NOVEL WEB Chapter 99: Founding a Faction
The desolate expanse surrounding the Lonely Mountain was aptly named: Smaug's Wastes. Once, verdant fields had stretched here, teeming with life. Then came the dragon. Its fiery breath scoured the land, leaving only charred stumps and cracked, lifeless earth as its grim legacy.
"Help... anyone... please..." A wheezing gasp rose from the ashy ground. A corpulent figure, the former Mayor of Lake-town, dragged himself forward, inch by agonizing inch.
"Water... food... I'll give you treasure... half my treasure..." His pleas dissolved into the biting wind whistling across the barren plain. No answer came. Only the indifferent breeze.
"AAAAAARGH!" A final, ragged scream tore from his throat. Then, silence. The former Mayor and his hoarded wealth became one with the desolate earth. He perished in the agony of starvation, forgotten and unmourned. In abandoning his people, he had sealed his own fate.
***
Meanwhile, at the imposing walls of Roadside Keep, Eric surveyed the weary group huddled before him. He scratched his head. "Been away a while, haven't I? Looks like you folks have been camped here for some time."
"Aye, milord," an elderly man stepped forward. "We arrived just as autumn began. The Misty Mountains... too perilous to cross the high pass. Had to take the long way 'round."
"Ah, I remember you," Eric said, recognition dawning. "You were their village elder?"
"That I was, milord," the old man replied, his voice rough but steady.
Eric scanned the group behind him. "Seems like fewer than I recall. Where are the others?"
"They chose different paths," the Elder explained. "We passed settlements along the way – villages, towns offering shelter. Some decided the comfort there was worth stopping for. But these?" He gestured to the huddled group. "These are the ones who traded that comfort for the journey here. To follow your call, milord."
"Right then," Eric nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "You followed my directions. You found Roadside Keep. Welcome." A wave of relieved cheers erupted, voices hoarse but fervent, chanting the name of the Keep's Lord. "Follow me."
He led them towards the massive, seamless gate. The Elder hesitated, wanting to point out the obvious lack of hinges or handles, and the unnerving absence of any guards atop the walls. But he held his tongue. The man built the place, he reasoned. Likely knows tricks I don't.
Clunk.
Eric pulled a lever beside a smaller, reinforced iron door set within the base of the wall. It swung open smoothly. "Through here."
An entrance within the entrance? Clever. The Elder filed in with the others, his practical mind filing the mechanism away. But as the refugees stepped inside, gasps and murmurs of disbelief rippled through the group.
"By the Valar..." breathed the Elder, stopping dead in his tracks. His eyes, accustomed to the muted greys and browns of the Riverlands, struggled to take in the scene.
Outside, only cold, unyielding stone. Inside? A revelation. Orderly cobbled paths wound between vibrant flowerbeds and crystal-clear reflecting pools, lit by softly glowing lanterns that seemed to defy the gathering dusk.
Charming houses with colourful shutters lined the avenues, leading towards a central castle that gleamed under the fading light. Livestock grazed contentedly in neatly fenced pastures without a herder in sight.
Fields of impossibly plump wheat and vegetables stood ready for harvest, untouched by blight or season. Towering iron constructs, vaguely humanoid and strangely gentle, stood sentinel.
As a young girl in her mother's arms reached out curiously, one construct bent smoothly and offered her a single, perfect daisy.
"Look, Mama!" the girl exclaimed, clutching the flower. "Is this the castle from the stories?"
"No, sweetling," the mother whispered, kissing her daughter's forehead, her own eyes wide with wonder. "Mama's stories never dreamed of anything this beautiful."
The Elder turned to Eric, suddenly feeling utterly out of place amidst the impossible serenity. "Milord... forgive me... but..." He gestured helplessly at the paradise around them. "Can... can folk like us truly live here?"
"Places are meant to be lived in," Eric stated simply, turning to face the group. "This is your home now."
The statement, meant to reassure, only deepened the unease among the refugees. They shuffled nervously. The Elder cleared his throat, voicing the collective fear.
"Milord, it's... it's wondrous. Truly. But... what would you have us do?" He gestured towards the fields, the pastures, the industrious iron guardians. "Most of us are farmers, milord. But... your iron men look stronger than ten of us put together for harvesting or hauling. We... we can't just sit idle, eating your bread."
Ah, the crux of it, Eric realized. What do they do here? The place runs itself!
[Population Threshold Met. Faction Creation Conditions Satisfied.]
Eric mentally summoned the Faction interface. The prompt glared back. It seemed core functions were locked behind this step. One thing had stalled him: the name.
'Naming things is harder than slaying a dragon.'
Roadside Keep was... well, by the road. Riverdale was pre-named. But a faction name? Needed gravitas. Needed to mean something.
He glanced at the map overlay. Roadside Keep, west of the Misty Mountains: flowers, pools, serene beauty. Riverdale, east of Mirkwood: nestled in mountain foothills. Following elven naming conventions? 'Rivendell' meant 'Deep Dale of the Cleaving'. 'Lothlórien' was 'Dream-flower'. So… 'Rivlórien'? 'Lothdell'? He almost chuckled. Name it that, and pointy-eared lawyers would be knocking by dawn.
Needs must. Eric typed decisively: "Free Cities."
[Faction: 'Free Cities' Established]
'Good enough for now. Can always change it later.'
['Free Cities' Faction Reputation System Activated]
[Your Reputation with Free Cities: ∞]
[Citizen Management System Activated]
[Citizen Reputation Tracking Enabled]
[Permission Management System Activated]
A cascade of notifications flooded Eric's vision.
'Right. Time to delegate.' He turned back to the refugees, who were staring at him with a mixture of hope and profound confusion.
"Rest here a moment," Eric announced. "Got some... administrative things. Be right back." He retreated towards the castle, finding a quiet bench overlooking a shimmering pool to delve into the new systems.
First, Faction Reputation. Just as Eric could see his standing with Elves or Dwarves, he could now see everyone's standing with the Free Cities. The refugees? A uniform, bland 0. Neutral. Harmless. Useless. The system was ruthlessly efficient – every helpful act logged, every transgression noted. No good deed forgotten, no sabotage overlooked.
Next, Permissions. This tapped into the deeper... logic... of his world. He could define roles – 'Classes' – set requirements (usually Reputation), and grant specific abilities tied to that Class. Higher Reputation unlocked more permissions.
For example: Create a 'Visitor' Class. Requirement: Reputation 0. Permissions: Use basic wooden tools within faction territory to earn Reputation. That was the baseline. To climb higher, they'd need to hit Reputation 10 and formally swear allegiance to the Free Cities.
The next tier? 'Resident'. Requirement: Reputation 10. Permissions: Use Crafting Tables to make stone tools. Craft and use Storage Chests (though Eric's personal hoard remained securely locked unless he permitted access).
'That'll do for starters,' Eric decided, closing the interface. He returned to the gate where the refugees waited, looking slightly less shell-shocked but no less bewildered.
"Alright, listen up!" Eric projected his voice. "Plenty to do, no worries there. But first things first." He gestured towards the gaunt faces, the threadbare clothes. "Food. Shelter. Can't build a future on empty stomachs and cold ground."
He strode to the central plaza, summoned a large oak table, and began unloading stacks upon stacks of fresh, crusty bread.
The sheer quantity materializing from thin air drew more gasps.
"Form a line! Take what you need – no, take what you want. Fill your bellies. Then, families, find yourselves a house. Any empty one is yours. Elder?" He beckoned the old man over.
"Milord?" The Elder hurried forward.
"You heard the plan. Oversee this. Bread's endless, houses are empty. Get everyone settled. Then find me at the castle. Got a job for you."
"It shall be done, Lord Eric," the Elder replied with a stiff, formal bow, already turning to organize the hungry crowd.
'Definitely need competent lieutenants,' Eric thought with relief, watching the Elder efficiently direct the distribution. He headed back to the castle, his own inventory groaning under the weight of dragon parts – scales like dinner plates, vials of still-warm blood, the immense, faintly pulsing heart of Smaug. He'd only brought key components; the bulk remained safely stored in Riverdale, awaiting the construction of a Nether portal link.
He was still meticulously organizing chests when a polite cough announced the Elder's arrival.
"Milord. The folk are fed and finding their roofs. How may I serve?"
"Good man. Come with me." Eric led him to the impossibly fertile vegetable plots. He quickly crafted a simple wooden hoe and handed it over. "Try harvesting those carrots."
The Elder hefted the crude tool skeptically. It felt flimsy, hardly fit for tilling hard earth. But an order was an order. He raised it, brought it down with a farmer's practiced motion on a ripe carrot top.
Schlick. The carrot vanished from the soil, replaced instantly by three perfect specimens lying on the tilled earth. The Elder froze, blinking rapidly.
"I... it just... popped out? Three for one?"
"Exactly. Consider it... local magic," Eric said, waving a hand vaguely. "Things work differently here. The land itself is enchanted."
"Magic... I see, milord," the Elder murmured, though his mind reeled.
Our Lord is a wizard! A mighty one!
The arduous journey, the refusals of safer havens – it all crystallized into vindication. Wielding such power was rare among Men, the stuff of ancient legends... or dark whispers like the Nazgûl sorcerer-kings of old. To find such a lord in this age? It felt like stepping into a song.
"Now," Eric instructed, "pick one up and plant it."
The Elder, hands trembling slightly, obeyed. He placed a single carrot back into the soft soil. Before his eyes, tiny green shoots erupted, unfurling into healthy leaves within seconds. He gaped, utterly speechless.
"Seems the planting works too," Eric observed, satisfied. He led the stunned Elder on a whirlwind tour: feeding sheep (a single wheat stalk vanished, instantly sating the animal), chopping a tree (a single stroke felled it, leaving manageable logs), mining a cobblestone block (it came loose cleanly, becoming a distinct, liftable object instead of shattering).
Each demonstration chipped away at the Elder's sense of reality, replacing it with a dazed wonder.
'Am I dreaming? Did I finally succumb to hunger outside the walls?' The thought flickered, then solidified into fervent hope: If this is a dream, let me never wake.
Meanwhile, Eric began to mentally catalogue the results.
Tending crops. Raising livestock. Quarrying stone. Felling timber.
Producing food and basic building supplies – this defined the scope of what a [Visitor] could achieve within the enchanted confines of the Keep. More importantly, it was their gateway to earning full [Resident] status.