July 1991. London.
The early morning was shrouded in a layer of grim, gray fog. The iron gates of Wool's Orphanage groaned against the wind.
To Rove, who had just turned eleven, this place was his "Shire." Sure, it lacked the rolling green hills and round hobbit holes; instead, it had lumpy mashed potatoes, terrible neighborhood security, and a roof that barely kept the rain out. But it was home.
At this moment, Rove was standing at the door of the utility shed in the backyard, his hands white-knuckled around the handle of a balding broomstick.
His stance was... peculiar.
Feet spread wide, center of gravity low, gripping the broom handle as if it were a Zweihänder greatsword. His dark brown eyes were locked onto a tiny black dot in the sky.
> [Warning: Aerial unit approaching.]
> [Species Identification: Great Eagle Messenger]
> [Threat Level: Low (Friendly)]
A line of translucent blue text hovered over Rove's retina.
"A Great Eagle?" The corner of Rove's mouth twitched, his grip on the broom tightening. "This is Zone 2 London, not the Misty Mountains! Where the hell would a Great Eagle come from?"
To anyone else, it was just an ordinary barn owl struggling to find a perch in the morning mist.
But through Rove's "System Filter," that was a beast with a wingspan of over five meters! Every feather shimmered with the cold light of mithril, its golden pupils burned with the divine fire of the Valar, and those massive talons looked like they could crush rocks—or his skull—like eggshells.
THUD!
The "Epic Creature" slammed headfirst into a wobbly glass window on the second floor with a loud bang, then slid down the wall, landing squarely in a muddy puddle in front of Rove.
Rove: "..."
Is this really the sacred beast of Manwë? That entrance was a little... unceremonious.
He cautiously poked the pile of wet feathers with his broom handle (which the System labeled as [Broken Spear (Attack: 0-1)]).
The owl hooted indignantly, shook off the mud, and extended a leg. Tied to it was a thick, heavy envelope.
> [Item: Gandalf's Conscription Order]
> [Attributes: Quest Item / Pact of Fate]
> [Description: The Shadow in Middle-earth is returning. The White Wizard summons a champion to join the Fellowship of the Ring. Refusing this letter constitutes a betrayal of the oath.]
Rove took a deep breath. He knew this day would come eventually.
As a transmigrator, he was unlucky enough to be hijacked by a "Middle-earth Survival System." Since then, the world in his eyes had become unrecognizable.
With trembling hands, he untied the letter.
The envelope wasn't parchment. In his eyes, it was a glowing Mallorn leaf, inscribed with elegant Tengwar script in green ink:
Deliver to:
The Foot of the Misty Mountains (London)
The Orc Prison (Wool's Orphanage)
Mr. Rove Baggins
"Baggins, my ass!" Rove screamed internally. "My name is Rove! The orphanage director gave me that name! I'm not a Baggins! I don't even have hairy feet!"
He tore open the envelope.
Original Reality:
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer...)
System Translation Override:
Rivendell & The White Council Leader: Mithrandir (Gandalf)
(Maia, Servant of the Secret Fire, Guardian of the Free Peoples...)
Dear Mr. Baggins,
Given that the Shadow of Sauron has risen in the East, we require a Hobbit who is agile, skilled in stealth, and unlikely to attract the gaze of the Great Eye to join our expedition.
The term begins on September 1st. We will instruct you in the necessary skills to combat Orcs, Ringwraiths, and the Dark Lord.
Enclosed is a list of necessary equipment (See attachment: Longsword, Chainmail, Lembas Bread...).
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
(Galadriel of Lothlórien)
"Holy crap. You're telling me I'm physically in the Harry Potter universe, but my System is running the Middle-earth patch?!"
Rove stared at the letter, his face a mask of disbelief.
Although he still didn't know who his parents were, receiving the letter meant he had magic. He should have been excited.
But...
"System, can we switch modes? Like, maybe 'Hogwarts Legacy' mode? Or even just generic 'Wizarding World' mode?" he asked tentatively in his mind.
> [System Notice: Current version is "Middle-earth Era 1.0". Mode switching is unavailable.]
> [Detected Host attempting to deny the World View.]
> [Warning: If the Host refuses to fulfill the "Fellowship" duty, the System will designate the Host as "Corrupted by the One Ring" and initiate the "Purification Protocol."]
> [Purification Protocol Preview: Revocation of all magical affinity. Forced class change to "Gollum."]
Rove's eye twitched.
This was the worst part.
This System wasn't just a display; it was bound to his developmental path. If he didn't follow its script—even if he was just acting—it would genuinely ruin him.
"Fine. You're the boss." Rove sighed, accepting his fate.
If he couldn't change the rules, he'd exploit them.
Even though the System saw this place as Middle-earth, the rewards were real. [Basic Swordsmanship], [Stealth], [Constitution Boost]... In a dangerous world where Voldemort was about to resurrect and Death Eaters were everywhere, having extra survival skills was never a bad thing.
If the System insisted he be a Ranger, then he'd be a Ranger. As long as he survived. Even if it made him cosplay as Gandalf, he would... actually, no, the beard maintenance would be a nightmare.
But he had to show some backbone. Maybe he could squeeze some extra rewards out of it.
He turned toward the incinerator in the corner of the shed, muttering to himself, "I'm not going! I just want to stay here, get rich, maybe play the stock market. Go to Hogwarts? That's a death sentence! First year, fight Voldemort. Second year, fight a Basilisk. Third year, get surrounded by a hundred Dementors trying to suck my face off... How is that different from walking into Mordor?"
He pulled out a lighter—labeled [Goblin Igniter] by the System—smacked his lips, and made a move to burn the corner of the letter.
The instant the flame licked the edge of the paper, the calm blue System interface turned blood red, accompanied by an ear-splitting siren:
> [WARNING! Act of defying the Sacred Oath detected!]
> [WARNING! Refusing conscription will trigger the "Gollumization" Curse!]
A holographic image popped up: a pale creature with thinning hair and only six teeth, hunched over in a dark cave, gnawing on a raw fish.
> [Curse Details:]
> 1. Charisma permanently reset to 0.
> 2. Permanent hair loss until complete baldness.
> 3. Gain trait "Schizophrenia": Forced nightly dialogue with "The Other One."
> 4. Forced Exile: Spend a lifetime searching for your "Precious."
"You play dirty, System," he grumbled internally.
Rove's hand froze in mid-air. He snapped the lighter shut, whipped his head around, sprinted into his tiny five-square-meter room, and threw himself in front of the mirror.
Reflected was a boy with black hair and black eyes. Though he looked pale and wore ill-fitting hand-me-downs, his features were regular, even handsome. Most importantly, that thick head of black hair was currently his most valuable asset.
"The hair." Rove touched his hairline with a trembling hand.
For a British man, the hairline is the final line of defense for his dignity.
"System, you win."
Rove pressed the letter against his chest and spoke through gritted teeth. "For the sake of my hairline... I will blow up Mordor."
...
Thirty minutes later.
A knock echoed on the heavy oak doors of the orphanage.
"Rove! Someone is here for you!" The Director's roar came from downstairs. "Dress presentably! Don't embarrass the orphanage!"
Rove took a deep breath and straightened his gray sweater. Then, he shoved the broom under his bed and replaced it with a stainless steel table knife he'd swiped from the kitchen, tucking it into his belt and hiding it under his hem.
> [Equipment: Iron Dagger (Common)]
> [Status: Equipped]
Steeling himself, he walked quickly down the stairs.
The orphanage's parlor was dim and damp, the air smelling of mildew. The moment Rove stepped into the room, he involuntarily held his breath.
Standing in front of the fireplace was a tall figure.
In the Director's eyes, it was a stern-faced woman wearing square spectacles and emerald-green robes.
But in Rove's eyes...
> [High-Level Entity Detected]
> [True Name: Galadriel]
> [Race: Noldor Elf / Maia]
> [Level: ??? (Skull Icon)]
> [Faction: The White Council]
The room seemed to be illuminated by starlight.
The woman was shrouded in a halo of silver light. Her robes weren't green, but a flowing silver-gray silk like moonlight, embroidered with golden Mallorn leaves. She didn't wear a pointed hat, but an Elven tiara that shimmered with the brilliance of stars.
Ancient, majestic, and inviolable. Rove's knees felt weak.
This was a true heavyweight. The kind of entity that could crush Sauron with one finger (provided Sauron didn't have the Ring).
Professor McGonagall turned and scrutinized the thin boy over her square spectacles.
"Mr. Rove?" Her voice was crisp and severe. "I am Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. I assume you have received our letter..."
Before she could finish, something shifted.
In Rove's perception, as the "Lady of Light" focused her gaze on him, a pressure so massive it was suffocating filled the room. It wasn't just a look; it was a Starlight Judgment from the realm of the Valar, a natural pressure of a higher being upon a lesser one.
"Can't... can't move..." Rove felt his knees knocking together.
Reason told him: This is Professor McGonagall, a stern but kind old witch.
But his senses (tampered with by the System) screamed: KNEEL, MORTAL! This is Queen Galadriel! This is a being who could solo a Balrog!
THUMP!
To the horror of the orphanage Director, Rove's legs gave out, and he dropped uncontrollably to one knee. To mask the physiological failure, he forced his right hand over his heart, turning the collapse into a formal salute.
It was a standard, impeccable salute found only in ancient knightly romances.
"Ennyn Durin Aran Moria..." Rove's mind went blank, and he accidentally muttered the password to Moria in Dwarvish. He quickly caught himself, straightened his tongue back to the Common Tongue, and spoke with a trembling voice:
"Your radiance illuminates this barren land, Lady of Light. Rove Baggins awaits your command."
(Dammit! What am I doing?! Stand up, Rove! This is humiliating!)
(But... my legs are jelly! What is this X-ray soul-scanning sensation?!)
The parlor fell into a deathly silence.
The Director's jaw dropped, his teacup nearly slipping from his hand. The kid was weird, sure, but he'd never been insane before.
Professor McGonagall was also stunned. In her decades of teaching, she had seen children cry from fear, jump for joy, and even display a maturity beyond their years, like Tom Riddle.
But she had never seen anyone drop to one knee and pledge fealty upon the first meeting.
And... "Lady of Light"? What sort of strange title was that?
However, as a Transfiguration professor, McGonagall keenly sensed the genuine awe radiating from the boy. It wasn't faked. It was the instinctive submission and respect one showed when facing absolute power.
This softened her expression slightly.
"Ahem," McGonagall cleared her throat, trying to steer the scene back to reality. "Please rise, Mr. Rove. We don't do that sort of thing here. And, I must correct you, I am not the 'Lady of Light.' I am Professor McGonagall."
Rove stood up, still not daring to look her in the eye (System Tip: Direct eye contact with Galadriel may result in a failed Willpower Check). He kept his eyes lowered and spoke submissively:
"Yes, Professor McGonagall. No matter what alias you use to walk this earth, your wisdom guides me like the stars."
The corner of McGonagall's mouth twitched imperceptibly.
Why does this child speak so flowerily? It's like he's auditioning for a Shakespeare play.
"Very well," she decided to skip over the odd behavior and get to the point. "Since you have accepted the... er, conscription. We need to purchase your school supplies. Gather your things; we are leaving immediately."
"As you command." Rove answered briefly.
There wasn't much to pack.
Except for a table knife (dagger), a lighter (igniter) hidden under his pillow, and the battered frying pan (round shield) that he wouldn't be caught dead without.
Five minutes later, carrying a patched-up canvas bag, Rove followed Professor McGonagall—who was practically radiating "Holy Light"—out of the orphanage gates.
The streets of London were still gray, filled with rushing pedestrians.
But in the upper right corner of Rove's vision, a new golden quest box unfurled:
> [Main Quest Chapter 1: The Journey Begins]
> [Objective: Follow the Elven Guide to the town of Bree (Diagon Alley).]
> [Reward: Basic Swordsmanship Mastery (Lv1).]
> [Status: In Progress...]
Rove glanced back at the orphanage, patted the table knife at his waist, and whispered:
"Goodbye, Shire."