From Alessio Leone's Perspective
And then there were the items.
For many newcomers, the first disappointment came the moment they opened the equipment panel. Only four slots:
Armor
Head
Weapon
Variable
No infinite inventory. No gloves, boots, rings, or necklaces. Compared to other games, it looked poor, almost insulting. Players used to equipping ten magic rings, two gleaming necklaces, and every individual piece of armor—boots, gloves, pauldrons, belts—felt cheated. Some even grumbled out loud at the spawn point, asking if this was some kind of incomplete beta version.
But Alessio only smiled.
Veterans of The Awakening of the Black Tower knew the truth: having only four items was a blessing.
The reason was always the same. The same logic that governed the Tower's cruel design.Items were rare. Extremely rare.
Beginner Tanks received the standard set: rusted axe, cracked wooden shield, beaten leather armor, and an uncovered head. Enough to cut, defend, and keep weak fangs from tearing into flesh. Nothing more. In any other MMO, such gear would be treated as scrap. Here, they were the bedrock of survival for most players, often for an indefinite stretch of time.
There were no shortcuts.No easy drops.
Above those common items stood the real hierarchy:
Rare Items
Epic Items
Legendary Items
Mythical Items
Finding a rare item was reason enough for celebration.Epics became stories entire guilds were built on.Legendaries were legends in truth.And Mythicals… most players lived their whole lives without ever laying eyes on one.
Alessio remembered it well: in his past life, the official forums had exploded the day someone obtained the first epic weapon. It had taken years of insane dedication, risky raids, and outrageous luck. The news spread like a world headline.
And then there was the curse of durability.
In the Black Tower, items didn't drop from your corpse when you died. That was the merciful part. But with every death, durability plummeted. And when it hit zero, there was no fixing it—no forge, no blacksmith could restore it.The item was gone forever.
That detail made every piece of gear almost sacred.They weren't just numbers on a screen.They were part of the player's identity.
Alessio drew a deep breath, the cracked shield heavy on his left arm, as though he carried not wood, but the echo of a thousand battles yet to come. The game made it clear from the start: there was no luxury here. Only survival.
And in this world, even the simplest shield could hold immeasurable value.
Shields.
They weren't just slabs of wood or iron. They were symbols. The exclusive mark of an entire class.
In the Black Tower, each archetype carried a unique slot, one that defined its identity. For Tanks, that slot was the shield. Whether it was cracked wood, reinforced iron, or mythical as the walls of ancient legends—it was always there, strapped to the arm, as inseparable as the heart beating in one's chest. Beside it, a primary weapon: axe, shortsword, mace. The bastion's perfect duality—strike and defend.
Warriors, on the other hand, received a second weapon slot. That simple difference shaped entire destinies. From it came the dual-sword duelists, the dagger-wielding assassins, the gladiators who turned their bodies into whirlwinds of blades. But there was a price. Two weapons meant nothing without true skill. Reflexes, precision, calculation. Those who thought it was just about "clicking" quickly learned the Tower didn't forgive. Two mistakes meant two lost blades, two openings for death. That was why many warriors preferred more pragmatic setups: one melee weapon and one ranged. A sword for direct combat, a hand axe or short spear to punish distant foes.
Archers had their own poisoned gift: the cloak. Alongside their bow or crossbow, this special item wasn't mere decoration. It was a second skin—amplifying stealth, muffling sound, distorting silhouettes in the half-light. In theory, just fabric. In practice, the line between hunter and prey. Alessio remembered how many archers in his past life had dismissed this detail, donning any cheap rag. The result: exposed in the first ambush, dead before loosing a second arrow.
Mages carried a different burden. Along with the staff—their primary channel of energy—they had the grimoire. A living book, not only storing spells but accelerating casting, refining the invisible calculations behind every incantation. The staff was the arm that cast. The grimoire, the mind that shaped. Take one away, and it was like asking a lawyer to argue without laws or an engineer to build without math.
And Clerics—or Healers, as most called them—received what many MMO players sorely missed: a ring and necklace. But in the Tower, these weren't cosmetic luxuries. They were sacred circuits. Every stone set into a ring, every rune etched into a necklace, amplified the bond between healer and their restorative magic. They weren't "accessories"—they were vital tools, capable of prolonging life at the brink or saving entire groups from extinction.
As for Armor and Helmets, in theory they were universal. In theory. In practice, each piece was locked to class. The heavy carapace of a Tank could never be worn by a Warrior. A Mage's enchanted robe would be useless in a Cleric's hands. A Marksman's light leather wouldn't shield a Tank for even a second. The Tower was built to deny improvisation. Every class had its uniform, its skin, its fate.
Alessio ran his hand across the cracked shield he carried. In the real world, it would be nothing but second-rate wood. Here, it was his mark of identity. His reminder. A Tank without a shield was nothing but a failed warrior. But a Tank with a shield—even a broken one—carried the promise of turning battlefield chaos into teamwork's order.
He knew this better than anyone.
After a few more seconds studying his own profile, Alessio closed the translucent window with a simple mental command. The letters vanished before his eyes as though they'd never existed—but the numbers stayed etched in his mind. Every value, every detail, every advantage compared to his past life.
He took a deep breath, adjusted the cracked shield against his arm, and finally took his first step.
But he didn't follow the crowd.
The city gates were clogged with players shoving to reach the nearby forest, where the first creatures roamed in packs. Boars, wolves, small goblins—fought over like treasure, each one promising the illusion of progress. Shouts tangled in frenzy: hastily given orders, calls to form groups, squabbles over stolen kills.
Alessio didn't even glance their way.
The marketplaces, too, buzzed with lively voices. NPCs offered cheap weapons, simple fetch quests, meager copper rewards. To beginners, it seemed a goldmine of opportunities. To Alessio, it was just noise. He remembered every one of those tasks by heart—crumbs meant to distract the impatient.
His steps carried him elsewhere.
Far from the bustle, far from the noise, he crossed side streets until the scenery shifted. Stone houses gave way to wooden shacks, flimsy walls nailed together from warped planks, roofs patched with straw and rusted iron. The smell of fresh bread and forged iron gave way to the smoke of half-dead fires, mixed with the bitter reek of cheap liquor. Barefoot NPC children ran laughing through narrow alleys, while ragged adults crowded doorways and stairwells, their eyes empty or suspicious.
There lay the true face of Eldenwall.The city's slum.
To a novice, this place was nothing but forgotten scenery, built to add "realism" to the game. A zone with no monsters to hunt, no clear quests to pursue. Most players never wasted time exploring its alleys.
But for Alessio Leone—a veteran who had lived a decade inside the Black Tower—this was where everything began.