Perspective: Alessio Leone
Alessio had already taken down two.
But the other two were different.
They weren't young.
They weren't reckless.
They were veterans of the wild — heavier, denser, with old scars cutting across their skin like maps of past wars.
Their eyes didn't shine with youthful excitement, but with cold calculation.
They knew what they were doing.
They knew exactly who they were hunting.
They advanced together —
one from the front, the other from the side.
Their coordination was precise, instinctive, almost choreographed — predators hunting a predator.
Alessio roared — the sound reverberating through his ribs, a hoarse thunder that made the leaves tremble.
He rose onto his hind legs, trying to make himself larger, more threatening.
But the frontal blow came like a battering ram.
The impact was brutal — two storms colliding head-on.
His shoulder dislocated instantly.
A dull crack ran through his chest, followed by a searing pain that burned straight to the bone.
Air escaped his lungs in a rough growl.
Before he could react, the second one struck from the side.
Its fangs sank deep into his hind leg, pulling with brutal force, tearing flesh and muscle apart.
The sound of ripping meat was drowned by the guttural roar that burst from Alessio's throat.
The ground became a whirl of fur, blood, and dust.
The smell of iron and torn flesh filled the air — thick enough that every breath felt like inhaling molten metal.
The sound of claws slicing through space became a war chant — the pure, violent song of the jungle.
For a moment, the world dissolved into flashes of movement:
teeth tearing, paws striking, blood spraying in crimson arcs across the soil.
Alessio felt his body giving in — his leg faltering, his shoulder hanging uselessly.
Hot blood ran down his flank, tracing red lines through the gold of his fur.
His heart raced too fast.
The world spun between red and black.
But instinct kept him standing.
Not pride.
Not strength.
Pure instinct — the raw will of an animal that knows death here means leaving its pack defenseless.
Sith. The cubs.
They were behind him.
That was all that mattered.
When the first — the one attacking head-on — opened its jaws again to go for his neck, Alessio recognized him.
The scent.
The scar across his muzzle.
The arrogant gleam in his eyes.
It was him.
The same lion who had invaded his territory months ago.
The one who had wounded him — who had made him taste, for the first time, the bitter flavor of his own weakness.
The world compressed around that memory.
Nothing else existed.
The forest, the blood, the wind — all vanished.
Only the enemy remained.
Alessio roared —
not a roar of warning, but of judgment.
And then he lunged.
His jaws clamped down on the base of the other lion's neck.
The taste of blood and dust filled his mouth.
The enemy thrashed, his paws pushing desperately against Alessio's chest, but Alessio didn't let go.
The pressure built — muscles trembling, veins bulging — until the sound came:
the dull, wet crack of bone breaking like ripe fruit.
The enemy's roar turned to a whimper —
a sound stripped of strength, stripped of dignity, leaving only pain.
Alessio bit harder.
His claws dug deep into the earth, his entire body arched in pure, unrelenting power.
Hot blood burst over his face, splattering across his eyes, tinting the world red.
With one final strike of his paw, he slammed the enemy's body to the ground.
The impact echoed through the clearing — heavy, final.
Dust rose, mixed with blood, and silence followed —
the kind of silence that exists only after death.
Three down.
But that third one — that one meant more than victory.
It meant closure.
It was justice paid in blood.
Alessio staggered, breathing hard, his shoulder still out of place, his leg throbbing.
The taste of his enemy's blood still burned on his tongue.
He lifted his gaze to the last lion — the oldest, largest, standing across from him.
The old beast's eyes burned with fury… and, for the first time, hesitation.
Even wounded, limping, Alessio stepped forward.
The earth beneath his paws was painted red.
The cold night air sliced through his open wounds, making him tremble, but his gaze never wavered.
The last lion retreated.
Slowly.
Wide circles, tail whipping the air in nervous motions.
Ears lowered, eyes fixed on Alessio — not with fear, but with respect.
For several long seconds, time stood still.
There was nothing but the heavy breathing of the two, the steam rising from their bodies, and the faint dripping of blood onto the soil.
The entire forest seemed to hold its breath.
Alessio took another step forward.
His hind leg faltered.
Each movement was a battle against his own body.
Blood dripped continuously from the torn flesh, his shoulder burned like fire —
but he did not stop.
The roar that built in his throat came from deep within —
a sound older than the Tower itself.
It wasn't the roar of an ordinary beast.
It was the voice of something aware, something ancient — a will that knew what it was protecting.
The fourth lion hesitated.
Its tail stilled.
For an instant, what it saw before it wasn't an opponent — it was judgment.
Alessio's roar exploded.
The air trembled.
Birds sleeping in nearby trees took flight in panic, and even the wind seemed to bow for a moment.
That sound dominated the forest, silencing everything.
The roar of a king.
And finally, the last adversary backed away.
Two slow steps.
Then he turned — and vanished among the trees.
The sound of heavy paws echoed once, twice, then faded into the depths of the jungle.
Silence returned.
A thick, sacred silence.
The ground was covered in blood, bodies, and dust.
The heavy air vibrated with the scent of death and damp earth.
Alessio's breathing came in ragged bursts, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
Each heartbeat sent waves of pain through his body.
Each breath tasted of iron and smoke.
But he was still standing.
And behind him, in the shadows — where Sith and the cubs watched — nothing had crossed the line he swore to defend.
His vision blurred.
The world wavered at the edges.
Shadows fused together.
He stumbled, paws trembling, his body heavy as stone.
He looked around — at the bodies of the fallen beasts, their motionless faces, their empty eyes, their half-open jaws.
And even there, among the dead, there was peace.
Alessio understood what it meant.
The price of territory is never cheap.
And in that instant, he felt every coin paid in flesh and blood.
But before darkness claimed him, something stronger forced him to lift his head one last time.
A final breath.
A final spark of will.
The roar that tore from his throat was different from all the others.
Not triumph.
Not glory.
A warning.
A decree written in blood.
"Not here."
The sound rippled outward in waves, tearing through the trees, slicing through the night air.
And the entire forest heard it.
Birds scattered.
Prey hid.
Even the wind seemed to kneel.
That land now had a ruler.
And his name echoed in the silence — a reminder carved in blood and strength.
Alessio's body finally gave way.
His legs buckled, dragging him to the ground.
He collapsed into his own blood, chest still rising and falling in a weak rhythm.
But before consciousness slipped away completely, he heard a sound — soft, faint.
The whisper of small, careful steps.
The familiar scent of Sith.
And the gentle touch of a smaller paw brushing against his mane.
For a moment, Alessio knew he had won.