"Excuse me, but who are you?" Eric asked warily.
"Just a wanderer," the voice replied.
A wanderer?
A figure slowly emerged from the shadows. The voice was clear, yet there were no footsteps, not even a whisper of movement.
Had he not shown himself, Eric likely would've never noticed someone lurking nearby.
Suppressing the urge to pull out a torch, Eric squinted in the moonlight. The man was tall, draped in a hooded cloak. A dagger hung at his waist, and a simple wooden bow was slung across his back.
His face was hidden in darkness, the hood casting deep shadows. Not a single feature was visible.
"Thanks," Eric said eventually.
Sure, he could have handled the orcs on his own—but the guy had helped, and that counted for something.
"No need to thank me," the wanderer replied as he began retrieving his arrows and looting the corpses of the orcs he'd taken down. "They were my prey anyway. Been tracking them for a while. You just made my job easier."
He glanced at Eric again and added, "That said… lighting a fire in the open at night, especially this high up, is usually a bad idea."
Eric scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "Fair point…"
He decided to change the subject. "You're one of the Dunedains, aren't you?"
The wanderer looked a little surprised.
"Yeah."
While they spoke, he had already picked over the bodies he'd killed. The ones Eric had slain remained untouched.
"I'd heard stories," Eric said. "That there are some Dunedains secretly protecting these wildlands. I guess they were true."
"People actually say that?" the wanderer chuckled. "That's rare."
Dunedains—descendants of a northern people long since scattered—had a reputation for being elusive and enigmatic. Many folks, not knowing any better, lumped them in with bandits and drifters.
"Have you fought the things from the Old Barrows?" the wanderer asked suddenly.
Eric tensed slightly. The man's gray eyes were sharp, gleaming in the dark as they fixed on him.
"I have," Eric admitted. "How did you know?"
"Instinct," the wanderer said simply. "Spent a lot of time dealing with those things myself."
Well… okay. Mysterious Dunedain instincts. Sure, why not?
After a moment's thought, Eric pulled out the corroded, rune-etched sword he'd looted from a barrow wight and tossed it to the wanderer.
The man caught it in one hand and examined it. After a few seconds, his eyes widened slightly.
"You recognize it?"
He nodded. "Very much so. This used to be standard-issue… centuries ago. The forging method's been lost, but this one—might still be usable with some restoration."
"Then it's yours," Eric said.
"…Are you serious?" the wanderer asked, clearly surprised. "You do realize this is an antique? A collector would pay a fortune."
"Maybe," Eric shrugged. "But it seems more useful in your hands than gathering dust in someone's hoard. Besides, I get the feeling it means something to you."
The wanderer stared at him for a moment, then gave a deep nod. "Thank you. Truly."
He fished around in his pouch for a second, then pulled out a small coin and handed it to Eric.
"Keep this. If you ever need me, go to the Forsaken Inn and wait. It's my usual stop. I'll be there within half a month."
Eric pocketed the coin. "Eric Starfell. And you?"
"Farodan."
And with that name, the wanderer slipped back into the night.
Eric stood for a moment, gazing out across the wildlands.
You know what? This place isn't half bad.
About two weeks later, Eric emerged from a twisting series of underground tunnels, grinning like a man who'd just struck gold.
Literally.
His inventory was full with raw iron ore, unprocessed stone, and several veins of promising minerals.
Persistence pays off.
After days of digging and exploration, Eric had finally discovered a proper iron vein deep underground. He had no idea how large it was, but it was definitely enough to start mining properly.
And iron wasn't the only thing down there. While digging tunnels outward, he'd occasionally hit pockets of other materials—copper, sulfur, saltpeter…
Now, Eric wouldn't have recognized these things on sight. But thankfully, his handy little system identified everything he picked up with a glowing item ID tag. Very thoughtful.
And once his inventory included both sulfur and saltpeter—plus charcoal—the crafting menu suddenly lit up.
Gunpowder.
And even better—TNT.
From that moment, his mining sessions had taken a much more explosive turn.
And now that he'd confirmed this area had abundant minerals, Eric made his decision.
This was the spot.
The first base.
He opened the map and marked a point between Weathertop and the Goblin Forest, a good distance from the main road. The area had everything: trees, a freshwater lake, flat land—and best of all, space.
If it weren't for the occasional orc raiders and worg packs, this place would be downright idyllic.
But Eric wasn't too worried about that.
One month later, a stone-and-wood fortress stood proudly on the plain. A seven-meter-high wall encircled a vast patch of land, towering above the grass like a castle dropped from the sky.
Inside, a spring-fed stream now flowed, feeding a field of wheat that had seemingly sprouted overnight and already ripened to gold.
From a distance, the place looked peaceful. Serene. Uninhabited, even.
But wisps of smoke curling from inside the walls told otherwise. Watchers in the shadows saw the smoke, and they knew—someone lived there.
That evening, Eric returned from a routine mining trip, pickaxe slung over one shoulder, inventory full of stone and ore. As he reached the gate, a sudden feeling made him look up.
Someone was sitting on the wall, watching him.
A familiar silhouette.
"Farodan?" he called.
The figure waved in reply.
Farodan leapt down from the wall with practiced ease, landing gracefully without a sound. Eric couldn't help but mutter a low whistle. Damn, that's some top-tier agility.
"How'd you find this place?"
"I heard from my people," Farodan said. "They spoke of a strange wizard who conjured a fortress out of thin air and planted a wheat field that grew like weeds. The moment they described you, I knew."
He looked around. "Besides, this place kind of sticks out. You're burning fires daily. Hard to miss."
This time, Farodan hadn't bothered to hide his face. In daylight, Eric could finally see the tall Dunedain's features: black hair, gray eyes, and a surprisingly youthful, striking face.
He looked thirty, maybe forty—but Eric had a hunch this guy had seen more than a few decades roll by.
Eric shrugged. "You're not wrong. I didn't exactly try to hide."
Orcs? Worgs? Let them come. He was an experienced survival crafter. Let's see if they could out-dig, out-build, or out-boom him.
"Come in. I just finished installing my kitchen. Fancy trying my cooking?"
Farodan shook his head. "Tempting, but I'm here on urgent business. A warband of orc riders has taken an interest in this place. Scouts say there are dozens of worg-mounted units and over a hundred troops total."
Eric let out a low whistle.
Over a hundred orcs, and worg riders, no less.
That was... a problem.
His makeshift fortress suddenly felt a lot smaller. Especially when you considered that worgs could leap several meters in a single bound. Scaling rooftops was basically a warm-up for them.
And those beasts didn't just jump—they climbed. A ten-meter tree? No problem.
His seven-meter-high wall?
Hopefully smooth enough to keep them from getting a grip…
"You've still got some time," Farodan said. "If you leave now, you can escape."
"I'm not leaving," Eric replied without hesitation. "I built this place with my own hands. You think I'm giving it up just because a few orcs showed up?"
"Suit yourself," Farodan said with a sigh. He gave the walls a once-over, his gaze lingering on the front gate—a flimsy-looking wooden structure cobbled together from logs.
"This is your gate?" he asked skeptically.
"It's… temporary."
"I hope so. Their leader is supposedly a giant of an orc, unnaturally strong. That gate's not going to hold him."
"I've got… plans," Eric said with a confident grin.
Farodan studied him again. His eyes flicked between the castle that had sprung up overnight and the strange man who built it.
"I believe you," he said finally. "But you should prepare. That warband was already marching when I spotted them. If nothing slows them down…"
He paused.
"…They'll be here by tonight."
"Tonight!?" Eric yelped.
That was fast.
His bravado wavered for a moment. Sure, he'd said he wasn't scared—but this would be his first real battle. The worst he'd ever faced was a gang of backwoods bandits—and even they had only numbered eight.
This?
This was going to be a war.