From Alessio Leone's Perspective
The dorm room felt smaller that night, as if the walls—cluttered with old posters and forgotten memories—were slowly closing in around him. The air was heavy, steeped in the smell of yellowed paper, cold coffee, and settled dust—an atmosphere burdened with ten years of memories, now twisted by the impossible return fate had granted him.
In Alessio's hands rested the object that would define not only his future but the future of all humanity. A sleek black helmet, its lines discreet, so much like an ordinary motorcycle visor that in another time it might have gone unnoticed in the mess of the room. But this was no common accessory. This was the console.
The Awakening of the Black Tower.
His fingers brushed slowly across its surface, feeling the chill of the material against the heat of his nervous skin. Beneath its light frame lay the technology that had changed the world: direct connections to the human brain, capable of perfectly replicating every sense. Sight, touch, hearing, smell, taste—all carried flawlessly into the game as if it were reality itself. There was no difference, no veil separating the two worlds.
Alessio's gaze swept the room as though it were the last time he would see it clearly. Every detail etched into memory: the neglected piles of law books, the old monitor resting in silence, the clothes abandoned on a fragile chair that creaked with every shift. It felt like a stage moments away from becoming nothing but memory.
He had done everything he could.His body, once scarred by neglect and endless nights in front of glowing screens, now thrummed with discipline. Runs, workouts, pain, sweat—every muscle carved by the fury of someone who refused to repeat the same mistakes.
His mind, once reliant solely on gamer instinct, was now filled with pages upon pages of feverish notes. He had revisited every event he remembered from the Black Tower—every trap, every legacy, every defeat that had scarred him invisibly. He had gathered within himself not only the experience of a veteran player but also the cold precision of a strategist who knew the pieces before the board was even revealed.
And as if that weren't enough, he had plunged into history. Dates, battles, revolutions, heroes and villains of the past—all now woven into his mental map of the Tower. He knew each floor could be a cruel reflection of humanity, and this time, he refused to be caught off guard.
Now all of that effort converged on a single instant.
Alessio adjusted the helmet in his hands, feeling the symbolic weight it carried. His breath came heavy and steady, echoing in the silence of the room. Each heartbeat was like the tick of an invisible countdown.
Only minutes remained.
The moment of truth was close.
The old clock ticked in the stillness. 10:00 p.m. sharp.
The dry sound rang like a verdict. The moment he had waited for with relentless discipline had finally arrived.
With slow, almost ceremonial movements, Alessio lifted the black helmet—the console of The Awakening of the Black Tower. Its surface briefly caught the dim glow of the lamp, shimmering like liquid glass. He inhaled deeply, lungs burning under the weight of anticipation, and lowered the device over his head.
The instant it sealed shut, the real world was ripped away.
At first, there was only absolute darkness. A void so complete that even the idea of space seemed stripped from his mind. For a moment, Alessio felt bodiless—only a consciousness suspended in nothing.
Then, suddenly, the darkness shattered. A brilliant white light surged from every direction, consuming every trace of shadow until nothing remained but radiance.
When his eyes adjusted, Alessio found himself in a space he already knew. An oval chamber of uncertain dimensions, where the walls themselves were white—not painted white, but made of it. A novice might have sworn it was infinite, but he knew better. He had tested its limits in his past life, pacing every inch. It was a room. A cocoon of beginnings. The first step toward the true game.
Silence ruled there, so absolute it felt as though sound itself had been erased. Until it broke—words began to form before his eyes.
First, the title—letters vast and imposing, pulsing with an energy almost alive:
The Awakening of the Black Tower.
No epic music.No divine narrator.No flashy fanfare dressing up the moment, no seductive avatar designed to reel in novices. Unlike so many other online games that hid behind spectacle, The Awakening of the Black Tower offered no distractions.
No easy promises.No guiding hand for the first steps.No tutorials. No comfort.
The Tower did not explain.It did not ask to be understood.It simply demanded.
And that demand manifested plainly, stripped of ornament: a translucent screen rose before Alessio, floating in the white void like an invisible blade standing between will and destiny. Harsh black letters appeared at the top, slow and unyielding as if carved by decree:
"Choose your path."
There was nothing else.No hidden notes, no warnings of consequences, no explanations of risks or benefits. Only the command.
It was both invitation and sentence.An invitation to shape the future with an opening choice.A sentence, because once chosen, there was no turning back.
Alessio knew this better than anyone.
Below the words, five figures began to materialize, each wrapped in its own aura, like living statues awaiting judgment.
1. Tank
Before Alessio rose the image of a colossal warrior. A giant clad in heavy armor, its iron plates gleaming with their own stark light. In one hand, a massive shield broad as a moving wall, scarred by invisible battles. In the other, a double-edged axe, its edge pulsing with brute force.The perfect embodiment of a human bulwark—unyielding, immovable, ready to bear the fury of the world for the sake of his allies.
2. Warrior
Beside the Tank stood the figure of a fighter, less encumbered by steel. His lighter armor allowed freedom of motion. He wielded a longsword, steady and balanced, while a short spear rested strapped across his back as a secondary weapon.Muscles coiled for constant action, his stance radiating raw aggression. Unlike the Tank, he didn't defend—he struck without pause, the true terror of melee combat.
3. Archer
Ahead, a lean figure took shape, clad in reinforced leather. A short cape swayed lightly as he gripped a recurved bow, a quiver of arrows strapped across his back with metallic accents.His eyes, half-hidden beneath a hood, shone with precision and unshakable calm. The Archer existed for those who rejected close quarters, preferring to turn enemies into distant targets.Every detail spoke of versatility: light enough to dodge, far-reaching enough to punish. Master of space and timing between himself and his prey.
4. Mage
Then appeared a bent old man, his long white beard brushing against his chest. In his hands, a twisted staff crowned with crystals glowing with unstable light. Balanced on his left arm floated an open grimoire, its pages turning as though written by invisible fire.The very air around him wavered with unstable energy. The Mage was devastation incarnate, a wielder of power that could plunge the battlefield into chaos. Fragile in body, overwhelming in destruction.
5. Healer
Last came a figure draped in white robes embroidered with golden symbols that seemed to shine of their own accord. In his hands there was no sword, no staff—only a heavy necklace of prayer beads, thick cords binding spherical stones, an instrument of devotion.His gaze was calm, almost compassionate, and a golden aura radiated around him, emanating warmth and safety. The Healer was pure support, the one capable of holding an entire group together when destruction closed in. Not the protector of the frontlines, but of life itself.
Alessio studied each class carefully. He knew them inside out—every strength, every limitation, every hidden secret that only ten years of experience could reveal.
And yet, even with that knowledge, he felt the weight of the moment press down on him as though it truly were the first time.