Middle-earth - Second Age - Forest of EriadorTime elapsed since start: 47 seconds
Marco Antonio Durán was lost.
" Okay , TARS. I know you said my sense of direction was bad, but this is ridiculous. I LITERALLY just left the store less than a minute ago."
[Technically it was 47 seconds. And you've already managed to deviate 180 degrees from the direction I suggested.]
"But I was just walking in a straight line!"
[Marco, you walked in a circle. A perfect circle. It's statistically impressive how bad you are at this.]
Marco looked around. He was surrounded by massive trees. The forest was dense, ancient, and absolutely beautiful. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, creating golden patterns on the moss-covered ground. The air smelled of earth, wood, and something indefinably green.
It was nothing like any forest I had ever seen in Mexico.
"Okay, okay. Give me clear directions. Where should I go?"
[First, let's identify where you are. Activate your Nen . Use Merchant's] [Eye on the environment.]
Marco closed his eyes, concentrating. He felt his aura activate, flowing from his hands into the surrounding environment. His Hatsu responded, and suddenly he could FEEL information flowing toward him.
Trees: Ancient, at least 800 years old. Oaks and elms. Soil: Rich in ambient magic. Direction of the sun: West... I think. Nearby danger: None immediate.
" Okay , there's no danger. That's good."
[For now. But you are in Eriador , the region between the Misty Mountains and the Great Sea. In the Second Era, this area is relatively safe... except for the occasional band of orcs, trolls , and worse creatures that occasionally descend from the mountains.]
"Are you telling me I'm in no man's land?"
woodland elf territory . But it's a large, lightly patrolled area. Basically: not entirely safe, but not an active battleground either.]
Marco sighed and started walking in what he EXPECTED was a northerly direction.
[You're heading south.]
"DAMN!"
He turned around 180 degrees and started walking again.
[Now you're heading southeast.]
"WHAT? I TURNED AROUND COMPLETELY!"
[Your brain doesn't process directions normally, Marco. It's as if you have a permanently broken internal compass. Accept your fate.]
Marco grunted in frustration but kept walking, now simply letting TARS constantly correct him.
As he walked, he began to truly appreciate where he was. Middle-earth. The place of his favorite books and movies. But this was REAL. The trees were real. The air was real. The danger would be real.
He touched the hilt of his elven sword , feeling its comforting weight.
"TARS, what is my purpose here? I can't just wander aimlessly through Middle-earth."
[Immediate objective: Find civilization. You need to establish contacts, learn about the current political situation, and position yourself strategically. Remember: you are in the Second Age. Númenor is at its height. The Rings of Power have likely already been forged. Sauron is playing his long game.]
"And what am I supposed to do? Sell magic swords to everyone?"
[Eventually, yes. But first you need to establish yourself as someone of importance. Powerful merchants are respected in Middle-earth, but only if they have a reputation. Right now you're a nobody with fancy equipment .]
"Great. Then I need to build a reputation."
[Exactly. And the quickest way to do that is—]
TARS stopped abruptly.
Marco felt a chill run down his spine.
His sense of danger exploded like sirens in his head.
"TARS..."
[Don't move. Activate Zetsu . NOW.]
Marco immediately sealed his aura, entering full Zetsu form . His presence vanished.
And then he listened to them.
Voices. Growls. The sound of something heavy moving among the trees.
And that smell.
That smell of rotten meat, sweat, and violence.
Marco hid behind a massive tree, holding his breath.
[Orcs. Scouting band. Tale... seven. Possibly eight. Armed. Dangerous.]
Marco peeked out carefully.
There they were.
Orcs.
Not the CGI versions of the movies. REAL ORCS.
They were uglier than I had imagined. Grayish-green skin. Yellow, crooked teeth. Armor made of poorly fitted pieces of rusted metal and leather. Weapons—toothed swords, axes, crude bows—all designed to inflict maximum pain.
And they were BIG. The smallest was easily 1.80 meters tall. The leader, a monster with a dead white eye, was over two meters tall.
They spoke in a guttural language that Marco, thanks to his multilingualism, could understand perfectly:
"Nothing here. These woods are empty."
"Chief Uglúk said to look for elves. Or humans. Anything that bleeds."
"We haven't eaten anything fresh for days..."
"Patience. We'll find something. There's always something."
The leader stopped.
He sniffed the air.
"Wait..."
Marco felt his heart stop.
"I smell something. Something... different."
[Marco, your Zetsu is perfect. They can't detect you with their aura sense. But your SMELL is another story. Orcs have an exceptional sense of smell.]
"WHAT I DO?"
[Stay still. Absolutely still. If you move, they'll detect you. If you fight, it's eight against one. Bad odds.]
The orc leader started walking towards the tree where Marco was hiding.
Closer.
Closer.
Marco gripped the hilt of his sword, preparing for the inevitable.
The orc circled the tree.
His eyes—one black, one dead white—fixed directly on Marco.
"HERE!"
Everything exploded while in motion.
Marco didn't think. His training took over.
He drew his sword in one fluid motion as he activated Ten, his aura enveloping him like invisible armor.
The orc leader attacked with his massive axe.
Marco dodged it—BARLY—feeling the air displaced by the leaf pass by his face.
He counterattacked with a diagonal cut.
elven sword cut cleanly through the orc's armor, opening a deep wound in his side.
The orc howled in pain.
"KILL HIM!"
The other seven orcs charged.
"SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!" Marco yelled, backing away.
[FOCUS! Use your training!]
Two orcs attacked him simultaneously from different angles.
Marco blocked the first one with his sword, then turned, using the moment to deflect the second attack and create distance.
A third person tried to tackle him.
Marco jumped back, activating Ren . His aura exploded outward in a wave of pressure.
The orcs instinctively retreated, confused by the supernatural sensation.
"What IS this human?" one growled.
"It doesn't matter! It's only one!"
Marco knew he had seconds before he was overwhelmed.
I needed to change the dynamic.
He remembered his archery training. He wasn't an expert, but he was competent.
In one fluid motion, he sheathed his sword and uncoiled his elven bow from his back.
The orcs laughed.
"He's going to use a bow! In close combat! IDIOT!"
Marco did not respond.
He concentrated.
He felt time slow down—not really, but his enhanced perception made it seem that way.
He took out an arrow.
He cut it.
He pulled.
He pointed at the nearest orc.
And he let go.
The elven arrow truly flew, burying itself in the orc's eye.
The orc fell dead instantly.
The others froze for a fraction of a second, surprised.
Marco used that moment.
Second arrow. Another orc. Throat.
He fell, drowning in his own blood.
Third arrow. Chest. The orc stumbled but did not fall.
The remaining five (including the wounded leader) roared in fury and charged like maniacs.
"OKAY, PLAN B," Marco shouted, sheathing his bow and drawing his dwarf daggers.
The first orc arrived.
Marco dodged him, plunging a dagger into his side as he passed. The orc screamed.
The second one attacked him with a serrated sword.
Marco blocked with his dagger, the spark of metal against metal illuminating the shadowy forest. He counterattacked with his other dagger, severing sinews in the orc's arm.
But then he felt PAIN.
An axe had struck him in the back.
elven chainmail stopped the deep cut, but the IMPACT was brutal.
Marco fell rolling, panting.
[The armor held, but you have severe rib contusions! Be careful!]
Marco stumbled to his feet, activating more Ren to strengthen his body.
The four remaining orcs surrounded him.
"It's not so fast anymore," the leader mocked, his side wound bleeding but not slowing him down. "We've got him."
Marco breathed heavily, evaluating his options.
Four against one.
He was injured.
They were furious.
Bad odds.
But then he remembered something. A lesson from his combat instructor two subjective years ago:
"When you're outnumbered, don't fight fair. Use the environment. Use psychology. Use EVERYTHING."
Marco smiled. A wild smile that made the orcs hesitate for a moment.
"You know what, guys? You're right. I'm only human."
He activated his Hatsu .
Merchant's Eye .
His aura manifested as golden coins floating around him.
The orcs looked on, confused and a little... scared?
"What dark magic...?" one murmured.
"But here's the thing about humans," Marco continued, his voice gaining confidence. "We're creative. We're unpredictable. And..."
He pointed to the left, shouting in perfect Elvish :
"NOW! ATTACK FROM THE FLANK!"
The orcs turned around instinctively.
There was nobody there.
But Marco was already moving.
He threw one of his daggers with deadly accuracy. It buried itself in the back of the nearest orc, right between the shoulder blades.
Fell.
The three remaining riders turned back towards him, but Marco had already closed the gap with the leader.
He drew his sword in one fluid motion.
The leader tried to block.
Marco faked a high cut, then cut low, completely severing the leader's leg at the knee.
The orc fell, howling.
The last two orcs finally realized: this human was DANGEROUS.
They looked at each other.
Then they fled.
They ran into the forest, leaving their companions dead or dying.
Marco let them go, too exhausted to chase.
He slumped against a tree, breathing heavily.
"TARS... what the hell just happened?"
[You have just survived your first real battle in Middle-earth. Analysis: You killed four orcs, seriously wounded two, and drove two away. Tactical victory. Although your form was messy and you almost died three times.]
"Thrice..."
[Yes. When the axe hit you. When the leader almost beheaded you. And when you almost tripped over a root during your 'tactical maneuver'.]
"That wasn't a tactical maneuver. I almost fell because my balance is terrible."
[I know. That's why I said 'you almost died'.]
Marco laughed. A hysterical, tired, but genuine laugh.
He had fought against real orcs.
And he had won.
He looked at his sword. It was stained with black orc blood.
"I need to clean this up..."
[First you need to move. Where there's one band of orcs, there are usually more. And the noise from your fight may have attracted unwanted attention.]
Marco groaned, forcing himself to his feet. His back throbbed where the axe had struck him.
But then he felt something.
His danger sense was not alerting him.
In contrast, your Merchant's Eye —his Hatsu— was gently pressing.
Someone was approaching.
But it wasn't hostile.
"TARS, someone's coming. But I don't feel any danger."
[Interesting. Keep your Ten active but don't draw your weapon. Let them approach.]
Marco leaned against the tree, trying to look casual despite being covered in orc blood and his own blood probably seeping from the bruises.
A figure emerged from among the trees.
He was tall. Very tall. He was easily 1.95 meters tall.
Long platinum blonde hair, almost white. Icy blue eyes that seemed to see right through you.
Perfect features, almost inhumanly beautiful.
Pointy ears.
He wore green and brown traveling clothes that blended perfectly with the forest. He carried a longbow on his back and an elven sword at his belt.
An elf.
Marco had just met his first real elf from Middle-earth.
The elf studied the scene—the orc bodies, the blood, Marco covered in wounds—with an impassive expression.
Then he spoke in Sindarin , his voice like music:
" Man "cenich ? " (What do you see?)
Thanks to his multilingualism, Marco responded fluently in the same language:
" Cenin or . Narn naergon ." (I see death. A battle story.)
The elf raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised.
"You speak Sindarin . Unusual for a young human. What's your name, warrior?"
Marco switched to Westron (Common Language) for convenience:
"Marco Antonio Durán. Merchant and... apparently accidental orc killer."
"Accidental?" The elf almost smiled. Almost. "I see four orcs killed by your hand. One with an arrow in the eye. Another with a dagger in the back. Two more with precise sword cuts. That doesn't look accidental."
"Well, I wasn't PLANNING to run into orcs on my first trip to the woods..."
"Your first outing," the elf repeated. "So you're new to these lands."
"Completely new. I literally arrived today."
The elf studied Marco with those piercing eyes. Marco felt as if the elf could read his soul.
"Your equipment is of Elven make . Rivendell , if I'm not mistaken. Your mail is from Lórien . Your sword..." the elf approached, examining the blade, "...is the work of Celebrimbor or one of his apprentice masters. Weapons of that caliber are not given to just anyone."
"I bought them," Marco said honestly.
"Did you buy legendary elven gear ?" The elf did smile now, though he was more skeptical than amused. "Either you're an exceptionally lucky thief, or there's more to you than meets the eye."
"Definitely the latter. But I'm not a threat. I'm just..." Marco searched for the right words, "...settling into Middle-earth."
The elf considered this for a long moment.
"My name is Círdan ," he finally said.
Marco felt his jaw drop.
"CÍRDAN? Like Círdan the Shipwright? Círdan , one of the oldest and wisest elves in Middle-earth? "
Círdan blinked, genuinely surprised.
"You know about me. Interesting. Few humans in this era know my name, let alone with such... familiarity."
"I... uh... I read a lot," Marco improvised. "Stories. Legends."
[MARCO. CÍRDAN IS A MEMBER OF THE WHITE COUNCIL. HE IS THE BEARER OF NARYA, ONE OF THE THREE ELVES RINGS. THIS IS A MASSIVE CONTACT. DON'T RUIN IT.]
"I don't plan on ruining it, TARS," Marco muttered.
"Pardon?" asked Círdan .
"Nothing. Just talking to myself. Nervous habit."
Círdan watched him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
"Marco Antonio Durán. You are an enigma. You arrive in Middle-earth without an escort. You carry legendary elven weapons . You speak multiple languages fluently. You fight orcs with skill. And yet..." He moved closer, his gaze intensifying, "...there is something MORE to you. Something I cannot identify."
It was Nen . Marco was sure of it. Círdan could sense his aura, though he probably didn't know what it was.
"I'm... complicated," Marco admitted.
"Obviously." Círdan stepped back. "But you have slain orcs that threatened these lands. That speaks well of you. And your sword gleams in the presence of dark creatures, which means you have at least some alignment with the Light."
He pointed west.
elven settlement about a half-day's walk away. I can guide you there. Your wounds need tending, and..." a small smile, "...I think Lord Elrond would be interested in meeting you."
"ELROND?" Marco almost shouted. "Like in Elrond of Rivendell ?"
"The same. He's visiting our outpost to discuss... important matters." Círdan bowed his head. "Do you accept my offer?"
Marco looked around. He was lost. Wounded. And he had just received an invitation from one of the most important elves in Middle-earth to meet Elrond.
"Yes. Definitely yes. Please."
"Then follow me. And try to keep up. Humans tend to fall behind."
Círdan began to walk with elven grace .
Marco followed him, limping slightly.
[Frame.]
"Yeah?"
[You just got an audience with Círdan and Elrond on your first day. That's... statistically impossible.]
"Are you saying I'm lucky?"
[I'm saying you killed orcs in front of one of the most influential elves of the era. Now you have a golden opportunity to establish yourself. Don't. Blow. It.
"No pressure..."
[ALL the pressure.]
Marco sighed and followed Círdan through the forest, trying not to trip over roots.
His first hour in Middle-earth had included:
Get lost immediately ✓Mortal combat with orcs ✓Meet an elven legend ✓Invitation to meet another elven legend ✓
"If I keep going at this rate," Marco muttered, "I'll be having coffee with Galadriel by next week."
Don't tempt fate.
"Too late."
And as he followed Círdan deeper into the forest, Marco Antonio Durán couldn't help but smile.
Against all odds, his adventure in Middle-earth had begun.
And something told him that this was only the beginning.