Transmigration in Mordor

Zac, still panting from his titanic battle, his body martyred by countless deaths but his mind strangely clear from his victory, took the time to explore the cavern. The air was heavy, thick with a pestilential odor, a mixture of sulfur, blood, and decay that clung to his lungs, saturating them with a persistent nausea. He approached the massive carcass of the skeletal spider, a monument of broken flesh and bone. His eyes, at first blurred from the effort, grew sharp, scrutinizing every corner of this abominable monster. He searched methodically, his hands trembling but determined, looking for useful materials, intact fragments of chitin, unpierced venom sacs, still-whole mandibles, or stingers that could strengthen his equipment, enhance the bite of his cursed sword, Morngul.

But despite his relentless efforts, the debris and heaps of putrid flesh offered him few usable resources. The cavern seemed to have been plundered by time and other creatures, or perhaps the very nature of the beast made its remains of little use. A bitter frustration rose in him. This wasn't the trophy he had imagined, just an unkept promise.

Exhausted to the bone, the weight of fatigue pressing on his shoulders like a granite slab, Zac turned back. His steps were heavy, almost dragging, but the harsh satisfaction of having defeated a guardian of this magnitude, of having survived such carnage, gave him a new strength, a brutal resilience.

He returned to the sanctuary, his steps heavy, Morngul still gripped firmly in his hand like a natural extension of his arm. Without even thinking of undressing, he plunged directly into the fountain. The water, cold and spectral, enveloped him, seeking to soothe his battered body and tormented mind. He let the weapon and his body grow heavy, surrendering to the liquid embrace, hoping the water would wash away the blood, the filth, and the madness.

There, he remained for a long time, his gaze lost in the shifting reflections of the waterfall, his mind a temporary void. Gradually, the fog dissipated, and he forced himself to take stock. He looked at the waterfall, his eyes scanning the implacable numbers of his resources: his tears, his echoes, his skills.

[Waterfall of Night]

[Tears of Regret: 68]

[Coward's Stealth: 0/?]

[Healing Stagnation: 0/?]

[Forge of Brutality: 0/?]

[Echo of Ungoliant: 125,000,891]

[Echo Distillation: 500%]

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

The number of echoes struck him. A shockwave. He stood speechless, breathless, his wide eyes staring at the staggering figure. One hundred and twenty-five million. It was inconceivable. He tried to make sense of the situation, to find a justification for this insane accumulation. And the answer came with brutal clarity. The death of the skeletal spider. Considered a guardian, a boss. That alone could explain such a windfall.

For a moment, an icy shiver of terrifying familiarity ran down his spine. He thought back to Hades, to the endless cycle of boss resurrections, to the certainty that even the greatest demons would return. He paled, a dull anxiety tightening his throat. Would the monster return?

One hundred and twenty-five million. It was a long way from the total needed for the `Song of the Ainur`. But it was a start. A real start. And he wondered, his heart tight with apprehension, if the other guardians, the Balrogs, the worms, would offer as many echoes. The prospect of having to slaughter other titanic creatures to accumulate this resource overwhelmed him.

Gripped by the fear of the terrible challenges to come, by the scale of the horrors he would have to face again and again, he slowly sank deeper into the fountain's water, seeking refuge, an anesthesia in its soothing coldness.

At first, a visceral resistance held him back. He couldn't bring himself to corrupt his soul any further. He already had `Echo Distillation` at 500%. His transformation was palpable, his eyes were changing, his nails sharpening. To sink deeper... It was a horror. But logic, ruthless, imposed itself. He knew that investing in distillation now, even if it blackened his being even more, would allow him to reap more later. More echoes, more quickly. A better chance of reaching that unattainable number for the `Song of the Ainur`.

He thought for a long time, his eyes fixed on Morngul by his side, the blade dark and menacing, imbued with his victory and his corruption. The weapon seemed to speak to him, to whisper promises of power. And a cold, ruthless decision matured within him.

He had to do it.

He gave the order.

[Echo of Ungoliant: 0]

[Echo Distillation: 700%]

[Song of the Ainur: 5,000,983 / 999,999,999]

He felt his soul blacken as never before. It was not a mere sensation, but an invasion. Ancient torments, echoes of sins and sufferings that were not his own, came to haunt him, mingling with his own, a cacophony of evil. Blurred visions, crawling figures, screaming things, whispers. He felt the evil described by Tolkien, the evil that had disfigured Arda, that had perverted beings. An unspeakable pain, a cold burn that seared through his being, consuming him from within.

He lost consciousness, overwhelmed by this suffering.

When he awoke, he felt different. The world around him seemed sharper, more intense, but also crueler. His teeth, he felt as he ran his tongue over them, were pointed, slightly elongated. His nails, when he looked at his trembling hands, had become claws, hard and sharp. And his eyes... his eyes were devoid of color, with a disturbing acuity. He saw the nuances of shadow in a way he never had before.

His transformation plunged him into dread. The monstrous beauty of what he had become. He looked at himself, a stranger to his own form.

But the machine, the implacable logic of survival and redemption, asserted itself.

He had to move forward. Each step into the darkness was a forced step, a heart-wrenching pact. To defile himself further was the brutal path to accumulating Echoes. And at the bottom of this abyss of corruption, shone the unique and desperate glimmer: the hope, faint but haunting, of one day freeing himself from the shadow he had become.