LOTR: Bringing an MC System to Middle-Earth

It was him.

It had to be him.

That human!

"Damn it! Fooled again!"

The orcish captain roared in fury, brandishing his chipped cleaver as he bellowed in Eric's direction. "We—"

Behind him, a horde of wargs and orcs stood at the ready, teeth bared, weapons drawn, just waiting for the order to charge back in and turn the lone human into decorative chunks.

"—We're pulling back!"

The captain spun on his heel and bolted.

The orcs blinked. For a moment, their brains jammed like rusty gears.

Retreat?

From one human?

They numbered over a hundred! How could this be anything other than cowardice?

"You don't deserve to lead us, you spineless grub!"

One of the burlier orcs growled and stepped forward in protest, fists clenched and ready to fight.

The captain's face twisted into something between rage and sheer panic. "Shut your filthy mouth, maggot! If you want to die, I'll gladly help!"

Without hesitation, the captain grabbed the dissenter by the throat, hoisting him off the ground with one arm like a sack of potatoes. The rebel choked and kicked, unable to breathe, his legs flailing in the air.

Then—thud.

The captain dropped him.

The orc landed hard, gasping like a fish out of water. He wasn't dead, but he'd certainly think twice about speaking up again.

The rest of the orcs got the message. No more complaints—at least, not out loud.

"You lot have no idea how dangerous that man is," the captain snarled. "Get reinforcements! We'll need far more than this if we want to bring him down!"

Reluctant, grumbling, and still full of disbelief, the horde finally turned and slunk away into the mist.

Meanwhile...

The flickering glow of firelight danced over the soot-streaked faces of the refugees. They stared, dazed, at the figure in black armor who had descended like a storm.

He had come from nowhere. Wielded his sword like death incarnate. And left no orc standing.

Now they were left wondering—had they been saved… or just postponed from being next?

Only a few dozen orcs had been stationed here, and they hadn't been well-equipped. It hadn't taken long for Eric to cut through them. Some died. Some fled. None remained.

An elderly man, hunched and trembling, stepped forward. He tried to look dignified, bowing with the formality of someone who'd only ever seen nobles from afar.

"M-my lord…"

Eric removed his helmet and gently helped the old man to his feet.

That simple act, kindness—was enough. The crowd visibly relaxed. Whatever he was, at least he wasn't here to kill them.

"Are you the local folk?" Eric asked.

"Yes, sire. We've lived here all our lives," the old man answered with a weak nod.

Eric glanced down at a corpse and gave it a contemptuous kick. "Doesn't look like a place that's easy to live in anymore."

The old man didn't know how to reply. Honestly, none of them knew how any of this had happened. One day, they were farming. The next, a horde of orcs showed up, tore everything apart, and started eating people like it was a buffet.

"This land's no good now," Eric said, shaking his head. "You can't stay here."

"But, sir…" the old man looked helpless. "Our homes are gone. We have nothing left. This is all we have."

Eric stared at the ragged group—mud-covered, gaunt, wide-eyed. For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he spoke softly, but with certainty. "Follow the river south. You'll reach Rohan. South of that is Gondor—human kingdoms with order and walls, and people who don't eat each other."

He paused, thinking.

"If not south, then east. Beyond Mirkwood lies the Dale lands. They've weathered worse. You'll find shelter there too."

Then, after a longer silence, he added, "And if all else fails, head west. Cross the mountains. There's a stretch of wild land there, claimed but barely settled. It's not safe, but it's empty—and that's more than you have now."

"We understand, my lord," the old man said.

The crowd gave humble thanks and prepared for their journey. They didn't have much, just each other and some battered shoes—but at least they had a direction now.

But as they turned to leave, Eric frowned.

He called them back.

"Here. Take these. You'll need them."

From his inventory, he pulled out armfuls of bread and distributed it. Then, with practiced ease, he forged several iron swords, handing them to the sturdiest-looking of the young men.

The bread would keep them alive. The swords might just keep them that way.

To Eric, it was nothing. A few resources he'd barely miss.

To them, it was salvation.

As they finally departed, trudging southward under the starlit sky, a faint chime echoed in Eric's mind—his reputation system flashing an update.

[Your influence is spreading. Word of your deeds will travel with the people you saved. Reputation increased in multiple regions.]

"Huh. Unexpected bonus," he muttered, amused.

Elsewhere…

In a quiet village far from the carnage, where orc raids were only rumors and chickens still clucked in peace, a gray-robed figure stood arguing with the townsfolk.

"But we've lived here our whole lives," a man protested. "There's never been an orc army!"

"That's because the dwarves pushed them back years ago!" the wizard snapped. "But they've returned. And they're close. If you don't want to end up stew in some goblin pot, you need to pack and go."

People began to murmur uneasily.

Then, pushing through the crowd, a scruffy-looking man with a bad attitude and worse hygiene jabbed a finger in the wizard's face.

"You're just trying to scare us off, you scheming spell-flinger! I bet you've had your eye on our village this whole time, haven't you?!"

Thunk.

Gandalf's staff came down with a satisfying thud. The man dropped like a sack of soggy potatoes.

"I said leave," Gandalf growled. "And I meant now."

There was something in his voice. Something ancient and commanding. The villagers suddenly found themselves nodding.

"But where can we go?" someone asked quietly. "Our food, our farms… they're here."

"There's more land than you think," Gandalf replied. "Head north. Follow the river. There are settlements up there—people of your blood, strong and proud. Join them. Together, you can build something better."

Unlike Eric, Gandalf knew these lands like the lines on his palm. He knew of the scattered communities north of the valley, where the free people clung to independence, where resistance could still be forged.

They weren't many. But united, they might just stand a chance.

Soon, the villagers were packing. Debating over which road to take. Gathering goats and grain.

Gandalf stood nearby, puffing his pipe.

But it wasn't just tobacco that was lit.

Something else had kindled, too.

Hope.

To guide, to awaken, to unite—

These had always been a wizard's calling.