Eleanor Whitmore's Perspective
Eleanor had played many games in her life.
From console classics to full-screen MMOs. But now she knew with absolute clarity: nothing—absolutely nothing—could compare to the Black Tower.
A game where the player controlled the character as if it were their own body… that changed everything.
It was more than pressing buttons.
More than managing cooldowns on a skill bar.
Here, reflexes were real.
Strength was real.
Mental endurance was real.
And before her eyes fought the first Tank she had encountered since entering the Tower.
Aslan.
That alone wasn't surprising.
Tanks and healers had always been rare.
It didn't matter the game, it didn't matter the era.
Most players wanted the thrill of dealing damage, the shine of spells, the impact of devastating blows.
Few were content with protecting. Few accepted being the invisible foundation of a group.
But Eleanor wasn't naïve enough to think the scene before her was just the reflection of a different class.
If every Tank could do what Aslan was doing just because of his class, then everyone would play a Tank.
Aslan wasn't just fighting a sub-boss.
He was fighting the sub-boss while also dodging goblins trying to flank him, cutting them down mid-motion, without losing pace in the main duel.
That couldn't be explained simply by "being a Tank."
Not in a game as well-balanced as the Black Tower had proven to be these past days.
If it were only the class, any Tank could replicate it.
But she knew: it was simply impossible.
There was something more.
Something in the player himself.
Eleanor didn't know exactly what it was yet—instinct, technique, experience, maybe even something beyond the Tower's usual rules—but she was certain: Aslan wasn't just another player.
And inside her, a restless, almost visceral need grew to discover what it was.
But at the moment, she couldn't afford to devote all her attention to him.
Not when her allies were on the brink of collapse.
Chaos spread across the chamber like fire through dry straw.
The holes in the walls vomited goblins in endless waves.
The wall of earth raised by the mages served as an improvised defense, but that's all it was—improvised.
The creatures hammered against the stone with animal fury, and the threatening cracks of the structure beginning to give way could already be heard.
Cassandra sweated, her face twisted in frustration as she tried to cast offensive and defensive spells at the same time, torn between the desire to deal damage and the obligation to protect.
Matteo, on the other hand, seemed lost in his own calculations, summoning and dismissing spells—she quickly realized the truth: he was completely terrified.
If not for Hana, the situation would have already become unsustainable.
The archer darted through the hall like a moving shadow, arrow after arrow, each shot precise.
She didn't stop for a single second—every shot was followed by a dodge, a leap, a spin that saved her from enemy blades.
It was a spectacle of discipline and focus.
And still, even Hana couldn't hold out alone forever.
Eleanor took a deep breath, clutching the necklace against her chest.
Her healing spells still sustained Aslan, but she was starting to realize that wasn't enough anymore.
The group was crumbling.
It was time for her to push herself harder too.
Clerics might not be the most glamorous class.
They didn't hurl colossal fireballs or cleave through enemies with blades taller than a man.
But in Eleanor's opinion, they had always been the most complete.
And the Black Tower kept that tradition.
She wielded three essential support skills:
Healing Dew, a long-range spell, fast, but with light recovery—good for keeping an ally standing from a distance.
Vital Touch, a contact-based cast that required proximity, but could restore severe wounds in remarkable fashion.
Aurora's Blessing, the most unique among her spells: a blessing that restored mana to the target, but not to herself. A divine gift that could only be granted to others.
Those were the three pillars of her role, her basic Cleric routine.
But at that moment, Eleanor wasn't relying on them.
She raised the hand bearing her ring and called upon one of the two lesser-remembered abilities of her class.
A shield formed around her, Matteo, and Cassandra—Shadow Veil, a translucent barrier, faintly bluish, trembling like liquid glass under pressure.
Fragile, yes.
It probably wouldn't withstand half a dozen direct blows from the raging goblins.
But it didn't need to last long.
It only needed to buy them a window of time.
And Eleanor intended to make full use of it.
Her next step was to unleash the spell few remembered belonged to Clerics: Sacred Flame.
It wasn't comparable to a fireball.
It didn't cover a wide area, didn't devastate entire ranks of enemies.
But it had one peculiarity that made it lethal in its own way: divine fire didn't go out easily.
The first burst pierced the chest of a goblin climbing the side of the earth wall.
The creature fell, rolling, thrashing, but the flame kept consuming its flesh.
Another strike ignited a second goblin, and soon the hall was filled with desperate shrieks, the monsters futilely trying to smother flames that burned like celestial judgment.
Eleanor drew a deep breath.
Casting heals already required focus.
Maintaining shields and unleashing divine fire at the same time was almost suicidal.
Even more so when she still had to keep constant attention on the Tank.
But strangely, she felt like she could.
As if something within her had been born for this balance, to be the thread tying together all the loose ends of a group.
And thankfully, her ally on the front line was reliable.
The moment she began her action, Aslan activated his own survival skill.
His body glowed bright red, and Eleanor could see his vitality surge.
She allowed herself a faint smile, still keeping her eyes sharp.
It truly was good to have reliable allies.