LOTR: Bringing an MC System to Middle-Earth

The orc armies of Moria moved earlier than expected.

Gandalf, freed from Sauron's grip far sooner than in the original flow of events, now stood impatiently near the forest edge, waiting for the White Council's support. The dwarves, meanwhile, had already set out toward Erebor, pushing their own plans into motion.

The tempo of the story had accelerated.

Just like Eric's footsteps.

"This isn't right," he muttered, eyes narrowing as he picked his way up a grassy knoll. "At this rate, the orc horde's going to hit the mountain before the dragon's even dealt with."

The timeline was unraveling.

But why?

The only deviation he could think of… was himself. He had broken Gandalf out earlier, which meant the wizard never endured Sauron's torture. As a result, the Dark Lord's plans were exposed prematurely. Perhaps sensing danger, Sauron had abandoned subtlety and preparation, choosing instead to launch an all-out assault on Erebor immediately.

Now, standing on a ridge overlooking a broad plain near the Woodland Realm's border, Eric stared grimly at the massing black tide below.

Thousands of orcs.

More than just Moria's ranks. Every feral band from the surrounding wilds must've been rounded up and herded into this monstrous force. The sky itself seemed darker above them, the sun filtering through clouds that reeked of ash and iron.

A cluster of movement caught his attention.

Squinting, Eric spotted a group slipping into the main body of the army. One particularly tall orc, trotted forward to report to a pale, brutish figure at the front of the horde.

Azog.

And the newcomer was unmistakable.

"Bolg…" Eric muttered. "The family reunion begins."

Two generals now commanded the horde: father and son. One to lead, the other to strike where it hurt.

Eric's fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.

He recalled an old legend from the First Age.

They said the blade once belonged to Ecthelion of the Fountain, Lord of Gondolin. In the final battle before Gondolin's fall, Ecthelion used it to slit the throats of over a thousand orcs, slew two war chiefs, and even took down three balrogs before falling alongside Gothmog himself.

That kind of story would be laughed off as fiction anywhere else. But here? It still echoed with weight. Even now, two ages later, orcs trembled at the name Ecthelion. Some flinched at the sight of Orcrist alone.

Eric smirked. That elf lord must've been an absolute beast. Honestly, the way the tale was told, Ecthelion might've even been stronger than he was.

Not that Eric intended to let that stand.

"…Still," he murmured, glancing back at the heaving tide of enemies, "today's not the day."

If it were just a few hundred, maybe a thousand, he'd try something stupid. But tens of thousands?

Even Minecraft tricks couldn't save him from being dogpiled. There wouldn't be space to dig a tunnel, let alone escape through one.

He could go for a surgical strike - try to take out Azog or Bolg, but it wasn't the right moment. The risk outweighed the gain.

No, the priority was Erebor.

If he got there early, maybe he could set something up. Anything.

---

Far off, in the fishing town of Lake-town, Thorin Oakenshield was thinking the same thing.

That night, under the cloak of darkness, the dwarves slipped past Bard's house and crept along the cobbled alleys. The town's armory loomed ahead, its windows shuttered and guards lazily patrolling nearby.

"Thorin, this feels... wrong," Bilbo whispered nervously, hunched low behind a crate.

"It's not our property, technically," he added. "We're stealing."

"We're borrowing, Mr. Baggins," Thorin replied, already halfway through the armory's window. "And we're borrowing with a righteous purpose."

He emerged moments later with a sword in hand, examining it with a nod of approval.

"I made inquiries. The Master of this town and his guards are more concerned with gold than honor. These weapons would've rusted under their care. We're giving them purpose again."

The other dwarves moved quickly, choosing their arms. Within minutes, they melted into the shadows once more. The whole operation was done before the town rooster even thought about crowing.

By sunrise, they were already gone.

Unfortunately, the fallout came fast.

"Bard," a smug voice called out.

He turned to see Alfred, the Master's weaselly right-hand man, blocking his path with a self-satisfied grin.

Bard raised a brow. "What do you want?"

"Oh, just a little chat," Alfred replied, clapping his hands. A squad of guards stepped forward.

"There's been a break-in. Weapons stolen from the armory. And I have reason to believe you had something to do with it. Or at least, someone you've been… protecting."

Bard's jaw tightened. "I didn't steal anything."

"Maybe not. But you're coming with us either way." Alfred gestured dramatically. "Take him."

"I knew this day would come," Bard muttered, balling his fists.

He looked over at his son. "Bain. Look after the house."

Without resisting, Bard allowed himself to be shackled and led away.

Some things couldn't be avoided.

---

Meanwhile, far to the north, Eric stood before Erebor's main gate, holding a diamond pickaxe.

He gave the enormous stone door a solid knock.

And then knocked again. With force.

With a low, groaning rumble, the centuries-old gate cracked and swung open. Eric slid inside with the stealth of a practiced adventurer.

He stopped inside the entrance, gazing at the destruction.

The entire front gate had once been a thick stone wall, several meters thick. And Smaug, that fiery tyrant, had smashed through it like it was cardboard.

To stop something like that, they'd need a wall several dozen meters thick, enchanted, and probably blessed by at least five Valar.

Smaug, by Eric's estimation, was likely snoozing deep in the vaults. There was a long tunnel between here and the treasure hall. If that tunnel could be blocked…

Maybe the beast could be contained.

Eric walked forward cautiously.

His steps slowed as he entered the central chamber. A massive golden statue of a dwarf loomed before him, gleaming in the dim light. The sheer weight of gold was obscene. Melted down, it could fill a small riverbed.

No wonder Smaug had been stunned when he first saw it.

Dwarves were absurd.

Still, Eric didn't touch a single coin. He knew the rules of this world. Some things, even unguarded, carried a price. The world saw. The world remembered.

Some call it karma. Others call it divine balance.

Eric just called it "not worth the trouble."

Past the statue was the tunnel, the long, echoing passage that led to Smaug's lair.

Eric stood at the far end, staring into the darkness. It stretched endlessly ahead, crafted with dwarven precision. Thousands of meters, most likely.

He got to work.

Pulling out a lava bucket, he built a tower of blocks to the ceiling, dumped the lava, then quickly followed with a water bucket. The hissing began at once.

The lava cooled into a thick wall of cobblestone that blocked the entire corridor.

One wasn't enough.

He repeated the process. Again and again.

In short order, the long hallway ended in a solid stone barricade that looked like a mountain had grown from the earth.

Still, it might not hold forever.

He dug into the floor and carefully placed all the TNT he had left. Covered it up with stone. Set the trigger mechanism.

"That's the last of my stash," he sighed, dusting off his hands. "I'll fix the terrain later. Promise."

He glanced back at the hallway.

Arrow traps were useless. Lava pits? Great for zombies, not for fire-breathing dragons. Smaug would probably just treat it like a hot spring.

He needed something better.

Something clever.

He rubbed his chin, deep in thought.

A voice, like burning coal and molten metal, rumbled behind him.

"Are you finished, little thief?"

Eric froze.

His brain answered before his mouth could stop it. "Yeah, just about."

Wait.

That voice hadn't come from his head.

A wave of heat rolled over him.

Slowly, very slowly, Eric turned around.

The glow of fire reflected off golden mounds far behind him.