6.Foundations of the Tower

Weeks had passed since Mordred claimed the ruins as his first base in Middle-earth. The crumbling walls, once overgrown with ivy and buried in rubble, were beginning to resemble a fortress worthy of the Lord of Shadows. The minions, under Gnarl's stern oversight, worked tirelessly, though their chaotic nature led to constant mishaps. One got pinned under a stone it tried to "rearrange". Yet Mordred saw a future in this place—the foundation of an empire that would shake Middle-Earth.

During this time, Mordred hadn't been idle. He sent his minions on scouting missions, ordering them to explore lands dozens of kilometers from the fortress. The small, nimble creatures returned with reports of forests, hills, and valleys, sometimes bearing spoils from encounters with animals or lone orcs. Each skirmish—whether hunting wolves and boars or clashing with orc bands—brought rewards from the System. Through these battles, Mordred had amassed an army of 108 Brown Fighters. They were noisy, clumsy, but their loyalty was unshakable, and their numbers gave him growing confidence.

That morning, Mordred stood on a hill, gazing at the fortress in the morning mist. The sun barely pierced the clouds, illuminating the rebuilt walls and makeshift watchtowers the minions had erected with surprising precision. Beside him stood Gnarl, his Minion Master, leaning on a gnarled staff. The old minion, with wrinkled skin and sly eyes, rambled as usual, his voice dripping with sarcasm and ambition.

"My lord, this fortress is a decent start, but an Overlord deserves more," Gnarl said, gesturing at the ruins. "We need a tower! A dark, mighty tower that'll make elves whisper your name in fear and orcs flee at the sight of it. A throne room below, where you'll rule. Higher up, chambers for your retinue, a library for dark knowledge, a treasury for gold and artifacts. In the depths? A forge, an armory, and an arena to train these vermin to be less embarrassing." Gnarl cackled, his eyes gleaming. "Middle-Earth hasn't seen such power yet!"

Mordred raised an eyebrow. "A tower?" he muttered, but his voice betrayed interest. Gnarl, without waiting, pulled out a rolled-up piece of parchment that looked torn from an ancient book. He unfurled it, revealing charcoal-drawn plans—remarkably detailed for a minion. Mordred studied the sketches: a towering, menacing structure with sharp spires and windows like black slits, straight out of Overlord. The throne room was monumental, with a throne carved from black stone. The upper floors held chambers, a library, and a treasury, while the depths housed a forge, armory, and arena for training.

"Not bad, Gnarl," Mordred said, handing back the parchment. "Can you build it?"

Gnarl straightened, his raspy laugh echoing across the hill. "My lord, with your minions and my genius? We will build a tower that will make your name known to everyone." He turned to the minions hauling stones nearby and bellowed: "Faster, you lazy vermin! The Overlord won't live in ruins like some peasant!"

The minions, startled by his authority, doubled their efforts, though chaos was inevitable. Mordred shook his head but felt satisfaction. Gnarl was the perfect commander—his sarcasm and cunning kept the minions in line, and his vision for the tower aligned with Mordred's ambitions.

Over the next days, Mordred oversaw the work, though he left most duties to Gnarl. The minions dug foundations for the tower, hauled stones from nearby hills, and gathered wood from the forest. Mordred led more expeditions, hunting animals and clashing with small orc bands raiding the area. Each fight brought new rewards from the System—gold, weapons, and, most importantly, new minions. His army grew, and he felt Middle-Earth beginning to heed his name.

One evening, Mordred stood at the edge of the tower's foundations, watching the minions work by torchlight. The stone blocks that would form the base of his throne room lay in neat rows, the tower's outline taking shape. Gnarl approached, leaning on his staff. "My lord, this is just the beginning," he said. "When the tower is complete, Middle-Earth will know Mordred, Lord of Shadows."

Mordred nodded. "Good, Gnarl. Make it happen. I want this tower ready before anyone dares challenge us."

Gnarl bowed with a sly grin. "As you wish, my lord. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to kick some minions in their lazy backsides." He turned and marched toward a group that had just toppled a pile of wood, unleashing a torrent of curses.

Mordred stood in silence, watching his servants. The minions worked with zeal. Mordred looked at his minions, feeling the weight of responsibility. Each was loyal, but their chaotic nature needed more—discipline, which Gnarl was only beginning to instill. He knew building the tower was not just about stones and wood but a symbol of his growing power. Middle-earth was a battlefield, and he was just starting to carve his place in it. In his mind, he saw not just a tower but an army that would make even the mightiest foes tremble at the sound of his name.