From Alessio Leone's Perspective
Alessio didn't know whether to laugh or simply watch in silence the little theater unfolding before him.
It was too ridiculous to be threatening — and too pathetic to be taken seriously.
The sound of voices echoing through the trees shattered the forest's quiet like the sputter of a dying engine.
And with just one glance, he recognized — without effort — exactly who the unwanted visitors were that Sith had sensed.
The three idiots from Durnholde's gate.
The same ones who, just hours ago, had surrounded Sith with the typical courage of cowards — the kind that only exists when you're in a group.
And the same ones he himself had personally sent back to the respawn zone with a single well-placed strike.
Hard faces to forget.
And, apparently, the feeling was mutual.
The three stopped at the front of a larger formation, glaring at him with a mix of rage and embarrassment — like men trying to hold their pride while still tasting the bitterness of humiliation.
Alessio met their gaze and saw it — that raw, childish hatred, the kind that only grows from public shame.
The kind that fuels pointless revenge.
But what truly caught his attention wasn't them.
It was the rest.
Thirty players.
Thirty.
All cut from the same filthy, unkempt mold — worn leather armor, rusted metal scraps, visible tattoos, and an attitude that dripped vulgarity.
The kind of player who didn't come to the Tower to grow — but to impose chaos.
And when Alessio noticed the symbol crudely painted on some of their shoulders — a dog's open jaw over a black circle — he understood everything.
The Fighting Dogs.
A name he'd already heard from the mouths of the three men he'd killed.
A group that had brought its own members from real life into the game, recreating inside the Tower the same criminal network they ran outside of it:
drug dealers, extortionists, and every kind of scum that used violence as their first argument.
The gang spread out in a semicircle before him, the sound of boots and blades leaving their sheaths echoing like muffled thunder.
The once-living forest air turned heavy, almost tangible.
"They're the ones! They're the ones!" shouted the first — a gaunt man with sunken eyes and a twitching face. "We finally found them!"
"Bastards!" bellowed the second, a bulky brute with a patchy beard and a common axe resting on his shoulder. "Do you have any idea how many hours we've been lost in this forest because of you?"
The third stepped forward, spitting on the ground before speaking, his hoarse voice soaked in arrogance.
"You're gonna pay for that… dying once won't be enough."
Another, farther back, lifted a short sword in challenge.
"You'll pay for crossing the Fighting Dogs!"
Laughter and shouts followed, a chaotic echo rippling through the forest and driving away even the natural sounds.
Birds fled from the treetops.
The wind stopped.
For a brief moment, the world itself seemed to hold its breath.
Alessio just watched.
Still.
Calm.
The axe's edge rested against the ground, his shield strapped to his left arm, helmet concealing any trace of expression.
Inside, his thoughts were simple.
It was almost funny.
These men had no idea what they were doing.
And, ironically, that ignorance would be their biggest mistake — or rather, the cause of their next deaths.
From Alessio's point of view, they all looked like they'd come from the same factory line.
The same kind of impatient player who skipped tutorials, ignored the story, and dove straight into chaos, thinking the Tower was just another free PvP arena.
Prison faces. Vulgar gestures. The cocky confidence of people who'd never fought a real monster.
He already knew what had happened.
When the three died, they'd probably run straight back to their gang's base, fuming and demanding reinforcements.
And now here they were — thirty men trying to reclaim their lost pride.
The Black Tower always revealed the same truth:
when the system opened its doors to the real world, the gangs came with it.
What had once been crime and cowardice in the streets had turned into digital carnage.
Sure, it was becoming common to see other groups traveling together… a new kind of normal inside the game.
Alessio exhaled slowly, almost bored, letting his eyes drift over the group.
Sith stood silently behind him, but the faint flare of her nostrils made it clear she had recognized the enemies too.
The wind carried the scent of fear, adrenaline, and metal — a combination she was likely memorizing already.
Alessio rotated his axe lightly, the metal glinting under the soft light filtering through the leaves.
He still hadn't decided whether to laugh at the irony or simply end it all quickly.
But one thing was certain:
for those thirty men who thought themselves predators…
the real hunter had just set his eyes on them.
"Do it, boys…" said the man leading the group — his voice deep, slow, dripping with self-assurance.
Alessio turned his gaze toward him.
It was obvious he was the leader.
Broad frame, short neck, shoulders wrapped in reinforced leather armor decorated with metal plates looted from different victims.
His helmet, unnecessarily large, was more about showing off than protection.
Unlike the others, he wore new boots, a dark cloak draped over one shoulder, and wielded a massive twin-bladed axe that looked rare.
Even from a distance, Alessio could tell the man radiated that brand of arrogance born from never facing a true obstacle.
His face was wide, sweaty, and wore a mocking grin — the same kind Alessio had seen hundreds of times before the Fall.
A peacock among vultures, he thought.
And the worst kind — the one who thinks he rules the sky.
The man crossed his arms, cloak swaying gently in the wind, and turned toward the two mages behind him.
They stood just a step back — one in a red robe darkened with mud, the other in gray tones — both holding black wooden staffs adorned with bones.
Their faces were half-covered by hoods, and their trembling hands already made it clear: they weren't there out of bravery, but out of obedience.
"Come on, what are you waiting for?!" the leader barked, his voice rising in impatience. "Do what I said!"
The two mages exchanged a quick, nervous glance before plunging their hands into their inventory bags.
The motion was swift, precise — the kind of move practiced dozens of times.
The sound that followed made Alessio tighten his grip on the axe's handle.
A metallic crack — like a seal breaking — echoed through the forest.
Then, something gleamed.
For an instant, everything went quiet.
The light filtering through the trees reflected off an object the mages had just pulled out — and Alessio's heart skipped a beat.
A scroll.
But not a common one.
The parchment was thick, almost metallic, shimmering between gray and gold as if dusted with powdered light.
Ancient runes ran along its edges, shifting color every second — white, amber, then black as living ink.
Even from afar, Alessio could feel the power radiating from it.
An enchanted scroll.