From the perspective of Alessio Leone
The creak of the wooden cover echoed like a verdict, drowned in the putrid stench rising from the hole below. The air seemed alive, heavy with damp and rust, as if every particle was warning him this was no place meant for men to breathe. Alessio adjusted the shield on his left arm, felt the weight of the rusty axe in his right hand, and began descending the makeshift ladder step by step, until the moonlight faded behind him and darkness claimed its place.
The sewer didn't greet him with blades, as any novice might expect. There was no ambush, no sudden strike. Instead, only the damp silence of a long, narrow tunnel, dimly lit by torches jammed into cracks in the stone walls. The floor was coated with a thin film of murky water, reflecting the trembling orange of the flames.
And then, from the distance, came something unexpected.
Music.
A muffled rhythm of crude drums and badly tuned strings, mixed with hoarse laughter and voices raised in dissonant chorus. The echoes seeped through the tunnel walls like the mockery of a festival in the middle of filth. The hosts weren't on guard. They were celebrating.
"A poor choice of timing for them. Better for me."
Alessio was in no rush. His steps were slow, calculated, his weight distributed to avoid unnecessary noise. Every splash beneath his boots was measured like an argument in court: not too much, not too little, just enough to move forward.
The tunnel stretched on to an uneven crack ahead, a crude opening leaking brighter light and the growing pulse of music. As he approached, Alessio leaned forward, peering inside.
And then he saw.
It wasn't an ordinary sewer anymore, but a brutal adaptation: a hall carved into damp stone with crude tools, reinforced by rotting beams that groaned with each beat of the drum. The ceiling sagged in places, forcing the taller men to stoop, and the walls oozed mold like festering wounds.
In the center, three girls were tied to wooden chairs, thick ropes cutting into their wrists and ankles. Their hair was disheveled, their clothes torn just enough to hint at the violence looming over them—just as the game's grim design intended. They were still alive, still conscious, and at a glance, nothing "irreversible" had yet been done.
But Alessio could read beyond the surface. Had this been in a city patrolled by guards, such a scene would never exist. In those areas, the Tower mimicked an idealized world: soldiers enforcing order, clean streets, safe taverns—pleasant enough for even a child to walk unscarred.
Here, though, was the underworld.
The sewers had no guards, no rules. It was where the Tower deliberately loosened the reins. And, as in the real world, where there is no oversight, the ugliest sides of humanity emerge.
The girls were still clothed and breathing, but Alessio knew how quickly it could turn. Months later, when the forums began unveiling the Tower's darker side, players would find captives in places like this who weren't so fortunate.
That contrast sickened him.
"Even in this, the developers were cruel… as if reality itself wasn't ugly enough."
Alessio's heart tightened—not from shock, for he had seen worse both inside and outside the Tower, but from contempt. Misery in reality wasn't enough; it had to be replicated here, by deliberate, cold design. A choice that spoke volumes about the minds that built this world.
The Tower was law. And its rules were absolute.
And whether he disagreed, whether he despised it, Alessio could do nothing about it.
That was the Tower's lesson: you may choose to ignore the darkness, but if you face it, there will be no filter to shield you.
Reality is reality. Nothing more.
On the far side of the hall, a gang of ragged men crowded around a makeshift table. Twenty in all. Some raised iron mugs, toasting some unknown triumph; others clapped in time with the discordant music, laughing, spitting on the ground as if they were kings in the mire.
Alessio's presence was noticed only when he stepped further in, leaving the doorway behind. Torchlight revealed the wall of his cracked shield, the faint gleam of his axe beneath the flames. Silence rippled outward: first the musicians, then the drinkers, then even those clutching the chains bound to the girls.
Every hostile eye turned toward him.
"Bastard…" snarled the first, a man with a scar on his chin. "You dare intrude on the Sewer Rats' den?"
"Lost your fear of dying, is that it?" another jeered, raising a short blade.
"Cut him to pieces!" shouted a third, and the hall erupted in threats.
The voices overlapped, scripted by the system—a storm of insults meant to send any novice's heart racing. To Alessio, it was just background noise.
The twenty gang members spread out, forming a jagged ring of armed bodies. Short blades, hatchets, rusted chains. Some weapons gleamed with a slick green liquid, dripping down to the floor. Poison. Alessio recognized it instantly.
He knew the trick well. In his last life, he had lost count of how many players—often stronger than their enemies—had fallen to nothing more than sewer poison. It ate away at vitality slowly, and by the time novices realized it, it was far too late.
He only adjusted his shield.
The hall itself seemed to hold its breath, thick with the reek of sweat, alcohol, and corroded iron. Hungry eyes narrowed, savoring the anticipation of slaughter.
But Alessio felt no fear.
Here, in the filthy heart of the underworld, it was time to show what a veteran with ten years in the Dark Tower could do.