Transmigration in Mordor

Zac walked, his footsteps echoing faintly in the oppressive silence of the stone. The razor-stinger in his right hand was a cold, reassuring weight, an anchor in the ocean of his madness, the only tangible thing he had torn from this world of nightmares. He moved with a new caution, no longer that of a hunted prey, but of a hunter who knows the terrain, a ghost mapping his own tomb. He found his way back through the stone labyrinth, the memory of his path seared into his mind, each fork a memory of fear, each corridor a promise of pain.

The dark silhouette of the waterfall finally took shape before him, a veil of silent water falling into a still puddle, still exuding that mystical and unnatural aura. He approached, not to marvel, but to drink, a primal and urgent need. He drank the cold, pure water, a fleeting relief that lasted only a moment.

Then, he inspected the screen that shimmered faintly in the water's reflection. His gaze was clinical, devoid of the old panic, replaced by an infinite weariness.

[Tears of Regret: 2]

The number had changed. His death, his desperate struggle, had earned him another tear. Another token of suffering. But a new line had appeared, mysterious and troubling, a word that resonated with a primordial horror.

[Echo of Ungoliant: 1]

Zac frowned. His tormented mind latched onto this new symbol, trying to decipher it. 'Ungoliant...' That name. It wasn't from *Hades*. It was older. Darker. *The Silmarillion*, perhaps. A primordial shadow, a hunger for nothingness incarnate. He thought for a long time, his face illuminated by the pale glow of the waterfall, and made the connection between this "1" and the only creature he had managed to kill.

'An "Echo,"' he thought. 'As if every creature I kill leaves behind a part of its corruption. A new resource. But for what? Where do I spend it?'

The rest of the screen remained unchanged, a wall of mysteries. He thought back to the hours he had spent reading, playing, immersing himself in these universes. An escape that had become his prison. This knowledge didn't help him much; it only enriched the vocabulary of his torture.

He decided to postpone exploring this new enigma. He focused on the two skills he had left aside. With a cold will, he spent his two Tears of Regret. One for stealth, one for brutality.

[Waterfall of Night]

[Coward's Stealth: 1/?]

[Healing Stagnation: 1/?]

[Forge of Brutality: 1/?]

[Echo of Ungoliant: 1]

[Tears of Regret: 0]

He felt that strange sensation again: an external, cold, and mechanical knowledge being infused into him. He tested [Coward's Stealth] first. He moved around the cave, and the sound of his footsteps disappeared. Completely. He was no longer walking, he was gliding, an absence of movement, a shadow among shadows. He became a ghost in his own tomb, a skill born of his own cowardice, a perfection in the art of escape.

Then he tested [Forge of Brutality]. He clenched his fist and struck the cave wall. The impact was sharp, violent. The rock crumbled under the blow, sending shards of stone flying. A strength he had never had, a raw violence he did not recognize as his own. It was the rage of his failure, the frustration of his past life, transformed into a hideous physical power.

He was impressed, but not happy. These were just tools, nothing more. He noticed that these abilities seemed to be always active, passive upgrades to his damned state, consuming no resources, no energy. A rare smile split his suffering-marked face. A bitter grin.

An idea then sprouted in his mind. Hunger, that nagging pain that had never left him, that constant reminder of his mortal condition. He sat cross-legged by the waterfall, draped himself in his Shroud, and used his [Healing Stagnation] skill, not to heal a wound, but to soothe this need. He focused on the void, on surrender. After a few minutes, the hunger faded, replaced by a numb neutrality. He savored this absence of pain in his stomach, a miracle in this world of torment.

He remained there, beside the waterfall, enjoying this rare and fragile moment of rest.

But his mind could not stay silent. It wandered, returning tirelessly to the Punishments, to his Burden. Something was wrong.

'The Shroud... It did inherit the properties of the bed. My respawn point. But the invisibility cloak? Nothing. I'm not turning invisible. So what's the point of that part of the fusion? Is it another trap? An empty promise?'

He also thought about the first punishment: "There is no escape...".

'The Waterfall, the skills... it resembles the game, yes. But where are the rooms? The floors? The fearsome bosses? This isn't a copy. It's a perversion.'

He preferred not to think about it, but he felt that his adventure of suffering was only just beginning.

'And the second Punishment: "... in the depths of Mordor." Where am I, exactly? Under Sauron's tower, Barad-dûr? Under the Black Gate? The Mountain of Doom? Under the fertile fields of Nurn, where the slaves work?'

He wondered what Age he was in, what year. Had Morgoth been defeated? Sauron? The creatures he had encountered suggested that darkness was very much present.

He found himself imagining the surface, the wind in the trees of Lothlórien, the warmth of the fires of the Shire. The fictional characters he had grown to love. He would give anything to escape, but he knew that was not his destiny.

His destiny was the absence of a future. The fulfillment of his Punishments while dragging his Burdens. An endless loop.

He stood up, his gaze hardened by the cold determination of despair. He gripped the razor-stinger in his hand.

He set off again, through the labyrinthine corridors of the depths of Mordor.