LOTR: Bringing an MC System to Middle-Earth

He's not seriously going to whip that thing out again, is he?

Eric sighed internally, face creased with helplessness, and turned away. From his pack, he pulled out a line of milk bottles, neatly arranged like weapons in an arsenal. That cursed ring was practically a beacon, it demanded caution.

The experiment began quickly. Target: the One Ring.

Step one: Lava.

"Bilbo, see that patch of lava over there?"

"I see it, but... what's a 'patch'?"

"It's a unit of distance I use. Roughly the length of one adult human stride."

"Got it. So, what do I do?"

Bilbo held up the ring, squinting at Eric.

The ring glinted furiously by the lava, as though trying to scream Look at me! with every sparkle.

"Toss it in."

"Wait—what?"

"Just toss it. If it's really gone, I'll find you another one. I mean it."

"...Fine."

Without a glance, Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut and chucked the ring into the lava.

Silence.

No hiss. No dramatic sizzle. Nothing.

Instead of being destroyed, the ring floated back up, serenely unaffected. It was as if some invisible force held it aloft, untouched by the molten heat.

Eric fetched a bucket and scooped up some lava. Bilbo fished the ring out with practiced ease.

Despite its time submerged in molten rock, the ring was cold—eerily cold.

"Follow me."

Soon, the two of them stood near a Nether Portal, the shimmering obsidian gateway humming ominously.

Eric glanced left, then right, then up at the sky. Only once satisfied that no one was watching did he speak.

"Try tossing the ring through this portal."

"This is some sort of magical door, right? I wonder where it leads."

Bilbo's hands moved faster than his words. With no real hesitation, he lobbed the ring into the portal.

It passed straight through.

And then clinked on the ground beyond.

It hadn't even acknowledged the portal's presence. As if the gateway wasn't there at all.

"Alright then," Eric muttered. He pulled out a small box and handed it to Bilbo. "Put it inside."

Bilbo did so.

Eric tested everything he could.

He couldn't put the box in his backpack.

He couldn't store it in a chest.

The ring refused to travel through portals.

No matter the method, every form of dead-object storage rejected it.

Which could only mean one thing.

"This ring… it behaves like a living thing."

It could be moved—but not standardized, categorized, or hidden away like other items.

Eric gave a shrug. "Well, that's that. You can keep it."

Apparently, some things weren't meant to be destroyed so easily.

After all, to destroy such an object mid-narrative was like stopping a symphony halfway through—killing the development, silencing the climax, and abandoning the ending.

A textbook example of a story falling apart.

A tragedy for pacing. A crime against storytelling.

Best to avoid that.

After that strange sequence of tests—most of which Bilbo didn't fully understand, he didn't immediately leave. Instead, he stayed a few days longer.

Standing atop a hill, surveying the domain below, Bilbo sighed.

"Sometimes I really can't tell the difference between here and Rivendell."

"Other than fewer waterfalls, everything feels just as good here. Even the people. They seem happy."

"If you want," Eric offered casually, "you could stay here permanently."

Bilbo hesitated.

An elf-lord in Rivendell had once said something similar.

Eventually, he smiled and nodded.

"Thank you. But I think Bag End suits me just fine. Still, you're always welcome to visit. Stay as long as you like. Just walk right in—no need to knock. And there'll be plenty of tea and cakes."

"Careful. I might eat you out of house and home."

"If you can eat that much, be my guest."

He glanced up at the sky.

"I think it's time."

"I should be heading back, Eric. Bag End's probably freezing by now. I need to get the fireplace going."

"Alright. I'll walk you there. And don't forget—you left a stack of golden apples in my cellar. A stack means sixty-four, by the way. I figured you'd ask."

Bilbo closed his mouth before the question could form.

They set off the same day, strolling out of the city at a comfortable pace. It was more like a lazy walking tour than a return journey.

On the third day, just as they left the borderlands...

A single snowflake floated down.

Winter had officially arrived.

By the time they reached Bag End, the ground was thick with snow. Bilbo's garden lay beneath an untouched white blanket.

"Good news: no one's broken into my house while I was gone."

"Bad news: it's probably just as cold inside as it is out here."

It took Bilbo quite a while to coax the fire back to life and spread some warmth through the cozy hobbit-hole.

After helping him stack the golden apples in the storage room, Eric asked for directions to the Sackville-Baggins residence.

He had a visit in mind.

A friendly one.

Bilbo, slightly concerned—mostly for the Sackville-Bagginses, hurried to join him.

Knock knock knock.

Footsteps. Muffled voices. Then one growing louder, closer.

"Who is it? If you're a guest, your timing is awful. We're not ready to—"

Creeeak.

The door opened. The voice stopped.

"Bilbo?"

Otho Sackville-Baggins frowned instantly.

"What are you doing here? We already gave back everything that belonged to you! We didn't keep a single thing! If you lost something, don't come blaming—"

"Oh no no," Bilbo said, gesturing to the side with a tired sigh. "I'm not the one here to see you, Otho."

"It's my friend."

"Good evening," said Eric, stepping forward.

"A Man?" Otho scoffed. "And just what business do y—"

His voice caught in his throat the moment he looked up.

The armor. The sheer height. The dark, glinting eyes.

He'd heard stories. Somewhere—a tavern? A farmstead? The details blurred now.

"You probably don't recognize me."

Eric didn't wait for permission. He shoved the door aside and ducked under the frame, stepping inside. The movement startled Lobelia, who came rushing from the kitchen, wielding a frying pan like a sword.

"This house doesn't welcome uninvited guests!" she snapped.

"Absolutely understandable," Eric said smoothly. "Allow me to introduce myself."

Bilbo stepped forward to offer something polite, but Eric calmly pressed him back with a hand.

"I'm an adventurer. That's the short version."

He took a slow, deliberate step forward, looming larger by the second.

"But if you'd like the long version... I'm the Bane of Orcs. Slayer of Wargs. Enemy of the Misty Mountain tribes. Foe of Mordor. Ally to Elves and Dwarves. Dragon-killer. Lord and protector of Roadside Fortress and Dale."

"I'm Eric."

He smiled.

Otho and Lobelia were already backed into the far corner of the room, trembling like leaves in a storm.

Each of Eric's titles landed like a blow. Courage drained from their faces with every word, until by the end, they stood frozen as if paralyzed.

And with good reason.

If Eric took one more step, they might very well collapse into sobs on the spot.

"Relax. I'm not here to hurt you."

Eric's voice was calm now, almost gentle.

"I just heard a few things. Like how you tried to steal my friend's house. And how you planned to sell off a gift I gave him."

"Is that true?"

Otho and Lobelia paled. A tear slipped down Lobelia's cheek.

They were doomed.

He was with Bilbo.

They had no hope.