From the perspective of Alessio Leone
Alessio simply stood still and waited for the gang to attack.
Another player, in his place, might have chosen differently.
A Warrior, for instance, could have used the enemies' distraction to advance in silence, waiting for the perfect moment to slit throats with surgical speed. A Marksman, hidden in the tunnel's shadows, might have loosed a precise arrow, taking out the leader before the gang even knew he was there. Even a Mage, with his feverish calculations, could have conjured a controlled blast, knocking down half a dozen foes before the music stopped.
But Alessio was none of them.
He was a Tank.
And the uncomfortable truth was that, for a Tank, stealth was a joke. The very existence of his class was a declaration against silence. The shield on his left arm was a walking wall, and even the basic plates of his starter armor clinked with every step. Sneaking into a hall like this was impossible. Even if they were drunk, even if half their backs were turned, the moment Alessio crossed the threshold, even a deaf man would notice.
A Tank does not hide.
A Tank confronts.
And that was exactly what Alessio would do.
The gang members, realizing the intrusion, didn't rush immediately. There was a moment of hesitation, like beasts sniffing at their prey before lunging. The first wave of insults gave way to heavy footsteps and raised blades. The circle closed in—twenty ragged bodies trying to surround him from every angle.
It was a simple strategy, but riddled with flaws. They had to be careful not to hit each other. Chains could tangle around their own legs, blades could clip the wrong shoulders. The chaos of many against one demanded discipline—and discipline was exactly what drunken thugs lacked.
Alessio, on the other hand, had no such concern. His axe didn't ask questions. His shield didn't care who stood near or far. His role was to compress chaos into himself, to turn the enemy's line into confusion. And he would do it coldly.
The first to rush him came head-on—a scrawny man with bulging eyes and a short dagger. The strike came in a diagonal slash, aimed for Alessio's neck. Any novice would have stepped back—but Alessio raised his axe in an upward arc. Metal met metal midair, and at the moment of impact, the blade's edge flared red.
The shock thundered through the thug's arm. The dagger flew loose, but it was the man's hand that paid the price. His fingers spasmed open, numb, unable to grip the hilt. The dagger clattered to the floor, and the thug stumbled back, groaning as if he'd struck a wall of iron.
Another came from the left, swinging a curved hatchet. Faster, yes, but predictable. Alessio turned, and his cracked shield slammed forward like a battering ram. It wasn't defense—it was assault. The blow struck the man square in the chest, launching him several meters back. Air burst from his lungs in a muffled cry before he crashed unconscious into a stack of barrels.
Two down.
But a third shadow was already moving.
Behind him, a figure darted forward, aiming a dagger at his exposed back. For an ordinary Tank, that would've been the end. But Alessio was no ordinary Tank. His body shifted subtly—just enough. Instead of dodging outright, he angled his shoulder, guiding the strike straight into his metal bracer.
Steel met steel.
The impact sparked briefly, the bracer swallowing the blow. The blade rebounded, trembling in the attacker's grip, forcing him to recoil. Alessio turned his head, meeting his eyes over his shoulder—amber, hardened, unflinching.
"Wrong target."
What Alessio was using wasn't improvisation. These were his Tank class skills—the four starting techniques every player received when choosing their class. Warriors, Marksmen, and Tanks all got four. Spellcasters—Mages and Healers—were granted five, to make up for their useless fists.
The logic was simple, almost bureaucratic:
Combat classes: 4 fixed skills. Pure caster classes: 5 fixed skills.
Permanent. It didn't matter how the class evolved, what path it transformed into later—those first moves remained part of the player's body. Later evolutions brought more skills—four or five depending on the archetype—but the initial ones… they stayed forever.
For novices, these techniques were little more than tutorial shortcuts. The system showed a hologram, prompting players to mimic basic motions: raise the shield, swing an arc, block with the guard, charge forward. Mechanical repetition, no thought. Like pressing a button and watching a canned animation.
But Alessio wasn't a novice.
These four skills had stayed with him for over ten years. He didn't just execute them—he interpreted them. He knew every micro-adjustment, every angle variation, every fraction of a second when activation time could be stretched beyond the code's limit. A novice used the skills like a tutorial. Alessio wielded them as extensions of himself.
He could trigger them at any point. As simple as that.
And that made all the difference.
The fourth attacker lunged from the side, aiming for the gap between shield and neck. A sharp dagger sliced through the air, aiming straight for his jugular. Far too fast for a beginner to react.
But Alessio wasn't a beginner.
He turned at the exact moment. No rush, no wasted motion. Just the precise shift that turned a perfect strike into empty air. The dagger cut nothing but wind.
In the same spin, his axe rose in a broad arc, falling with the weight of gravity and the practiced force of a man who had executed the move thousands of times. The blade met flesh.
The impact was blunt, merciless.
The edge carved through the thug's neck like a knife through soaked cloth. A brief crack, then a hot spray painting the floor crimson. The head rolled free, tumbling a few meters before stopping against the stone wall.
For a moment, the hall was silent.
The jeers and laughter died to nothing. The thugs' eyes, once filled with mockery and the smug certainty of numbers, now showed something else: fear.
Two steps back.
Almost in unison, as if instinct itself had screamed at them.
They weren't facing prey.
They were facing something else.
A machine of steel and blood.
Alessio stood firm, shield steady, axe dripping red. His hardened amber eyes swept over the next enemies, and the message was clear: the fight had changed.