LOTR: Bringing an MC System to Middle-Earth

Vrrrrooooom—

The orcs' warhorns howled through the mountain air, but this time, no war banners followed.

Eric stepped to the edge of the command post, his cloak fluttering in the wind. Staring down at the battlefield below, he shouted, voice booming like thunder off the slopes:

"Your leaders are dead! Run for your miserable lives, you filth!"

Thud. Thud.

Two severed heads tumbled down the mountainside, bouncing off jagged rocks and clattering their way to the base. When they finally came to a stop, even battered as they were, the orcs could still recognize the faces of their fallen commanders.

"I am your doom," Eric called, raising his sword high.

Crash—

One shout triggered chaos. The sight of their beheaded warlords sparked panic through the orc ranks like wildfire through dry grass.

No one knew what to do. Even the lower captains, who were supposed to maintain order, looked utterly lost. They didn't dare meet the cold, distant gaze of the man atop the ridge, nor could they bring themselves to glance at the heads at their feet. Instead, they dropped their weapons and bolted like terrified goblins in a thunderstorm.

The battlefield unraveled into utter disorder. Formations broke. Orders dissolved. Discipline vanished.

"Looks like it's over," Bard said quietly, exhaling as though releasing years of tension. "Maybe… maybe peace is finally possible."

"They did it! Hah!"

"This is our victory!"

The dwarves erupted in cheers, some even grabbing each other in rough, laughing embraces. Dáin flung open his arms to hug someone—but upon realizing he was facing Thranduil, he swiftly turned and went for Gandalf instead.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, he spoke coolly, "A victory worth celebrating, no doubt."

Gandalf gave a short laugh. "Outnumbered nearly ten to one, and we not only held the line… we barely lost anyone. Feels like a dream."

"We owe it to our allies."

"Eric," Thranduil murmured, looking up toward the mountaintop where the man still stood like a storm yet to pass. In his heart, the Elvenking elevated Eric's standing once more—not just as an ally, but as something far more dangerous and valuable.

"Right, lads!" Dáin clapped his hands. "Let's mop up what's left. Get those orcs before they disappear into the rocks."

Thranduil nodded, coming back to himself. "Ready the archers. We move."

"We're going in too," Gandalf said, drawing his sword and turning to Radagast.

But the brown-robed wizard waved him off. "Oh, no no. You go on ahead. You know I'm better with badgers than blades."

"RAARGHHH!!"

Before anyone could argue, Beorn let out a bellow and leapt from the wall, shifting mid-air into a massive bear. He hit the ground with a crash and tore straight into the panicking orc horde, scattering them like dry leaves in a gale.

No one ever figured out just how many orcs died that day.

But one thing was certain: the deadliest warrior on that battlefield had been Eric.

He had charged down from Ravenhill like a one-man avalanche, chasing the Gundabad orcs all the way to the edge of the battlefield. Wherever he went, they fled the opposite direction, as if repelled by some invisible force.

It was like watching magnetized chaos in motion.

By the time the field was being cleared, Eric alone had personally carved through over a thousand orcs. His skill orbs dropped left and right like candy from a shattered piñata.

Even when the orc leaders had called a full retreat, and most forces had already withdrawn, Eric kept pursuing them.

When he couldn't catch up on foot, he mounted his Elytra and took to the skies. Upon landing again, he picked up right where he left off—hacking his way forward with ruthless precision.

"Isn't this… a little excessive?" Gandalf asked, watching Eric cleave yet another group of orcs.

Thranduil gave him a side glance. "Since when were you soft on enemies?"

"I'm not pitying them," Gandalf muttered. "It just seems… unnecessary."

"There's no such thing as unnecessary," Thranduil replied calmly.

Back in the old days, some elven lords had done much the same. Cutting down thousands of orcs singlehandedly and beheading their captains was practically tradition. The phrase one-man army wasn't an exaggeration—it was history.

Nowadays, though, you could count the number of people capable of such feats on one hand.

And Eric had just joined that list.

Though truth be told, his strength wasn't just in brute force…

Far from Erebor, deep in the woods, Eric halted.

"That's the last one."

He picked up another glowing skill orb, sliding it into his inventory. Satisfied, he turned back toward the mountain.

Behind him, terrified orcs scrambled into the trees, too scared to look back, probably vowing to never emerge again unless the sun exploded.

Time to go home.

This battle had given Eric a generous haul of skill spheres. He'd gathered at least one of each, and even maxed out his basic sword techniques.

Piercing Thrust, Armor Break, Dodge, Parry, Jump Slash, Whirlwind Cleave, Blade Tempest, Backstab, and Sword Beam—fourteen combat skills in all, now neatly filed into his interface.

Shiiiing—

He gave his sword a casual swing. A streak of white energy shot from the blade, slicing the air before fading out at a distance.

With the Sword Beam skill unlocked, Eric could now perform limited ranged attacks with his sword. It didn't go far—maybe seventeen meters at most—and the damage was modest at level one, around three to four points. No flame effect either.

Perfect for trimming weeds, though.

Still, with a solid combo chain, the damage added up fast. After a seven-hit streak, even a single sword beam could deal over ten points of damage.

A distant firework popped in the sky. Somewhere in the forest, a shivering orc whimpered.

Eric sheathed his sword and finally made his way back to the Lonely Mountain.

Inside Dale, the mood was almost festive.

The elves relaxed their posture, sitting in small circles, chatting about the battle, laughing softly. Occasionally, two would clink goblets and down a shot of potent spirit.

One dwarf, watching a particularly composed elf slam back an entire cup without flinching, narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

"He's faking it."

Clank.

The city gates rose with a deep rumble.

A cheer erupted.

"OHHHH—!!"

"Welcome back, our King!"

Dáin was the first to stride forward and wrap Thorin in a gruff, bone-cracking hug. The dwarves tossed aside their hammers and helmets, rushing over to greet their returned leader.

"We're proud of you, Thorin."

"Thank you, Dáin. But the glory isn't mine alone. It belongs to all of us. Especially—"

He turned and gave Bilbo a firm push forward.

"Our master burglar."

"Aha… haha…"

Bilbo gave an awkward chuckle as everyone turned to look at him. Surrounded by dwarves cheering his name, he had no idea where to put his hands.

"No need to be shy, Bilbo. You saved our lives more than once. And don't forget—you're the one who found the Arkenstone."

"Go on. Own it."

Bilbo gave a small nod and lifted his chin just a bit higher.

From the sidelines, Gandalf smiled and tugged at his beard. Beside him, Radagast, Beorn, and the Lord of the Eagles watched in silence, offering their respect to the returning heroes.

The dwarves reveled in their triumph. Even the humans from Dale joined in, clapping and cheering.

The elves, however, were… a little less enthusiastic. Though they had also gathered near the gate, standing in perfect formation, they merely watched without any visible emotion.

Stage presence, nothing more.

Only Thranduil stepped forward to say:

"Congratulations on reclaiming your home. I truly hope this land thrives once more."

Thorin gave a polite nod.

"And I trust the King of the Woodland Realm won't forget our meeting."

"I shall attend," Thranduil answered evenly.

Just as they exchanged those words, a final firework exploded above the gates, and a fresh wave of cheering surged from the crowd.