Perspective: Alessio Leone
Black magic.
Among all the disciplines known within the Black Tower, it was the most feared — and, paradoxically, the most studied.
A vast, deep field with almost no boundaries.
Those who chose this path were not mere spellcasters — they were scholars of what the world itself sought to forget.
The branches of black magic were countless.
Some specialized in Curses, able to rot body and mind within seconds.
Others mastered the Arts of Corruption, bending emotions and will until allies turned into puppets.
There were practitioners of Dark Evocation, who summoned entities from the Void — creatures without fixed form, only intent.
And, of course, the Blood Mages, who traded flesh and vitality for power, shaping blood and soul as raw materials.
But the being standing before Alessio — the Lich of the Green Moon — belonged to another category entirely.
One of the rare Masters of Necromancy.
And now, he was showing exactly why he bore that title.
The air grew heavy.
A wet, muffled sound began echoing through the chamber walls — a sticky noise, like bubbling mud.
From the floor, from the corners, from the shadows cast by the coffin, hands began to emerge.
Human hands.
Rotting flesh. Exposed bone.
Within seconds, dozens of them.
Fingers clawed against stone, dragging entire bodies upward — each one still wearing fragments of ancient military armor: corroded plates, shredded cloaks, rusted medallions.
Their eyes, dull and lifeless, moved in trembling obedience.
Zombies.
An entire army of them.
And Alessio understood at once where they came from.
Every corpse was soaked in a thick, red liquid that dripped to the floor, forming small pools beneath them.
The metallic, sweet scent left no doubt.
Blood.
He had seen it before — in the previous hall, near the statue, where four great pools lined the chamber's edges.
At the time, he'd thought they were mere decoration, some grotesque part of the scenery or a ritual mechanism.
Now, he realized his mistake.
The Lich had used those pools as storage tanks — enchanted reservoirs of blood.
An entire army suspended in crimson slumber, waiting for a single command.
And now, that command had been given.
One by one, the bodies rose.
Bones creaked, dried muscles snapped back into place.
Their mouths opened in hoarse moans, the collective noise like a choir of corpses trying to remember how to breathe.
The entire hall trembled.
The Lich watched in silence from before the throne, red eyes burning with satisfaction.
Every movement of the dead answered his will — like extensions of his thoughts.
It was necromancy in its purest form: absolute dominion over the line between life and death.
But Alessio didn't move.
The shield on his left arm, the axe in his right — his stance was that of a man who didn't see danger, but routine.
His gaze tracked each enemy with calculated precision — assessing weight, reach, and timing.
Zombies.
Slow.
Clumsy.
Uncoordinated.
A small smile formed beneath his helmet.
"So that's it, huh…?" he murmured. "You brought your army here to be slaughtered."
It was true that the odds were against him.
But fighting multiple enemies was exactly the kind of situation Alessio had been built for.
He was a Tank — the wall that never falls.
And now, more than ever, the Lion's Blood roared within him, pulsing with the promise of battle.
The Lich raised his right arm, and a line of green energy sliced through the air like lightning.
The dead groaned in unison, jaws stretching in a voiceless roar.
And then, they charged.
The ground shook.
The stench of decay flooded the hall.
But Alessio was already moving.
The first step thundered.
The second, roared.
The shield came up — the axe came down.
And the roar of the Lion echoed once more through the Black Tower.
With Freya and the cubs not far away, Alessio felt his essence surge in full force.
It was almost tangible — a steady heat beneath his skin, as though the very air responded to him.
The system acknowledged it without needing words.
The passive effect of Lion's Blood was fully active.
The simple presence of those he protected turned his vitality into something monstrous.
From twenty-eight points, it had soared to an absurd eighty-four.
And if he chose to activate his class skill — Bastion — the multiplication would become outright insane.
Four hundred and twenty vitality points.
A number so high that, to any other player, it would look like a glitch.
But it wasn't.
It was the natural result of an essence built for one purpose only: to never fall.
That was why, even faced with overwhelming odds, Alessio felt no fear.
The undead army now filled nearly the entire hall — bodies staggering forward, bones grinding, wet flesh dragging across the blood-soaked floor.
But to him, it was all just noise.
His breathing stayed calm, measured.
His eyes, sharp and unwavering.
He knew exactly what awaited him — and even more, what he wanted.
If he stood completely still, letting the undead strike freely, it would take them dozens of minutes to bring him down.
But standing still had never been his style.
He wasn't the kind of Tank who waited for enemies to reach him.
He was the kind who carved his own path through them.
The shield rose.
The axe gleamed under the eerie green light of necromantic flames.
And then, he advanced.
The first impact came head-on — a zombie in tattered armor, sword raised, hollow eyes fixed on him.
Alessio deflected the blow with his shield, pivoted, and struck back with a horizontal swing.
The blade cleaved through the corpse's torso like rotten paper.
The upper half hit the ground, still trying to crawl.
The second came right after, but Alessio's arm was already in motion.
The axe rose and fell in a perfect arc, crushing the creature's skull — spraying dried blood and bone shards through the air.
The third didn't even make it close — crushed beneath the weight of Alessio's shield, slammed forward like a battering ram.
That was how he fought.
Step by step, strike by strike.
Each movement deliberate, efficient.
No wasted energy.
No unnecessary flourish.
A true Tank didn't win through speed — but through persistence.
And he advanced.
Slowly — but relentlessly.
With every meter, more bodies fell.
The rhythm of battle grew steady, a cadence of metal, bone, and roar.
Blood slicked the floor, and Alessio's boots left red prints with each step.
From the far end of the hall, the Lich of the Green Moon watched.
Still.
Leaning against his coffin, red eyes glimmering with predatory amusement.
His long fingers traced subtle gestures, guiding the undead like a conductor leading a symphony of corpses.
And yet, he didn't look concerned.
Only… intrigued.
Perhaps he was gauging his intruder.
Or perhaps, simply enjoying the spectacle.
Alessio didn't care.
To him, every step toward the Lich was a promise — and every corpse that fell, an investment.
He'd already cleared this chamber once before, but this was different.
In the Tower, bosses always dropped something upon death.
And the stronger the boss…
The greater the reward.
The Lich of the Green Moon was no ordinary foe.
He was one of the legendary monsters of the Tower's second generation —
one of the few recognized as a High-Class Boss.
Defeating him wouldn't just be a victory.
It would be redemption.
And as blood dripped from the edge of his axe, Alessio couldn't help but smile beneath his helmet.
He had no idea what that Lich might drop —
but he was more than willing to find out.
The roar that burst from his throat was not human.
It was thunder —
a call to war.