5. Lord of the Ruins

The ruins of the old fortress were cloaked in the smoke of dying fires. The bodies of bandits lay scattered among the rubble, the ground red with blood. Mordred stood amid the chaos, his heavy armor coated in mud and blood, his axe still warm from battle. Before him stood the bandit leader—a towering man, nearly matching his height, with scars crisscrossing his face and arms. His massive axe gleamed in the morning light, and his eyes burned with hatred. Behind him cowered the last surviving bandits, too terrified to fight but too proud to flee. Mordred's minions, those who survived the bloody battle, gathered behind their master, their shrill cries quieting as they awaited his command.

"You think you can take my ruins?" the leader growled, gripping his axe tightly. "You'll pay for this, demon!"

Mordred smirked beneath his helmet, his golden eyes flashing. "Demon? Perhaps. But these ruins are already mine." He raised his axe, ready for battle. The air between them was thick with tension, as if time itself held its breath.

The leader roared and charged, his axe swinging with the force to split stone. Mordred parried the blow, feeling the vibrations ripple through his arms. Metal clashed against metal, sparks showering the ground. The leader was strong, but Mordred sensed his new body—the body of an Overlord—was something more. He countered, his axe arcing toward the leader's side. The man blocked, but the force of the strike pushed him back a step.

"Not bad," Mordred muttered, pressing his attack. He swung again, swift and precise, aiming for the leader's arm. The blade grazed the man's armor, slicing through and drawing blood. The leader hissed in pain but didn't yield, swinging his axe in a desperate counterattack. Mordred dodged, the blade missing his helmet by inches. In that moment, he saw an opening—the leader had overextended, leaving himself vulnerable. Mordred swung with all his might, his axe burying itself in the man's chest, cleaving through armor and bone. Blood sprayed, and the leader collapsed to his knees, his eyes wide with shock before they dimmed forever.

Mordred yanked his axe free, staring at the fallen foe. He was surprised—he'd expected a tougher fight. The leader had looked formidable, but he fell like the rest. "Weak," he muttered, wiping the blade on a rag. "Or maybe I'm too strong for the likes of them." The thought brought a faint smile to his lips.

"Good work," Mordred said, turning to his servants. "Search the camp. Gather everything of value: gold, armor, swords, anything."

The minions leapt into action with enthusiasm, though their chaotic nature soon shone through. One tried to lift an oversized sword, only to topple over with a crash. Another found a pouch of gold and began "testing" the coins by biting them, until another minion stole it, sparking a brief scuffle. Mordred shook his head but let them have their antics. They were loyal, and that was enough.

As the minions looted the camp, a familiar glow appeared before Mordred's eyes. The System spoke:

Congratulations! Quest completed: Secure your first base.

Reward: Gnarl – Minion Master

Description: Gnarl, the ancient master of minions, is the Overlord's right hand. His knowledge and cunning make him an invaluable advisor and leader of the horde.

Mordred raised an eyebrow. Gnarl? He remembered him from the Overlord game—the old, sarcastic minion who always had a quip ready. If the System was summoning someone like that, it could be a game-changer. "Summon," he said, and the ground before him trembled. A portal emerged from the grass, a swirling circle of dark energy, from which a figure stepped forth.

Gnarl was smaller than Mordred but larger than the average minion. His skin was wrinkled, his eyes gleamed with sly intelligence, and he carried a gnarled staff. Dressed in a tattered tunic, he looked like a cross between an old man and a thief. He bowed theatrically, his raspy, ironic voice echoing through the ruins:

"Mighty Overlord, I am Gnarl, master of minions and your most loyal servant… at least until someone better comes along." He cackled, then surveyed the ruins. "I see we've got some cleaning up to do. What a mess!"

Mordred smirked. Gnarl was exactly as he remembered. "Welcome, Gnarl. These ruins are our first base. Take the minions and start repairs. I want this place to become a fortress."

"Of course, my lord!" Gnarl said, straightening. "These lazy rats need a good kick to get moving." He turned to the minions, who were still bickering over loot, and bellowed: "To work, you brainless vermin! The stones won't stack themselves!"

The minions, startled by his authority, scrambled to obey, hauling stones and clearing rubble. One tried to "decorate" a wall with a bandit's skull, but Gnarl whacked it with his staff, muttering about "lack of taste." Mordred watched with satisfaction—Gnarl was exactly what he needed to keep his servants in line.

He stood on a hill, gazing at the ruins slowly taking shape as a fortress. The minions worked with zeal, though not without mishaps—one toppled a pile of stones, another got tangled in ivy, and a third tried to "fix" a wall by slathering it with mud. But Mordred's thoughts were elsewhere. He'd lost twelve minions in the battle. Of the fifty, only thirty-eight remained. They were loyal and effective, but their numbers were dwindling, and Middle-earth was teeming with enemies. He needed a larger army—not just bigger, but more elite. Minions were a good start, but what about orcs, elves, or even Nazgûl? He had to grow stronger.

He looked at Gnarl, barking orders at the minions, and at the ruins that would become his home. This was just the beginning. Middle-Earth didn't yet know his name, but soon, it would.

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