Eric had been mulling over something for a while—something to do with brewing.
Specifically, the brewing stand.
If Blaze Rods from flaming humanoids worked as fuel… then what about Balrogs?
They were literally fire and brimstone incarnate. If a blaze dropped rods, who knew what kind of potent materials a Balrog could drop? Obsidian? Diamonds? Magma itself?
He needed a place where he could find all these things in one go.
That's when it hit him—Dwarves.
Wherever there were dwarves, there were mountains. And wherever there were mountains, there were mines. And wherever there were mines, there were rich veins of minerals and fire-spewing monstrosities hiding in the dark.
It was practically a rule of the world.
Whether it was the Blue Mountains, the legendary lost halls of Moria, or even the distant Iron Hills—they were all nestled in great mountain ranges. And where you had deep rock, you had deep secrets.
If there wasn't any naturally occurring lava, dwarven forges could probably produce some by melting rock the old-fashioned way. That solved the magma problem.
As for diamonds? Dwarves had been pickaxing bedrock for generations. He figured if he showed up with something to trade—or at worst, a shovel and a smile—he could get his hands on a decent stash.
The only real wildcard was the Balrog.
According to his estimations, Moria should currently be swarming with orcs, with the ancient fire demon still lurking far below. Tempting as it was, Eric wasn't suicidal. Not yet.
Sure, he had ideas—unlimited water buckets, block traps, a rain of TNT, or kiting it with a bow—but one screw-up, and he'd end up barbecue.
Still, the idea stayed lodged in the back of his head like a splinter.
Then his thoughts turned to Smaug.
Now there was a creature with fireproof materials. Scales that could shrug off flames… if he could get even a sliver of that dragon's hide…
Eric found himself increasingly intrigued by the infamous wyrm. Whether it was Balrogs, dragons, or any other brand of hellspawn, it all pointed back to one thing:
Dwarves.
He had to visit a dwarven settlement. No way around it.
He unrolled the parchment map on his workbench and scanned it with a sharp eye.
The Iron Hills? Too far.
The Lonely Mountain? Currently dragon-occupied.
Moria? Full of orcs and suspicious darkness.
That left only one viable option: the Blue Mountains.
If he remembered correctly, this was where Thorin and the remnants of Durin's folk had taken up residence. Might even get a glimpse of the so-called exiled king himself.
Wouldn't that be interesting?
And if he could somehow unlock the dwarves' fabled crafting recipes… well, that would be worth its weight in mithril. Their forges were the stuff of legend across all of Middle-earth.
But that was still a future goal.
For now, Eric threw himself back into the grind.
His days passed in a blur of productivity. Mining during daylight—half his time spent gathering iron, the other half stone. Once his inventory was full, he'd head home, unload everything, then head back into the depths.
It was repetitive. It was exhausting. And it was fantastic.
Each ore smelted, each stack added to the stockpile—he could see the progress. It was addictive, in the most satisfying way.
At night, he fired up the furnaces and smelted his findings en masse, occasionally patching up bits of the outer wall that he'd… maybe sort of rushed the first time.
He also made time to check on his animals, throw feed around, and harvest crops when they looked ripe. Life had become a steady rhythm of small victories.
With the wall finally fully repaired and the warehouse brimming with resources again, he decided it was time for a proper smithy.
So he built one.
Right next to the industrial quarter, Eric erected a stout blacksmith's shop, kitted out with anvils, crafting tables, and specialized work blocks. It was the first official structure in his territory outside of his main fortress.
Once the forge was up and running, he took a walk around the estate.
And then he saw it.
The forest where he'd obliterated that orc patrol still bore the scars—craters everywhere, like the land had caught a case of acne. Ugly.
Time to do something about it.
He hauled dirt and stone, leveled out the terrain, filled in the holes. The towering stone pillar he'd used to gain the high ground during the fight? Gone. Tore it down himself. It was ruining the view.
That stone pillar reminded him of something else: water drops.
He still hadn't tried the infamous "bucket drop" trick.
Naturally, he had to test it.
So he built a platform. Dug out a tiny pool. And dragged a wild boar up with him.
One swift kick later—
Oink!
The pig flailed through the air, hit the water with a splash, and trotted out without a scratch.
"Success!" Eric grinned.
And then jumped off himself, arms wide in a leap of faith.
The wind roared past his ears.
Splash!
Zero damage.
"Satisfying," he muttered, drenched but smiling. From that day forward, he added water-drop training to his routine. It never got old.
Two weeks passed in the blink of an eye.
"Whoa, 14 speed!"
One morning, after feeding golden carrots to his fastest horses, he got a lucky breed—a foal that clocked in at 14 blocks per second. That was the threshold of what he considered a "proper" mount.
Speed boost secured.
His pastures were now buzzing with life—no longer just a few lonely cows and pigs. In fact, he had so much meat in storage, he was pretty sure he could throw a barbecue for an entire village.
Still, something felt… missing.
Then it hit him.
"Sheep. I forgot sheep."
Not that he needed them. He wasn't exactly hurting for food, and wool wasn't in high demand—outside of carpets or beds. But the absence nagged at him.
So he made a mental note: pick up a couple sheep on the next trip.
With the land thriving and nothing major left to build, it was time.
Time to set out again.
But first—defenses.
Eric opened the mineral chest, eyeing the neat rows of iron blocks.
He grabbed a bunch.
Moments later, golems began stomping to life one after another—hulking guardians patrolling the outer perimeter of his territory.
Two hundred iron golems.
It sounded like a lot, but once they were spread out across the walls and gates, they seemed almost sparse.
Each had its own patrol zone. They wouldn't get in the way unless danger appeared—and if it did, they'd converge like a metallic tidal wave.
Even if another army of a thousand orcs came knocking, Eric wasn't worried.
Satisfied with his iron-clad militia, he turned and headed for the chicken pen.
Time to gather feathers.
A few minutes and a few dozen clucks later, he had two stacks of feathers. The chicken coop was half empty… but with the number of eggs he'd stockpiled, new chicks would be pecking around in no time.
After that, he ransacked the warehouse again for flint—barely scraped together a stack.
But it was enough.
Time to make arrows.
After the last battle, Eric had learned that range mattered. A lot.
Even if he didn't use them often, having a few stacks ready could be the difference between victory and death.
Four stacks of arrows crafted, he followed up with something special: two enchanted golden apples. Burned through sixteen gold ingots, but the result?
Life insurance.
"Wonder if the elves would like these," he mused, slipping them into his pack. "Might bring one for Aglar next time I'm in Rivendell."
The only problem was… he could only make two.
Most of his gold had gone into carrot production for horse breeding. His reserves were looking a little thin.
He glanced at the map again.
Maybe it's time to hunt Ogres again.
Ogers tended to hoard gold like oversized, dim-witted dragons.
Still, that kind of resource acquisition wasn't sustainable forever. He really needed to find a proper gold mine.
As usual, his next adventure was already knocking at the door.
By now, exploration had become routine.
With his pack loaded with gear and backup supplies, Eric picked a sunny morning, saddled his fastest horse, fitted it with golden armor, and set off.
His destination: the Blue Mountains.
His goal: dwarves, secrets, and whatever trouble he could sniff out along the way.
And maybe, just maybe, a dragon's scale or a Balrog's drop while he was at it.
To the west, toward the mountains. Adventure awaited.