Night had fallen, but Eric found it hard to sit still.
"I'll go tidy up the spare room," Bilbo offered. "It's the one just down the hall—you can sleep there."
"I'll help," Eric said, following behind.
Bilbo didn't refuse.
As they both bent down to clear away clutter, Eric finally asked the question that had been nagging at the back of his mind:
"By the way, what time is it now?"
Bilbo glanced at him. "What do you mean? It's nighttime, of course. Most folks are already fast asleep by now."
He picked up a small box that was in the way. Eric took it from him and set it outside the door.
Neither of them stopped working.
Eric shook his head. "No, I mean… what year is it? What time period are we in?"
"Oh, right. That would be 1340. Month of May."
Thunk.
"—Ow!"
Eric banged his head against the low wooden eave. His health bar gave a quick shudder but, thankfully, didn't drop.
The Shire Calendar, 1340. That corresponded to the Year 2940 of the Third Age.
Wait a minute… when did the Quest for the Lonely Mountain begin again?
He rubbed his forehead, trying to recall.
It should be around April of 1341—meaning the expedition would start roughly a year from now.
Right now, Gandalf was probably still somewhere on the road, Thorin was still wandering in exile, trying to make a living.
Dwarves. Elves. Men. Orcs. Wargs.
Dragons. Mountains of gold.
Sauron. Dol Guldur.
War.
The One Ring…
A flurry of names and images stormed through Eric's mind like a chaotic whirlwind. And amid it all, a dark figure seemed to ripple at the edge of his vision.
"You alright there, Eric?"
Whoosh—
He blinked hard, pulling himself back from the haze.
"Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Just hit my head a little."
Bilbo gave him a sideways glance. "I'd say you're pretty tall for a human, aren't you?"
Eric puffed out his chest instinctively. "Of course. I'm six foot one!"
Thud!
His health bar jumped again.
Almost immediately, he hunched back over with a grimace.
"Pfft—!" Bilbo burst out laughing at the sight of him wincing and clutching his head.
Eric shook his head, chuckling at himself.
One year, he thought. What can I do in a year?
Time passed quickly when life was peaceful.
A few days later, during a quiet evening after a late-night snack, Eric was sitting in a little garden chair, a blade of grass in his mouth, staring at a particularly bright star in the sky.
If it were any ordinary person who had ended up in this world, someone without any allies or resources—well, even knowing the grand events of the future wouldn't help much. Just figuring out where you were and how to survive might take more than a year.
But Eric wasn't just anyone. And he wasn't worried.
Creak.
"Eric? It's getting late—aren't you going to bed?" came Bilbo's voice as he pushed open the door.
Eric turned to look. "Soon. Just wanted to sit out here a bit longer. The stars are different here."
"Well, don't forget to lock up when you come in," Bilbo said, before heading back inside.
Eric yawned and glanced at his status bar—health full, hunger overflowing.
Suddenly, he stood up, stretched, and turned around to look at the cozy hobbit-hole he'd come to know.
A quiet life like this isn't so bad, he mused.
Of course, that's assuming nothing comes along to ruin it…
The next morning.
The sky was barely turning gray when soft rustling could be heard at the door of Bag End.
Bilbo, still half-asleep, groaned and peeled back his blanket. He shuffled to the door and peeked out.
"Eric?"
Standing at the doorway, fully dressed and equipped, was Eric.
"You're heading out?" Bilbo asked, rubbing his eyes.
Eric turned to face him and nodded.
"Adventure doesn't wait, Mr. Baggins. It's time I moved on."
He bowed slightly and added, "Thank you for your hospitality. When we meet again, I promise I'll repay your kindness."
Bilbo blinked several times, suddenly wide awake.
"You sure you won't stay a few more days? There's still so much I haven't shown you…"
Eric smiled at him.
Whatever Bilbo had been about to say next caught in his throat. He could tell—this man had already made up his mind.
"Partings are common," Eric said, his voice calm but meaningful. "But I'm sure we'll see each other again soon, Mr. Baggins."
"I'm off to begin my journey."
Adventure, Bilbo thought.
Some hidden part of his heart stirred at that word—but only faintly. It quickly faded, and he simply shook his head.
"At least wait a moment, Eric."
Bilbo turned and hurried back inside. He ran to his pantry, then his storage shelves, and after a moment, returned carrying a small bundle.
"Here. Take this!"
Eric blinked. "What's this?"
"Some food," Bilbo said simply. "Every good journey needs a bit of rations, doesn't it?"
Eric stared for a second, then knelt down and gave Bilbo a gentle pat on the shoulder.
"Thank you, my friend."
They hadn't known each other long—barely a handful of days—but they'd gotten along remarkably well. Between Eric's master-level cooking skills and the fascinating stories he told with effortless charm, it hadn't taken long for a deep camaraderie to form between the tall stranger and the curious hobbit.
"Promise you'll come back, Eric!" Bilbo called, just a little choked up.
Eric smiled and nodded. "I will."
In this land, farewells were just part of life.
There was no need for grand farewells—just a simple wave, and the two returned to their own paths.
Though a bit embarrassed, Eric still shamelessly asked Bilbo for one last favor before leaving: a map.
As someone who once enjoyed the story with a godlike overview, Eric was reasonably familiar with the geography of Middle-Earth. But no matter how much you think you know, it's still better to have a map in hand when you're actually out in the world.
The Shire—the place where it all began.
To the north lay the ruins of the Kingdom of Arnor and the Angmar Plateau.
To the west were Lindon and the Blue Mountains.
To the east, beyond the Brandywine Bridge, was Bree. Beyond that stretched the Lone-lands, where wandering rangers roamed—silent sentinels watching the growing evil in the East, guardians of this wild frontier.
Between Brandywine and Bree, if you veer south, you'd find two infamous regions:
The Old Forest, and the Barrow-downs.
Both places were abandoned and rife with eerie rumors. Best avoided.
Anyone who's played Minecraft knows—you need a base first. Otherwise, you'll constantly be at a disadvantage.
Only with a permanent residence can one truly feel secure.
After some thought, Eric fixed his gaze on one particular spot.
A vast stretch of land to the east of Bree.
The Lone-lands.
Sparse population, plenty of space—perfect for building a base and developing.
Of course, there were other places that fit those conditions.
But this area had one decisive advantage: in the future, both the Company of Thorin and the Ring-bearer would pass through it.
There was no way Eric was going to miss that kind of excitement.
Having a base there would be incredibly convenient.
No hesitation.
He rolled up the map and set off.
From sunrise to sunset, Eric sprinted along the road, never slowing, charging east like a man possessed.
A few days earlier, Eric had discovered something remarkable: as long as he had enough food, he had endless stamina. He wouldn't get tired, no matter how far or fast he ran.
The downside? Food was consumed rapidly.
The rations Bilbo had given him—enough to feed a normal hobbit for a full week—were half gone by the end of the first day.
A week's worth of hobbit meals, burned through in a single day.
But the efficiency was undeniable.
In just one day, Eric passed through several Shire villages, crossed the Brandywine Bridge, and arrived near the borders of the Old Forest and the Barrow-downs.
A veritable marathoner—just feed him, and he'd run forever.
By now, night had fully fallen.
Yet the sky was far from dark.
Under the starlight, Eric found a withered tree near the roadside—not thick, but dry enough. He pulled out his stone axe.
Thud, thud, thud, thud…
Soon, a sharp crack rang out. The tree broke clean at the base and collapsed with a resounding crash.
Thump!
In the silence of the wilderness, the sound was startlingly loud.
Eric paid it no mind. He simply got to work chopping the fallen trunk into smaller logs for firewood.
Moments later, a campfire blazed to life.
He pulled out the hefty pack of food Bilbo had given him.
Curiously, the entire bundle counted as a single inventory item.
But if he removed any food from it, it would require a separate inventory slot.
Eric figured that items in the same inventory slot had to either be identical stackables—or be recognized by the system as "a single unit."
He mused idly as he skewered some sausages and set them roasting by the fire, mind busy with thoughts of crafting.
A shield, some armor—anything that could directly boost his survivability and combat effectiveness.
But all of them lacked one critical material:
Iron.
The fire began to wane slightly. Eric tossed in a few more sticks from his inventory.
If anyone happened to pass by at that moment, they'd probably let out a gasp and mistake him for some wandering wizard conjuring wood from thin air.
With nothing better to do, Eric pulled out his stone sword and examined it.
A line of text floated into view:
[Stone Sword · Attack +5]
The weapon looked as though it had been handcrafted by a master artisan—smooth as jade, razor-sharp at the edges, and solid to the core. It was nearly on par with actual metalwork.
A genuine piece of art.
Eric admired it, thinking he'd never get tired of looking at it. With its craftsmanship, you could probably auction it off as a collectible.
Creak.
A sudden sound from the firewood behind snapped him out of his reverie. Eric remembered he was roasting sausages.
But when he turned, he noticed something odd—the flames had dimmed again.
Burned through that fast? he thought.
Still, he couldn't let the fire go out. The sausages weren't done yet.
He reached into his inventory for more wood—and tossed a few sticks onto the fire.
Thunk.
Instead of the usual crackle, the firewood struck something solid.
Eric's heart skipped a beat. He froze, then slowly looked up.
From the shadows above the fire, a decayed head leaned out—its eye glowing red, framed by withered, ash-colored scalp. A dry corpse stared down at him, unblinking.
Eyes locked.
Eric didn't move.