LOTR: Bringing an MC System to Middle-Earth

It wasn't long before Eric and Bilbo stepped out from the Sackville residence.

No one chased after them, and certainly no one questioned Eric's rather unorthodox method of entering the home.

Truth be told, not even the Shire's Watch dared meddle in matters involving someone like Eric. And if you broadened that to the whole of Middle-earth, you'd still be hard-pressed to find anyone bold or foolish enough to intervene.

Still, Eric hadn't done anything to the Sackville-Bagginses, not really.

Sure, they had been scheming behind Bilbo's back, and yes, their greed had turned them into insufferable busybodies. But when it came down to it, their offenses were petty at best. A few inheritance squabbles. Moral cowardice. Certainly not the kind of evil that warranted permanent solutions.

So Eric had simply given them a proper scare, made them apologize, and wrung a solemn promise from them never to set their grubby eyes on Bag End again.

That, he felt, was enough.

"After all," Eric said with a shrug, "it's not like I'm some villain."

Bilbo glanced at him, lips twitching, torn between nodding and pointing out how terrifying that had looked.

Still, there was no denying it. It felt good to see the Sackvilles put in their place. And for the foreseeable future, they'd be giving Bilbo a very wide berth.

At least now Bilbo had two excellent swords hanging on his wall. Sting, of course, and a sturdy dwarven steel blade gifted by Eric. Long and short, both finely crafted and razor-sharp.

Keepsakes, yes—but also protection.

Eric stayed the night at Bag End. At dawn, with Bilbo seeing him off from the front gate, he resumed his journey.

He made sure to pass by the Sackville-Baggins' house on his way out, just for good measure.

He felt their glares from inside, sharp as kitchen knives. They didn't dare come out, of course. Their eyes followed him until he disappeared beyond the hills.

They weren't entirely beyond saving, those two.

In another time, their son Lotho would sell his soul to Saruman for power, only to meet a tragic end. And in the aftermath, Lobelia—the very same woman who had once coveted Bag End with such spite, would give away her entire fortune to aid the Shire's recovery, before quietly vanishing from Hobbiton with nothing but her walking stick.

Hobbits... complicated little folk.

But they were still Hobbits.

Lost in thought, Eric found he'd already crossed the Shire's border, winding his way through the Old Forest and onto snow-dusted ground.

Then something tugged at his awareness.

He turned southward.

There, a familiar sight greeted him: a smooth-cut tree stump, weathered and ancient, with a circle of half-buried stones and a long-dead campfire beside it.

Yes, this place.

It had been years since he'd passed through—two, maybe more. Right here was where he'd had his first real brush with danger. His first proper fight.

The boundary between the Barrow-downs and the Great Road.

A faint, ghostly wail echoed from the trees. Not loud, but enough to set one's nerves on edge.

And to Eric, it was a warning. Not to him, but about them.

"Seriously?" Eric muttered. "You're trying that again?"

Back then, it had just been him, a stone sword, and no armor. He'd still managed to decapitate a wight.

Now?

He was practically a walking fortress.

His brow furrowed. The Barrow-wights were getting bold, stirring up fear before sundown.

Unacceptable.

He lit a fire, roasted a few cuts of meat for dinner, and waited. But nothing came. Not even a whisper.

Only when the stars replaced the dying light of the sun did Eric rise and stretch.

Then, sword in hand, he strolled straight into the Barrow-downs.

He reached a hilltop that overlooked a broken expanse of ruins and jagged stones. Giant monoliths stood in solemn defiance of time, half-swallowed by grass and snow. Tombs dotted the landscape like forgotten warnings.

Eric paused, sensing a shift.

The sky above was no longer clear. Starshine dimmed. Not clouds. Not snow.

Fog.

And then—

A piercing shriek tore through the silence.

Eric's limbs suddenly felt heavier, like something was pulling at his very bones.

[Status Effect: Slowness - 3s]

"Alright," Eric growled, cracking his neck. "That's a neat trick. But compared to Nazgûl? You're barely in the tutorial."

He whipped his sword backward without looking.

Fwoosh!

Flames burst in a crescent arc. The attacking wight shrieked, half-phased into a spectral blur trying to escape.

No chance.

Eric lunged after it and carved through it in a blur of silver and flame, sending it crumbling into ash.

He stood in the center of an ancient battlefield now. Fog rolled thick, and from every direction, long, withered figures emerged—gaunt shapes dragging skeletal limbs, some flickering like phantoms, others solid and deadly.

At a glance, there were at least twenty of them.

"Well. Looks like I've found the party."

In the right battlefield, this many wights could wipe out an elite company. Their aura spread fear. Their screams slowed movement. Their strikes drained life.

Back in the day, he wouldn't have dared come here without full enchanted diamond armor.

Now?

He wore full netherite gear, custom-enchanted. Golden apples? Check. Healing potions? Plenty.

They could wound him, sure—but they'd be buried before they broke through his recovery rate.

"Let's get started."

He swung his blade, sending arcs of energy slicing forward. A few wights evaporated instantly.

Then Eric charged in.

For a moment, his body blurred with afterimages, each one delivering a fatal strike. Sword techniques danced through the fog, carving a path through the dead.

After dispatching another half-dozen, he paused and tilted his head.

"Wait... you're already dead, aren't you?"

"Fine. Then vanish properly!"

He dove back into the fray.

To their credit, the wights weren't pushovers.

They were cunning, terrifying, and cursed. A dangerous breed.

But Eric was overwhelming.

By the time he was finished, the tombs were quiet. No more shrieks. No more rattling bones.

The fog itself seemed to retreat as he walked away, as though too frightened to linger.

[New Title Unlocked: Enemy of the Barrow-wights]

Another enemy type had officially added Eric to their "do not engage" list.

For weeks afterward, the road between the Shire and Bree was safer than it had ever been. No wandering traveler strayed off path and vanished. No merchants lost their way in the dark.

Because on that night, the dead had learned what it meant to fear.

Not to mention, those wights dropped more skill orbs than any orc or warg ever had. If only they weren't so elusive and hard to find, Eric might've set up camp to grind levels for a week.

Too bad they weren't the welcoming type.

Several days later.

The snowfall paused, leaving behind a fresh crunch beneath Eric's boots. He wandered the main road, passing the Windy Heights and heading toward Roadside Fortress.

Then, at a fork in the path, he saw something unexpected.

A caravan.

Dozens of wagons loaded with crates and barrels. Armed guards in strange armor stood watch, and the merchants themselves looked... foreign. Not from Bree. Not even from Lake-town.

Eric approached, curious.

"Is everything alright here?"

One of the merchants stepped forward with a courteous nod. "Greetings, traveler. Forgive us for stopping like this. We are traders from the far East. The last time we passed this way was three years ago. If I'm not mistaken, this road didn't even exist back then."

Eric grinned. "You're not wrong. This road leads to a new settlement—Roadside Fortress. Built fairly recently."

The merchant's eyes lit up. "A new city, you say? Excellent. If the folk there appreciate good drink, we'll be welcomed with open arms."

"You sell wine?"

"Only the finest," he said, patting a barrel like it was his favorite child. "I swear on my family vineyard—every time we pass through, the silver overflows from our pockets, and not a single bottle remains."

Eric raised an eyebrow. "Really? That good?"

"Even Elven kings have praised it, in ages past and present."

That got Eric's attention.

"Well, I'm heading that way myself. You're welcome to travel with me. I'm sure the lord of Roadside would be happy to meet you."

"Oh, and... you said you're from the East? Do you mean Lake-town?"

The merchant shook his head with a knowing smile.

"No, friend. Farther still."

"We hail from Dorwinion."