Transmigration in Mordor

The chaos of his resurrection faded, leaving behind a silence as vast and cold as the void from which he had just been torn. Zac emerged from the primordial fountain, no longer in a blind panic, but with a deliberate slowness. He remained for a long moment in the basin, the spectral water striking his shoulders, his mind a battlefield where memories of the purest joy and the most absolute terror clashed in an endless cycle.

Then, the inner storm calmed, replaced by a cold resolve. It was time to stop enduring. It was time to make a plan.

Zac sat, his gaze lost in the void, and began to take stock of everything at his disposal. Each element was a piece of a complex puzzle, a weapon or a burden that could be turned to his advantage or condemn him further.

"The Shroud... my living cloak. More than just protection, it's an extension of myself. It fuses, it is both shield and link to this world. I must understand its limits, its secrets."

"The skills of the night... they kept me alive, but at what cost? Immediate power, escape, stagnation... so many poisoned crutches. I must learn to detach from them, to no longer depend on these weaknesses."

"The potential of the dissonance skills... an arduous path, a promise of redemption. They are not earned through ease, but through effort, discipline. I must train, purify myself, become something else."

"My corruption... at 500%, it is my disguise, my passport in these shadows. But it is also a poison, a mark that attracts the Entity's attention. I must learn to control it, to use it without losing myself further."

"My weapon... this fused razor-stinger. Effective, but primitive. It can be improved, strengthened. I must make it deadlier, more suited to this endless fight."

"And everything I've learned... the location of materials, the habits of creatures, the hidden paths. This is my map, my guide. I must use it to trace a way to the exit, a way to the light."

Each thought was a stone laid on the path of his survival. He knew the road would be long, but he was ready to walk it, step by step, with the cold determination of a man who refuses to die without a fight.

Zac made the difficult decision to temporarily renounce his night skills. He knew that the immediate power they offered was an invisible chain, a slow poison that prevented him from accessing the true strength promised by the cascade of dissonance.

He trained with relentless rigor. Every day, he hunted the small spiders in the tunnels, using only his raw strength and instinct. He learned to fight without relying on stealth or passive healing. Every wound was a lesson, every scar a reminder of his will to change.

He slept little, healed himself, then began again. This repetitive cycle was a penance, a path of purification. He was forging a body and a mind capable of enduring the discipline that the cascade of dissonance would demand.

Days stretched into weeks, weeks into months. The fatigue was constant, but Zac did not waver. He knew this sacrifice was necessary. He had to become something else, or perish in the shadow of his old weaknesses.

Armed with his new determination, Zac plunged into the depths of Mordor. He methodically hunted for spider filaments, abandoned carcasses, sharp stingers, cutting mandibles, and still-intact venom sacs. Each element was a precious piece, a fragment of a weapon or armor that he could shape.

Back in his sanctuary, he began his experiments. Fusing the materials was a delicate art. Many attempts failed, the resources disintegrating into dust or a formless mush. Each failure was a painful loss, but also a lesson.

Gradually, he managed to strengthen his stinger. He added a layer of spider thread that transformed, hardening into an ergonomic handle, offering a better grip. Along the blade, he attached backward-facing hooks, designed to tear flesh and prevent escape.

He felt the power of his weapon grow, an extension of his will to survive.

He fashioned a makeshift bag, fusing threads and pieces of supple carapace, a rudimentary but effective container.

Empowered by his discoveries, Zac looked at his sanctuary with new eyes. The cloak, the Shroud, was not just simple protection. It fused his sword, mending the breaches, reinforcing the blade. He repaired his tattered clothes, each seam invisible, each tear closed as if by magic.

An idea sprouted in his tired mind. What if his sword could be fused with mithril, that legendary metal, light and strong? But the raw ores he had seen in the depths seemed resistant to direct fusion. They would have to be melted, purified by fire.

He then remembered the lava, the cavern of the Balrogs, the infernal heat capable of turning stone into magma. Perhaps he could use that natural furnace to melt the mithril and other precious materials.

But how? And more importantly, had the Balrogs been disturbed by the earthquake he had caused? The thought chilled his blood.

Zac stood in his sanctuary, the weight of paradoxes and mysteries heavy on his shoulders. The presence of the lava and the volcano on the surface gave him a valuable clue as to his location, but it only thickened the fog in his mind.

He thought back to the eye of lava, to the power of Sauron, but it was all inconsistent. If Gondolin still existed, even as an illusion, then Morgoth was still the primary enemy. Sauron, at that time, had not yet taken control of Mount Doom. Time itself seemed to bend, to twist in this cursed place.

These questions tormented him, plunging him into a dull despair. He sighed deeply, feeling the weight of the unknown crushing him.

But he could no longer remain frozen. Knowledge was a weapon, and he had to use it. With a decisive step, he left his sanctuary, his gaze fixed on the darkness.

He had a plan. He was going to act.