Transmigration in Mordor

Silence. The biting cold of the rock. The tenacious hunger that twisted his insides. Zac sat with his back against the damp cave wall, the Shroud pulled over his shoulders like a cape of misery. His gaze was empty, fixed on an invisible point in the darkness, without the sharp panic of previous resurrections. Just a deep despair, a resignation so total it had extinguished any glimmer in his eyes.

'Silence. Cold. Hunger. Intact. And back,' his mind whispered. 'But... not in the same place.'

He slowly turned his head, analyzing his surroundings with new focus. This wasn't the center of the cave where he usually woke up, near the exit. He was at the back, in that dark recess where he had let himself die of hunger and cold.

'The starting point has changed. Every time, it was the same. The center. Why now? Why here?'

He observed the rough rock, the fine dust dancing in the still air, the silent water of the Waterfall's puddle. His gaze fell on his hands, then on the dark fabric of his Shroud. He caressed it with his fingertips, feeling the familiar cold of the surface and an almost imperceptible warmth within, in the blood-red lining.

'A video game mechanic. Respawning at a save point.' The thought crossed his mind, cold and clinical. 'It's the only explanation. And the only thing that's changed is what I did before I... faded out.'

His fingers tightened on the Shroud. The idea, mad and absurd, germinated in his mind, a sprout of lucid insanity in the soil of his despair.

'The fusion... The Minecraft bed. In the game, you sleep in a bed to set your respawn point. And this Shroud... this tomb... it was born from that bed. What if...'

A bitter smile, a joyless grin, twisted his lips. A grimace of madness. It wasn't a smile of pleasure, but the recognition of a deeper horror.

'What if I can choose my own grave? What if I can decide where to start suffering again?'

The thought brought him no joy, no euphoria. Just a chilling confirmation, an additional weight to bear.

'I will have to die. Again and again. But at least... I'll be able to move forward. I'll be able to explore. Piece by piece.'

He stood up. His movement was no longer that of a panicked victim, nor even a resigned man. It was that of an automaton accepting a horrible task. He began to walk, deliberately choosing a stone passage he had not yet explored, moving away from the areas where he had smelled the sweetish stench of the spider and the hum of the forgotten entity. He was mentally mapping his hell, every corner etched into his memory.

He plunged into the darkness, the rough walls pressing in on him from either side. Each step was measured, silent, methodical. He wasn't looking for light, but for a more stable area of shadow. After a long time of cautious walking in dead silence, he stopped in a small recess, a natural alcove in the rock. He stood still, eyes closed, concentrating. He "listened" with his soul.

'Nothing. No hum. No stench. Just the silence of dead stone. This is it. It's safe enough to die. Or to sleep.'

He settled in. He curled up on the ground, meticulously wrapping himself in his Shroud, cutting himself off from the outside world. He closed his eyes, seeking nothing but the void. It was an absurd act of faith in a world of nightmares. He waited for death or sleep, not knowing which would come. He sank into a deep, dreamless nothingness, a void he hoped would be total.

A few hours, or a few eternities, later, Zac opened his eyes. Just like that. There was no shock of resurrection, no scream torn from his soul by violence. The world was still there. The same recess. The same silence.

He hadn't died. He had slept.

He sat up, a strange sensation washing over him. The weariness that weighed on his soul, that constant weight of his past deaths, had receded. Just a little. This wasn't just survival. It was rest.

'Like in the game... Sleeping in a bed in the Nether or the End makes you explode. But here... in this nightmare world... the bed works.'

He took a moment to process this new rule. It was a revelation as significant as that of the Waterfall. He could rest. He could save his progress.

He stood up, a new cold light in his eyes. He looked back in the direction he had come from.

'The Waterfall is my base. Suffering is my progress. And memory... memory is my only weapon.'

He set off again, moving deeper into the unknown. But this time, he was no longer just fleeing prey. He was an explorer, a cartographer of his own hell, engraving every tunnel, every fork, every danger into his mind. He had to remember the way back to the Waterfall. It was perhaps his only chance not to become, or rather, not to become again, completely mad.