Transmigration in Mordor

Zac awoke, his body still numb with pain and exhaustion, every muscle a taut wire stretched to the breaking point. His mind, however, was already at work, calculating the variables of his eternal torment like a rusty mechanism that could no longer stop. Suddenly, with a sharp irritation that pierced his resignation, he realized he had forgotten the second stinger—the one torn from the giant spider—which he'd meant to fuse with his poisoned `Razor-Stinger`. A wave of annoyance, mixed with infinite weariness, washed over him. Every mistake was a penalty, every oversight a prolonged torture in this endless world.

He thought for a long time, his empty eyes fixed on the palpable darkness surrounding him. Then, an idea—absurd as everything else—crossed his mind. He reached out, took both stingers—his own, already soaked in poison and now an extension of his own darkness, and the other, fragile and unusable as it was—and meticulously wrapped them in his cloak, his Shroud. He waited, holding his breath, his heart pounding in the oppressive silence of the cave. A deathly silence, a silence of waiting.

Against all odds, a faint but persistent glow emerged from the dark fabric of the Shroud. Something shifted inside, moved, twisted in a silent convulsion. The two stingers merged, not in a simple union, but in a macabre dance of polymerization, their substances fusing and intertwining in a repugnant alchemy. The `Razor-Stinger` grew, thickening, taking on the size of a short sword. Its edge remained chillingly sharp, and the black-violet poison still oozed from it, thicker and more abundant. The fusion was real. A new weapon—more powerful, more sinister.

A cold satisfaction, devoid of any joy, spread through him. It was a gain, an advantage in this merciless war. With his new weapon in hand, ready to face the darkness, he turned his attention to the mysterious "Echo Distillation," that new line on the waterfall, the enigmatic percentage haunting him like a worm in his mind.

With all his tears—those tears of regret and suffering torn from his soul—he invested in the `Coward's Stealth` skill. He needed it. He had to be a shadow among shadows, a soundless breath in these tunnels teeming with hostile life, a specter without substance.

He slept in a quiet spot, a sheltered nook where the rock didn't seep too much, so he could respawn there later, far from immediate danger. A strategic choice, another rule learned the hard way, branded into him by pain and failure.

The fight was brutal and merciless. Zac, empowered by his stealth skill raised to its maximum, advanced through the dark tunnels, his steps nearly inaudible, a whisper barely perceptible on the stone. He approached the small spiders—those fast, vicious creatures swarming in the shadows. He struck. Bodies cracked under the blows of his giant stinger, the poison did its work, paralyzing or decomposing them on the spot. But his silence was shattered by the snapping of their broken shells. He was spotted, overwhelmed by their numbers. The small legs, the little fangs—a swarming tide that tore him apart, crushed him, consumed him. He died, drowned in a wave of chitin and venom, an agony of a thousand bites.

He tried again. And again. Death was nothing more than a pause. A loading screen.

After five attempts, his muscles aching, his mind scarred by each agony, he had killed thirty spiders. Thirty lives taken, one by one, meticulously. This macabre ritual drew a bitter rictus from him, a joyless smile. It reminded him of distant tales of Legolas and Gimli counting their orcs, but in a much darker, more desperate universe, where victory was only a step toward the next defeat, and the only trophy was survival.

Exhausted but determined, his body battered but his mind alert, he hurried back to the waterfall to rest and take stock.

Zac reached the waterfall, breathless, his lungs burning. He sat before the still water, watching the screen shimmer faintly in the reflection.

The message displayed:

[Waterfall of Night]

[Tears of Regret: 5]

[Coward's Stealth: 6/?]

[Healing Stagnation: 0/?]

[Forge of Brutality: 0/?]

[Echo of Ungoliant: 120]

[Echo Distillation: 4%]

A mix of astonishment and frustration crossed his hollowed face. Where did all these echoes come from? One hundred and twenty. He didn't understand. Everything was hidden, nothing explained. He had to guess, to deduce in this world of darkness, where every scrap of information was a hard-won victory, every bit of knowledge a scar.

He sat heavily, eyes fixed on the screen, thinking for a long time. Then, an idea. a flash in the darkness of his mind. 120 corresponded to 30 spiders killed multiplied by 4%, the distillation percentage.

He analyzed his situation: the more he killed, the more echoes he accumulated, the higher his distillation, and the more echoes he would get in the future. A powerful, almost unreal mechanic that gave him a sickening sense of vertigo.

He was glad to be able to accumulate so many echoes, but he still didn't know how to spend them, their true use remaining a mystery.

He decided to try pouring all his echoes into distillation.

The screen updated, coldly, indifferently.

[Waterfall of Night]

[Tears of Regret: 5]

[Coward's Stealth: 6/?]

[Healing Stagnation: 0/?]

[Forge of Brutality: 0/?]

[Echo of Ungoliant: 24]

[Echo Distillation: 100%]

He felt resistance, an invisible barrier preventing him from spending his echoes one by one to go beyond 100%. He snapped back to reality, realizing it seemed too easy. This world gave nothing without an exorbitant price, without a sacrifice.

He focused his mind and tried to pour more echoes in at once. The resistance gave way, a shiver running down his spine, a new fracture in his perception of the world.

The screen updated:

[Waterfall of Night]

[Tears of Regret: 5]

[Coward's Stealth: 6/?]

[Healing Stagnation: 0/?]

[Forge of Brutality: 0/?]

[Echo of Ungoliant: 4]

[Echo Distillation: 102%]

He understood that at each 100% threshold, it took ten times more echoes to increase by 1%. An exorbitant price for a meager percentage. He still didn't know what this distillation was for, what use it had besides siphoning away his precious echoes, but he had a new goal. A new burden.