From the perspective of Alessio Leone
Eight enemies lay on the ground. Seven only unconscious, dazed, or out of the fight for a while. One was dead—his head severed cleanly from his body. Twelve remained.
Twelve against one.
The math seemed impossible, but to Alessio it was just logic waiting to be applied.
They charged in unison, still maddened by the roar that had shaken them moments before. The hall filled with screams, pounding footsteps, blades raised from every side. Alessio drew a deep breath, planted his feet, and raised his shield. The move was deliberate: his stance blocked four attackers head-on and hindered four more coming in at angles. That left only four with a clear path to strike.
And he already knew how he would meet them.
Two blows were dangerous—sharp blades aimed at his abdomen and leg. His axe rose in a swift arc, deflecting both with a clash of steel. Sparks lit Alessio's hardened face. The other two strikes—poorly aimed daggers scraping at his armor—he accepted.
But not unprepared.
His whole body glowed red, as if fire had ignited in every fiber of his flesh.
[Bastion]
It was the Tank's third skill, its truest form: Vitality multiplied fivefold, for ten whole seconds. The daggers struck his torso and shoulder, but only grazed the hardened leather. The pain was real—the kind that promised bruises later—but nothing life-threatening. The calculation was clear: each misapplied strike had cost him a mere four points of damage. Nothing worth noting.
Then came the counter.
His axe glowed crimson as Alessio poured strength into the next swing.
[Power Strike]
The simplest Tank skill. Strength doubled. Nothing more. But it was enough. And with a cooldown of only two seconds, it meant uninterrupted carnage.
The first to feel it was one of the front attackers. Alessio twisted his body and brought the axe down diagonally, from shoulder to hip. The sound of impact cracked through the hall like wood splitting in half. The man dropped without a scream, his body cleaved nearly to the spine.
Before the blood even touched the ground, Alessio had already spun the axe again. Another thug raised a dagger, but the strike fell from above, crushing his arm and tearing through his chest. He staggered back with a strangled cry, which ended when Alessio ripped the weapon free without mercy.
The chains of a third enemy hissed through the air. Alessio didn't dodge—he raised his shield. The impact boomed across the hall, the links recoiled like snapping serpents, and the wielder was yanked forward. Alessio swung his axe and buried it in the man's throat.
Time seemed to slow.
Ten seconds. That was the limit of Bastion's form. Ten seconds in which he could be wall and guillotine at once. And with each heartbeat, another enemy fell.
The thugs attacked chaotically, uncoordinated. That doomed them. One tried to sneak behind, stabbing for his back. Alessio shifted just enough to catch the strike on his bracer, then countered with a short thrust, driving the axehead between his ribs. Another came screaming from the front with a makeshift club. Alessio met him with his cracked shield, sending him flying into the wall where he slumped unconscious. No skills, just strength and angle.
The blows kept coming. Axe, shield, shoulder—even knees turned into weapons. Each swing, each thrust was backed by the crimson glow of Power Strike, always off cooldown, always ready to double the damage.
One Rat tried to slip in low, a short dagger hidden in his palm. Alessio caught the glint of torchlight on steel and pivoted sharply. The shield smashed into the thug's face before he could raise his arm. The crack of a broken nose echoed loud, followed by the limp fall of his body to the floor.
Another followed, bolder. He wielded a crude short spear, hoping to keep distance. He thrust quickly, but Alessio stepped back half a pace and trapped the shaft beneath his shield. His axe flared red once more, sweeping upward in a brutal arc that split the spear in two before tearing across the man's abdomen. Blood sprayed against the wall like a wave, and the thug collapsed to his knees, eyes glazed in shock before toppling over.
The third strike came almost at the same time—a chain whipping through the air, trying to bind Alessio's arm and lock him down. He didn't resist—he let it coil around the shield and then pulled hard. The mistake was the thug's: he dragged himself closer. Alessio didn't hesitate. His knee shot upward, smashing the man's jaw with a dry crack. As the enemy reeled, stunned, Alessio's axe finished the job, cleaving down into his shoulder.
Three strikes. Three more bodies. Alessio pressed on, breathing steady, his eyes cold as though this were just another training drill—each motion precise, each execution the result of ten years of practice.
By the time Bastion's glow began to fade, the hall was transformed.
Bodies scattered across the floor, blood staining the ground, ragged breathing swallowed by silence. Of the twelve attackers, nine had fallen in less than ten seconds. Horrific wounds—split torsos, torn throats, bones crushed beneath the fury of a veteran Tank.
Only three remained. Alive, but trembling. They looked around as if they no longer recognized the hall. The madness of the roar had finally burned off. The aggro was gone.
And with clarity came horror: their comrades lying dead, unconscious, or writhing in pain. And one man standing alone at the center of the carnage, shield still raised, axe dripping blood, amber eyes lit by the reflection of crimson.
There was no more fight.
They ran. Stumbling, tripping over one another, abandoning allies without a backward glance. Fear outweighed loyalty.
Alessio didn't pursue. There was no point. They weren't the mission's goal. What demanded his focus now was not his body, but his mind.
His breathing was steady, but his head throbbed. In the Tower, Intelligence wasn't just a magic-damage stat. It was also what determined mental reserves—the invisible "mana" that powered skills. With only two points in Intelligence, Alessio already felt the edge. Each ability triggered was like a needle piercing his temples. Now, after roar, bash, bastion, and successive power strikes, the pain pounded like hammers.
In another MMO, it would be simple: no mana, just rest until the bar refilled. But here, there was no bar. There was headache. And push too far, and it meant collapse.
He exhaled, easing his shoulders. Numbers mattered too much. Stats didn't lie.
With heavy steps, he crossed the blood-soaked hall. His gaze, once fixed only on enemies, now settled on the true objective.
The three young women were still there, tied to chairs at the center. Their wide eyes reflected the massacre, their breaths shallow—but they were alive.
It was time to end the mission.