From Alessio Leone's Perspective
The five figures still stood motionless before him, each pulsing with the promise of a different future. The white of the oval chamber reflected off their armor, fabrics, and symbols, as if the entire space had been built to amplify the weight of the decision.
Alessio's eyes drifted over them one last time. There was no rush, yet there was no infinite time either. He understood the importance of this moment.
And deep down, it wasn't really a question. It was a ghost.
From the very start of his gamer life, in every title that demanded a group, in every raid that required discipline, Alessio had always been the same: the Tank.The shield, the wall, the bulwark that stood between chaos and his allies.It was him who bore the monsters' fury, him who dictated the rhythm of battle, him who raised the line that could not break.
So it had been in his past life.So it had been in The Awakening of the Black Tower.And so it had been, painfully, in that final moment when the companions who should have stood by him drove blades and spells into his back.
The memory seared like iron against flesh.It wasn't the class that had betrayed him. It was people.Comrades of years—who had shared victories, defeats, hardships, and glory—had all turned away for the sake of a single legacy item. The memory of hot blood running, of pain not only physical but moral, made his throat tighten.
And there lay the dilemma—or rather, the temptation.If he chose Warrior, it could all be different.A fast, agile, lethal fighter. No responsibility to carry anyone. No burden of protection—just the blade pointed at the enemy.More than that: a Warrior could follow future paths that made him stealthy, independent, nearly impossible to betray. Alone, he would be a hunter—not prey.
For a moment, Alessio closed his eyes. He imagined himself wielding a sword, free of the shield's weight, advancing with steady, merciless steps. A version of himself that no longer cared about loyalty, who trusted no one but his own blade.A version who would never allow that betrayal to repeat.
His heart raced, his fingers trembled. The temptation was real.But… it wasn't him.
The thought struck with the clarity of a verdict.Abandoning the shield would be surrender—not to the game, but to fear itself. And fear did not dictate his choices.
He had dedicated six months to this moment. He had trained his body to exhaustion, studied every historical event, reviewed every detail of the Black Tower. His plan wasn't born of whim, but of strategy. And the strategy demanded he remain true to what he had always been.
Alessio let out a long breath. The sound echoed in the white void, breaking the rigidity of the moment. Then, he opened his eyes and raised his hand.Without hesitation, without looking back, his fingers came down like a hammer on fate.
The translucent screen acknowledged his touch. The colossal figure of the Tank, shield and axe in hand, flared with light, as if accepting his oath.
In the end, there was no other path.Alessio Leone had always been—and always would be—a natural defender, walking what he called:
The elegant path of a Tank.
The black letters still floated on the translucent screen when Alessio's mind shifted back to the broader panorama—not to fear, but to the meta. From the release of The Awakening of the Black Tower, the popularity charts had always showcased the same trio: Warrior, Archer, Mage. Predictable. Almost no one was satisfied playing for the team. The industry's most marketable fantasy was the "solo carry": the prodigy who soloed bosses, made highlight reels, drew envy. For that kind of player, the Tower was an elegant trap. They had chosen the wrong game.
Across the continents of the open world, guilds would grow like walled cities. Numbers meant strength: resource logistics, squads, routes, internal economies, mutual protection. Solo players would inevitably be pushed into other paths—lifestyle professions, exploration niches, occasional mercenary work. And inside the Black Tower, while there were floors designed for individual trials, the vast majority demanded groups of varied sizes. The design was crystal clear: no one climbed alone.
Thus, two classes—the least desired out of vanity, the most coveted out of necessity—became inevitable: Tank and Healer. Their scarcity was the axis of the game. Players who grew into those archetypes received offers from every side—major guilds, new teams, old alliances being rebuilt—because without them, the Tower stalled. It was a systemic bottleneck: you could improvise damage or control, but you couldn't improvise a frontline; you couldn't improvise triage under fire.
Of course, the eternal debate raged in forums, taverns, and official channels: which was more important? Alessio's opinion was unpopular—and absolute. For him, Tank was the pillar. Healers were vital, yes, but replaceable in emergencies: potions managed well, protective spells timed precisely, natural regeneration managed between encounters. Harsh? Yes. Impossible? No. Without a Tank, however, the conversation changed entirely. There was no substitute for the frontline. Without someone to anchor aggro, turn the boss, lock mechanics, and compress chaos into a controllable point, it wasn't combat—it was coordinated suicide.
Warriors and Archers could dodge and kite at the start—pure skill could buy seconds. But what about Mages? What about Healers? Without someone to bear the storm, their only option was to die with dignity. The math wasn't cruel—it was honest. That was why, when everyone else chased the spotlight, Alessio held to the architecture of victory: a team began where a Tank chose to exist.
He allowed himself a faint smile, brief as a signed verdict. A defender by nature—not from sentimentality, but from structural conviction. In a game that punished ego and rewarded design, the hardest path was also the most beautiful. And once again, he had chosen it:
the elegant path of a Tank.
The glow of confirmation still pulsed before him when the translucent panel began to shift. Lines of light rearranged, dissolving the colossal image of the Tank and summoning a new demand.
"Choose your name."
It was no trivial request, no cosmetic detail. The Tower never played with frivolities.
Unlike so many games before, The Awakening of the Black Tower did not allow changes to a character's appearance. The face shown there was the same one classmates, rivals, even strangers from real life would see. Those who wanted secrecy would have to hide behind cloaks, masks, or other tricks. Yet the body was still recognizable—posture, gestures, voice.
The name, however, was different. It would float above his head, etched into every achievement, remembered in every defeat. A name chosen here would echo across the entire journey. There was no second chance.
For veteran gamers, this step had never been an issue. They were used to living under nicknames and pseudonyms—identities forged in forums, raids, competitions. It was part of the culture: the digital mask that, over time, weighed as much as a real name.
But the Tower's fever had drawn in more than veterans. Entire populations had leapt into the digital abyss: students, workers, doctors, businesspeople, homemakers, the elderly. Millions with no gaming background sat before the console and, when the panel asked for a name, simply typed their own. Just like that, they surrendered their anonymity, condemning themselves to be recognized, hunted, even harassed inside and outside the game.
Alessio knew this. He knew it better than anyone. But for him, there was no dilemma.
His eyes fixed on the empty space before the cursor, and a faint smile curved his lips. Slowly, with the calm of someone reclaiming an old signature, his fingers began to type:
A S L A N
Letter by letter, like a silent oath.
It was the name he had carried for years, forged in tournaments, raids, forums. A name that spoke not only of strength, but of loyalty, strategy, presence. Anyone who saw that signature would know at once: Alessio Leone had returned.
He confirmed the choice.
The panel blazed, white light consumed his vision once again. And then came the familiar vertigo of crossing over.
He was back.
Back in the world of the Black Tower.Back in the battlefield that had shaped and destroyed his life.
But this time, something different burned in every fiber of his body.
He would not stop until he had conquered it completely.