't be taught through manuals or replicated in training.
And now, faced with an even more disturbing scene, that same feeling returned.
The grotesque laboratory that stretched before them wasn't a place any sane person would call normal.
Piles of bones, grimoires bound in skin, shelves that reeked of dried blood and mold — even the air itself seemed to corrode sanity.
Even Alessio, with his ten years of accumulated experience from a past life, would describe the place as, at the very least, disturbing.
A space soaked in memories of dark sorcery, echoing traces of something that should not exist.
And yet, Sith...
She didn't just appear unshaken.
She moved through the hall calmly, light steps, steady posture. Her green eyes wandered across the shelves as though she were observing something curious — not dangerous.
She smiled.
She smiled at the bones.
She smiled at the books whose titles would make any beginner recoil.
She even crouched beside him, examining the grimoires with care, helping him search among volumes of black magic and necromancy — without a single complaint.
The sight was so contrary to what Alessio expected that he caught himself wondering, silently—
Had he been the only one to return in time?
Was Sith also a reincarnator?
It was an absurd thought.
And yet, it was the only one that made any sense in that moment.
Unfortunately, Alessio didn't have time to get lost in speculation. He still hadn't found what he came for, and even if he was a little wary of what might awaken if he kept searching, he had no choice but to keep moving forward.
Everything in life came with a price.
And though the Black Tower wasn't reality, it followed the same rules.
He drew a deep breath, aligned his shield before his body, and repeated the safety protocol he had used on the previous doors. With his other hand, he slowly turned the handle and pushed gently, letting the wood yield under pressure.
This time, however, he didn't have to wait for the torchlight to seep through the crack.
The room before him was already illuminated.
And not in any ordinary way.
The space was vast — far larger than the previous chambers — supported by stone columns stained dark and veined with moss. The air was heavy, saturated with a metallic scent that reminded him of iron and rotting flesh.
Four circular pools, identical in shape, occupied the room's sides.
Each one was filled with a thick crimson liquid whose surface reflected the greenish glow of torches burning in wall-mounted sconces.
Those pools looked more like bloody altars than containers.
At the center of the room, by contrast, there was nothing — an open space, as if reserved for rituals or combat.
In the middle of that void stood a statue carved from gray stone.
It did not depict a divine figure of beauty, as noble temples might, but an old man.
His long beard flowed to his chest, his expression severe, almost accusatory. His sculpted eyes stared into the void — and yet Alessio felt them weighing his intentions.
At the far end of the room stood another door.
Identical to the first: noble wood, reinforced, and in its center, the same half-moon symbol gleaming moss-green under the torchlight.
But what truly caught Alessio's attention wasn't the door.
It was the guards standing before it.
Four motionless figures stood in formation, two on each side — undead warriors, corrupted by time but still imposing.
Their skin had lost all trace of humanity, turned a purplish gray stretched tight over hardened muscle.
The armor they wore was ancient — patched plates and decayed leather — yet still gave off a sense of solidity.
Chains and scraps of rusted mail hung from them, tangled with strips of dried hide.
Each held a longsword, the blade corroded in parts but still deadly.
Their faces were a vision of torment: once-human features marred by cracks, hollow eyes dull and lifeless.
They didn't move.
Catatonic.
Like statues of flesh and iron.
But Alessio knew.
The moment they approached that door, those guards would awaken.
And the whole chamber would stop being a macabre stage…
It would become a battlefield.
Alessio didn't need words. Instinct spoke louder.
He straightened his posture, tightening the straps of his armor that creaked under the tension. The metallic weight settled on his shoulders — a familiar reminder that every battle was also a burden. With a steady hand, he drew his axe, the steel catching flashes of the room's greenish light.
A simple gesture, but necessary.
The calm before the storm.
At his side, Sith already seemed to understand his intent. The synchronization between them was almost frightening. Without him needing to speak, she raised her sword in one smooth motion, the metal slicing the air in silence. Her stance was relaxed yet predatory — like a beast about to pounce.
That was when she smiled.
A faint, almost amused smile.
And then, with disarming ease, she spoke the words that, to any tank, could only be taken as a direct insult:
— "Two each?"
It wasn't a challenge.
Nor an order.
Just a question.
But the wrong kind of question —
The kind no one should ever ask someone whose job was to draw the enemy's fury, to protect, to control the battlefield.
To Alessio, it was almost like denying the very essence of his role.
His grip on the axe tightened.