The Shire. One of the few places in all of Middle-earth where peace wasn't just a memory but a daily comfort. Tucked safely west of the Misty Mountains, the land of the Hobbits had remained blissfully untouched by the shadow of war.
It was, in many ways, the kind of life the Maker likely intended when crafting this world - simple, safe, and filled with second breakfasts.
But such serenity was rare in this age. Even the high and mighty, kings and lords atop their jeweled thrones, spent more nights fretting over dark forces and political daggers than they did enjoying the luxuries beneath their noses.
Still, it seemed that beyond the Misty Mountains, westward past the danger, a quiet kind of happiness still flickered.
A small trade caravan trundled back into Roadside Keep, its carts piled high with goods. The moment the wagons creaked through the gates, they were swarmed by eager townsfolk searching for their commissioned items. It didn't take long before the square erupted into a buzzing, cheerful marketplace.
Eric sat comfortably on a bench near the gate, watching the activity with a thoughtful look.
"This… isn't bad at all," he murmured.
Trade wasn't just about exchanging goods. It brought influence, showcased the uniqueness of a region's culture, and extended the reach of one's name. And with more resources than he could reasonably use, why not toss a few extras into the carts?
Once the idea had fully taken root, Eric acted swiftly. The very next day, he formally expanded the trade caravan. The original group of eight was joined by four others, recruits trained in archery or other forms of combat. That brought the total to twelve.
They'd all been recommended by nearby outposts, people with a curiosity for commerce and a willingness to get their hands dirty.
Four were assigned merchant duties, managing goods and negotiating sales. The other eight were guards, equipped not only with warm woolen cloaks and fur-lined hoods, but also with finely crafted Elven armor, gleaming blades, and longbows.
The wagons increased to three large carts, each drawn by steady, sure-footed horses from the Keep's stables. Faster horses were out of the question; they'd end up flipping the carts or outrunning their cargo.
Their westbound route was simple: pass through Bree, cross the Shire, continue to Lindon, and finally reach the Dwarven stronghold in the Blue Mountains before turning back.
As far as safety went, the route was relatively secure. Banditry was rare along these main roads, and with the caravan's guards fully armed, and the horses clad in sturdy barding, it would take either a desperate fool or a full warband to even think of picking a fight.
Just before departure, Eric fashioned a flag using his crafting bench, inscribed his name across it in the Common Tongue, and hoisted it high on the lead wagon. Let the world know: these were his people. Protected, sanctioned, and under his banner.
Wrapped in thick cloaks and dusted with snow, the caravan finally rolled out of the Keep's gates, carrying with it not just rare seasonal goods, but also whispers of a rising power.
"If you come across refugees or wanderers on the road, you're welcome to bring them back," Eric said at the gate, giving final instructions. "But listen carefully."
He stepped closer, eyes sharp under the morning frost.
"We don't take in freeloaders. No thieves, no slackers, no one who thinks they can enjoy the warmth of our hearth without earning it. Let them find their own hole in the ground if that's their idea of a future."
"I understand, my lord," the merchant in charge replied. "I swear on my name—we'll carry out the task with care."
"We will too!" echoed the rest of the team.
Eric gave a small nod, watching them vanish into the wintry haze. Then he turned back toward the snow-covered plains and got to work.
Trade was just one piece of the puzzle. With winter biting harder, ice became a critical resource. And unlike wheat or iron, ice could only be harvested now.
Eric quickly reorganized the Keep's labor force.
A small crew was assigned to the greenhouses, keeping the vegetables alive. Half the workers were sent to the mines, while the rest were dispatched to the frozen lake to cut and haul ice blocks using precision-forged pickaxes Eric had crafted himself.
The results weren't quite as efficient as Eric doing it solo, but they kept the ice coming steadily and more importantly, freed up his time for something bigger.
With a flick and a hum, the twisting portal shimmered to life. Eric stepped through, landed on a rugged platform of blackstone, and pulled out his map. Pinning down a coordinate, he placed several markers across the Nether terrain.
Then he returned to the overworld, opened his storage, and began hauling out massive piles of stone and fireproof materials.
A high-speed Nether corridor stretching from Roadside Keep to Dale.
The project had three components:
The Ice Road: On hold until the ice supply improved.
The Riding Track: A smooth, horse-friendly lane.
The Minecart Rail: An iron track built for large cargo hauls or lazy feet.
Although "Minecart Rail" sounded fancy, in truth it was just a solid strip of rails laid over stone, allowing carts to coast smoothly over lava lakes and crimson forest basins.
The total planned distance? 140 kilometers.
That's no simple footpath. But once finished, it would offer a straight, unbroken route to Dale - no cliffs, no mobs, no detours.
Even now, with only the Riding Track active, horseback travel took just two hours. In real-world terms, that was like crossing over 1,100 kilometers in the same time. Once the ice road was complete, that would drop to one hour flat.
It was a ridiculous undertaking, but an undeniably useful one.
And so, the digging began.
Eric led the charge, laying down three separate paths, mining through netherrack and basalt like a machine. Materials quickly ran low, so he crafted a fleet of supply minecarts and filled them with cobblestone and fireproof blocks, sending them rattling behind him like obedient pack animals.
Even his Ender chest was emptied out to make room for construction supplies.
One-tenth of the highway was done. Most of his blue ice was gone. And just as Eric paused to stretch his aching back, the village elder arrived with news.
"My lord," he said, bowing. "Several residents have recently gained the ability to open loot chests."
"Excellent. That means they've earned the right to stay," he said, stuffing building blocks into his satchel. "But make sure they keep working."
He glanced toward the mines.
"Contribution can rise or vanish. If someone stops pulling their weight, they lose their privileges. Unless they're physically unable to work, in which case, we make exceptions."
The elder's face grew serious. "Understood, my lord. I'll make sure everyone knows."
"One more thing," Eric added, slinging another pack over his shoulder. "Full residents can now use transport minecarts. That'll be vital once we start pulling iron ore from the deeper layers."
"The mine's still a ways from finished," the elder noted.
"Then keep digging," Eric said with a grin.
He turned back to his map, already planning his next move.
"For now, I'll be tied up with the tunnel. But on the first of every month, I'll be back. You can report in then."
"Yes, my lord," said the elder, bowing once more before heading off.