From the perspective of Alessio Leone
The silence still lingered in the hall, heavy, steeped in the smell of fresh iron dripping from Alessio's axe. The decapitated body lay sprawled on the floor, while the head, resting motionless against the wall, seemed to watch the scene with empty eyes. To a novice, it might have looked like nothing more than brutality, a lucky accident from a well-placed strike.
But Alessio knew better.
The Black Tower's combat system was, on the surface, simple. No colored bars, no numbers flashing above heads, no indicators screaming "+50 critical damage!" An attack was just that—an attack. The hidden calculation was cold, but logical.
Strength caused damage. Vitality sustained life.
That was the equation.
A plain strike, with no ability triggered, reflected only the character's raw strength stat. A Tank like Alessio, even at level 1, carried 8 points of strength—added to the weight of his axe, the angle, and the point of impact. The system didn't need tutorials or spreadsheets to explain. It simply applied the rule: strength meets body, and the body resists—or it doesn't.
But there was more.
The outcome didn't depend only on the attacker's strength. It depended on where the blade landed. The same blow against an arm might tear muscle and leave the target limping, but it wouldn't be fatal. Against the torso, it might crack ribs, but the victim could still fight for a few moments. Against the neck, however… there was no defense strong enough. At that point, strength was amplified. The blade didn't just wound—it severed.
That was what had just happened.
A common axe, with no skill attached, had ripped through the throat and separated head from body. The sight might seem grotesque, bloody—but to Alessio, it was simply the Tower's logic made plain. It didn't matter whether it was a sharp blade or a heavy hammer. A clean strike to the neck was devastating. The only difference was aesthetic: the axe spilled blood, while the hammer would have crushed the trachea and snapped the spine with a dry crack.
The rule was simple:
Lethal points dealt more damage.
Common points dealt less.
And of course, there was Vitality.
In the Tower, there were no health bars. Players didn't watch a gauge drop with every hit. There was no comfort of numbers to predict how much was left. There was only reality: pain, fatigue, physical resistance. And behind it, the hidden stat of Vitality.
If the applied strength exceeded the accumulated vitality, the strike was lethal.If not, even the sharpest blade against the neck would result in only a deep gash—incapable of killing, but enough to maim.
That was the beauty and cruelty of the Tower. The lack of visible bars or indicators made every fight feel real—but only those who understood the hidden gears could truly read the outcome.
Novices would scream at the sight of a pierced arm, thinking the enemy had "almost died." Alessio knew better: that was just high Vitality holding the body up.
Which was why the strike he had just delivered didn't surprise him. To anyone else, it would look like luck. To Alessio, it was just statistics. A simple calculation: sufficient strength, a lethal point, insufficient vitality. The logical outcome was decapitation.
He lifted the axe, still dripping red, and fixed his eyes on the next enemies. Their retreat said everything.
Alessio smiled. His honey-colored eyes, hard as steel, reflected the hesitation of foes who instinctively stepped back after watching a head roll across the floor.They wouldn't come to him on their own.So he would make them.
He filled his lungs, and the heavy silence of the hall was torn apart by a primal sound.
A roar.
It wasn't just a man's voice. It was the bellow of a beast, deep and grave, echoing against the damp stone walls like swallowed thunder in the underworld. It was the Tank's first ability in action:
[War Cry]
The vibration was almost physical. Even the torches flickered, as if the air itself had bent to it. The effect was simple to describe but impossible to ignore: the roar dragged all attention to him—monsters, NPCs, even players. The aggro was his.
Of course, Alessio knew its flaws well. It was powerful, but with far too long a cooldown: a full thirty seconds. In real combat, that was an eternity. Beyond that, it wasn't absolute. As a mental-type skill, its effect depended on a stat clash: the Tank's Intelligence multiplied, compared against the target's.
In Alessio's case, his meager 2 points of Intelligence were multiplied by 5. The result was a barrier of 10 points—enough to crush simple minds. Against a true Mage, it would be useless. But against the Sewer Rats, even at level 10, the mental victory was inevitable.
The effect was immediate.
Fearful looks turned into blind rage. The gang surged forward, stripped of coordination, stripped of strategy. The roar had erased caution from their minds, replacing it with the irrational need to crush the man with the shield.
Perfect.
It was Alessio's time to shine.
The first five came charging from the front, brandishing blades, chains, even makeshift clubs. Alessio did not retreat. His cracked shield rose like a wall, and with a sharp movement, he hurled his full weight forward.
[Shield Bash]
The impact thundered through the hall. The shield flared red for an instant, the skill's energy amplifying his strength fivefold. The effect was brutal: if the enemy's strength was lower than his, they were hurled back and stunned for a few seconds—a physical taunt that wrenched screams of pain from their throats.
And that was exactly what happened.
The five who dared to face the wall were thrown back like rag dolls. Two crashed into the feast table, scattering mugs and scraps of food across the floor. A third slammed against the wall, the air driven from his lungs in a guttural thud. Two more simply collapsed on the ground, eyes rolling back, unconscious before they even understood what had happened.
Had it been just one target, Alessio knew the result could have been worse. A complete blackout. Perhaps even death, depending on the gap in strength. But the impact had been split across five bodies, and so none of them died. Still, they were out of the fight.
He drew a deep breath, shield still raised. He wished he could repeat the move until all twenty were crushed, but the Tower's reality was cruel: as devastating as it was, the ability required twenty seconds to recharge. Another eternity.
What mattered was that his front was cleared.
Without sparing another glance, Alessio pivoted, turning toward the shadows behind him. The roar still rang in the Rats' ears, and more enemies closed in from every side. His axe dripped fresh blood, and his hardened eyes spoke a single, silent message:
Now it's your turn.