Transmigration in Mordor

Zac's body lay on the hard, uneven floor of the cavern, every stone acting like a thorn, sending back a dull, constant pain—a cruel reminder of his condition. The physical discomfort was total, a backdrop against which a much deeper suffering was drawn. Worse still was the turmoil in his mind, an endless chaos that refused to leave him in peace. His thoughts, swirling with despair and terror, kept him awake, making him drift, lost in the cursed depths of Mordor, unable to find mental respite even in the torpor of exhaustion.

His mind wandered to the stories he had read, the dark legends of Mordor, that place of impenetrable darkness and eternal curse. He recalled Tolkien's descriptions: the black ash, the mountains belching smoke, the earth itself corrupted. Knowing he was trapped here, in this realm of suffering and damnation, chilled his blood. He tried to turn his mind elsewhere—to the surface, to blue skies, to forgotten faces—but the weight of his body, the constant bite of cold and hunger, always brought him back to the cruel reality of his stone prison.

Unable to lie still any longer, tormented by immobility, he slowly sat up, every movement an ordeal, a silent groan from his aching muscles. By reflex, his fingers found a stone, rough and cold, which he rolled between his hands—a futile gesture, a desperate attempt to feel a texture, a sensation that didn't evoke death. Then, an idea took root, fragile but persistent, a spark of absurdity in the void: what if he could build something? A sanctuary. A refuge. A fragment of order in this absolute chaos, a corner of his own in hell.

He set out in search of materials—a pointless, yet vital quest. He scoured the caverns, looking for broken rocks, scattered slabs, even scraps of dried spiderwebs—anything that could serve his senseless work. With newfound strength, fueled by the `Forge of Brutality` he had recklessly increased, he broke the toughest stones, each blow echoing like a challenge to his own torment. Shards flew, his hands bled, but he pressed on, driven by the imperative need to create.

Days passed, no longer marked by sun or moon, but by hard labor and the cyclical return of hunger and thirst. He built a rudimentary bed, a pile of stones laid on the ground—a throne of misery on which he could finally stretch out his broken body. Beside it, he constructed a chair, a mound of stones stacked against a wall—a semblance of comfort in the utter abandonment. Around the fountain's puddle—the source of his survival and the reflection of his soul—he built a low stone wall, creating a basin where the mystical water could gather. A place to purify himself, to dream of unreachable peace, to wash away the filth of this world.

This work, though physically grueling and mentally exhausting, was an unexpected balm for his battered mind. For the first time since arriving in this cursed place, he found a semblance of rest—a moment when the pain faded, when the madness receded, pushed back by the effort of creation. It was an act of defiance, a pitiful attempt to claim a fragment of his hell.

When night—or whatever passed for it—fell, he lay down on his stone bed. His body, finally soothed by the effort, found a deep, dreamless sleep—a respite in hell he hadn't known for an eternity. It was a heavy sleep, a temporary oblivion, the only true victory he could offer himself.

Upon waking, a strange calm settled over him. He walked to the cascade, stepped over the wall of his stone sanctuary, and plunged his battered body into the mystical water. A gentle, soothing warmth filled him—a foreign sensation in this world of cold and despair. All his mental and psychic suffering faded, the voices in his head went silent, and peace settled in—fragile but real. He felt a peace he thought lost forever, a serenity stolen from horror.

He stayed there for what felt like an eternity, savoring this rare calm, this unexpected truce. Time had no hold on him in this basin of stolen peace. Only the weight and cold of his cloak—his Shroud—floating around him, broke this peace, a cruel and constant reminder of the reality of his damnation.

But if he had learned anything from his endless punishments, it was that only suffering is eternal. Peace was just a lure, a stolen moment. Building this sanctuary, bathing in this mystical water, were only ways to make the path more bearable—not to escape it.

He turned back to the cascade, his gaze empty but determined. He allocated his tears, his tokens of pain, with mechanical precision, without emotion, like an accountant of damnation.

[Waterfall of Night]

[Tears of Regret: 0]

[Coward's Stealth: 11/?]

[Healing Stagnation: 0/?]

[Forge of Brutality: 0/?]

[Echo of Ungoliant: 4]

[Echo Distillation: 102%]

He left the mystical fountain, dressed himself, his clothes heavy and clammy, took up his blade—his extension of brutality—and continued his journey through the depths.