Transmigration in Mordor

Zac regained consciousness in a silent suffocation, the void of a freshly ended non-existence closing in on him. He awoke in an involuntary spasm, his body wracked with uncontrollable tremors, his mind a maelstrom of contradictory sensations, a chaos of phantom burns and echoes of shattered sounds.

The last death... that was what overwhelmed him. It wasn't just another death among many. This one was different. The Balrog had dismantled him. Not just his body, but his mind, his soul. The pain of broken bones, flesh sizzling under the sword of fire, the embrace of the whip of flames... all of that was physical. But what gnawed at him was the torture. The deliberate torture. The Balrog had savored every moment of his agony, prolonging his suffering with abyssal cruelty. This prolonged humiliation, this absolute helplessness before a malevolent intelligence that watched him die with amused indifference, it was a violation. A violation that left a scar on his soul far deeper and more burning than any physical wound. He remained prostrate in the sanctuary, trembling, the echo of his own end resonating in his mind, a music of terror.

He was so lost in the fog of this trauma that he didn't immediately notice the source of the searing pain in his right hand. He felt it, yes, this throbbing bite, but his overwhelmed brain refused to analyze it. It was only when the acrid smell of his own burnt flesh reached his nostrils that he managed to look down. Lodged in his palm, a piece of metal radiated a dark, pulsating glow. It wasn't the cold gray of the mithril he had hastily snatched. No. It was black, an abyssal black, and it glittered with tiny red specks like dying embers. It was the fragment of mithril, but it was changed, imbued with the black fire of the Balrog, an ember from hell that continued to consume him.

With a hoarse cry that tore at his throat, he dropped the stone. It fell to the stone floor with a dull thud, leaving a nasty bite in his hand, a wound that sank deep, gnawing at the skin, the muscles, and seemingly wanting to reach the bone itself. A burn not of fire, but of nothingness. A bite of black flame. He rushed to the fountain, plunging his hand into the spectral water to try to calm the unbearable pain. He mentally activated his healing skill, `Healing Stagnation`, feeling the burn's progression halt, the pain slowly fading to a dull throb. The skill, once a symbol of his inaction, was now a simple balm, a bandage on a raw soul.

Sitting on the edge of the basin, he let his mind drift, thinking back to the Balrogs' cavern. To the destruction he had involuntarily caused by falling. Had he awakened the monster? Or had his fall into the Eye of Fire been the true catalyst for this chaos? Was he a mere victim of this universe, a toy in the hands of cosmic forces, or an active agent of his own misfortune, his own chaos? Each question was a spiral that pulled him deeper into despair, into the latent madness that stalked him.

His gaze then fell on the piece of mithril. It no longer shone with a silvery light, but with a palpable darkness, the Balrog's fire trapped within. He approached it with new wariness. This time, he would not touch it with his bare hand. He remembered. The Shroud. He had used it to grab the burning metal in the Balrogs' cavern. He used it again to seize it here, and was surprised to feel that the cloak completely protected him from the burn, absorbing the corrupting energy. A lesson learned too late, with the blood of his hand. He could have used it to protect himself from the demon's fire. A cold rage rose within him.

A mad idea, born of destruction, despair, and this new rage, sprouted within him. He plunged his enhanced sword, his faithful razor-stinger, into the fountain's water and, using the Shroud as a protective grip, also submerged the cursed mithril.

The Shroud went to work. An energy-consuming fusion, far more intense than any before, began. The fountain's water started to boil and smoke, bubbles of black and silver energy rising. A strange light, a vortex of shadow and silver, enveloped the weapon and the metal. The Shroud itself seemed to groan, stretched to its limits, struggling to contain and reshape these two contradictory forces: the purified mithril and the black fire of the Balrog. Zac felt the cloak stretch, the very fiber of his shroud vibrating under the strain.

When the fusion was complete, a deathly silence fell upon the sanctuary. Only the regular pulse of the new weapon resonated in the air. Zac brandished his new blade. It was a thing of terrible and funereal beauty. A long blade of a brilliant, almost liquid gray, shot through with reflections that shimmered from deep violet to abyssal black. Its shape was elegant, slightly curved, but deadly, with vicious, reversed hooks along its back. At its base, the hardened spider thread formed a perfect hilt, fitting the shape of his hand. The weapon emanated an undeniable power, a palpable vibration, mixed with a negative energy that seemed to drink the light, a thirst for destruction.

Zac admired his new companion for a long time. He thought back to the descriptions in the legends, to the weapons forged for heroes, to the mithril blades that shone at the approach of orcs. His did not shine. It seemed to absorb light, a luminous void. It was a blade of pure vengeance, forged in the anguish and fire of an unheard-of hell. A Glamdring of the abyss, made of suffering and hatred.

Driven by a new frenzy, a hunger for power stoked by the weapon's touch and the echo of his last agony, he tested it. He trained relentlessly, seeking perfection in movement, in the strike.

Finally, he headed for the waterfall. His strategy had changed. Subtlety, redemption, hope... all of it had died in the Balrog's fire. He allocated his points with a cold, brutal resolve, his gaze fixed on the `Forge of Brutality` line.

[Waterfall of Night] 

[Tears of Regret: 0]

[Coward's Stealth: 0/?] 

[Healing Stagnation: 1/?] 

[Forge of Brutality: 54/?]

[Echo of Ungoliant: 891] 

[Echo Distillation: 500%] 

[Song of the Ainur: 92 / 999,999,999]

He would no longer need to be discreet; his corrupted soul and new aura already hid him well enough from the eyes of lesser creatures. He would hardly need to heal anymore; death was but a setback, a fleeting pain. No. He would need strength. Overwhelming strength. Raw force, without finesse, without detour. A pure and devastating power.

A murderous glint in his eyes, his mind filled with a single thought, he took the path to the skeletal spider's cavern. His new cursed sword was an extension of himself, ready to sing its first true song of death.