The Lord of the Rings : The Journey of a Transmigrator

I'll be honest: Elven life is beautiful. It's peaceful. Refined. And... incredibly boring.

No movies. No Wi-Fi. No pizza. Not even a paperback. Nothing.

Just giant trees, crystal-clear singing, flowing robes, and enigmatic smiles.

So yeah, it's pretty. But after twenty days of recovery in Lothlórien, even I, Edward Highland, freshly flung transdimensional hero now stranded in Middle-earth, started considering jumping into a volcano... just for a change of scenery.

Okay, I'm exaggerating. A little.

To be fair, I wasn't alone all that time.

Arwen.

She was there. Often. Too often for me to keep my cool. Not often enough for me to get tired of her.

By day, I could hear her singing from the treetops. And not just "humming in the shower" — no. I'm talking ancient Elven ballads. The kind of thing that would make a steroid-fueled angel jealous.

Her favorite? The Song of Lúthien. The tragic tale of an Elf who gave up everything to follow the man she loved. Spoiler: every time she sang it, it felt like she was putting a bit too much heart into it.

And at night... we met again.

Yeah. Like a romance novel. We walked under Telperion's moonlight, talked about our respective worlds, and I told her stories from mine — like the tale of organic bananas or cat streaming. She laughed. She laughed. Arwen. The princess. Stoic like an Elven statue. Giggling like a teenager.

But while my heart was busy, I didn't let my brain rust.

As soon as she left, I resumed my training.

Psychokinesis. Mental Fortification. Every night. Until I collapsed.

And I discovered something.

My psychokinesis could improve through practice or by spending experience points.

My mental fortification, though... nothing worked. Not a single point gained from forcing it. Even when I pushed my brain to the edge.

So I dumped the 200 EXP I had earned in Chronicle into mental fortification. Then I trained again.

The result?

I could now manipulate a hundred objects at once, as long as their total weight stayed under three tons. I could levitate a rain of leaves and write a haiku with them. I could pluck a hair from an Elf and make it dance in the air (not that I actually did that. Officially).

But the moment I tried to go down to the molecular level? Nada.

My power became unstable. It dissolved. As if something was blocking me. An invisible boundary between the mental world... and pure matter.

And of course, my inner science nerd went wild.

If I could manipulate molecules, I could trigger a chemical reaction. A bomb. Energy. A thermonuclear warhead. Even Sauron would struggle to reassemble himself laughing after a 15,000-degree blast.

But nope — I couldn't.

The boundary was there. Uncrossable. As if someone — or something — was stopping me from reaching that limit.

It was frustrating. And fascinating.

But theory had to wait. Because one morning, the news dropped:

We were leaving for Rivendell.

I gathered my things (an Elven shirt, a cloak, and a dagger — not exactly superhero gear), and headed to the central plaza.

Arwen was already there.

And damn, she was stunning.

Gone was the mystical princess white dress. She wore a travel outfit — green, form-fitting yet elegant, with a golden belt, a hood, and boots that would've cost me a month's salary in London.

She was mounted on a white horse so pure it looked like it had just walked out of an equine shampoo commercial.

"Planning to walk all the way, Ranger Edward?" she teased, reins in hand.

I lifted my chin like some operetta prince:

"I thought this mount had been prepared for me, Princess Undómiel."

Then with a smile: "But of course, I wouldn't object to the idea of sharing your saddle. It would be unworthy of me to let you ride alone through the wilds…"

Silence.

Then — laughter.

She laughed, hand covering her mouth delicately.

And just like that, my day was made.

I approached the horse and placed a hand on its mane.

"He's beautiful. Does he have a name?"

"Asfaloth," she answered. "The fastest in all of Lothlórien."

She gently stroked his neck.

"You agree, don't you, Asfaloth?"

The horse gave a powerful huff. Arrogant. A perfect match for her.

A moment later, an Elven guard brought me my mount: a sturdy brown horse... slightly pudgy.

I placed a hand on its neck.

"Well... I guess I won't be catching up to you, Arwen. But at least I'll be riding in comfort."

And that's when he arrived.

Celeborn.

Not much of a talker, that one. But every time he opened his mouth, it was sharp, precise, and never wasted.

Galadriel stood beside him. Dignified. Radiant. Untouchable.

The kind of couple that makes you straighten your spine just by looking at them.

We quickly formed a convoy.

A hundred Elven riders. An escort fit for a king. Shining weapons, flowing cloaks, ageless faces.

I felt like I was part of a haute couture parade. In cosplay.

I bid farewell to the few Elves I had gotten to know — though let's be honest, none of them ever called me by name without adding "Lord Ranger" — then I joined the procession.

And without further ceremony, we departed Lothlórien.

Behind us, the Golden Wood slowly faded away, like a dream you never quite want to wake from.

Ahead… the Misty Mountains. And Rivendell.

And maybe, somewhere along the way, the next chapter of my destiny.