Boom!
Thunder rolled, and the rain poured down in torrents.
"Your taste is truly exceptional, my friend."
In a small Haradrim town located in the Harnen River basin, south of Gondor, a wine merchant was busy promoting his wares.
Opposite him stood a customer, wrapped in a linen robe, face mostly hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat and a wool scarf.
Looks like one of those nomads from across the desert, the merchant thought.
The customer nodded and pointed to a barrel of wine on the ground.
The merchant hefted the barrel onto the counter.
"This is indeed my finest batch of date wine," he said. "But I'm curious, how did you judge its quality without tasting or smelling it?"
"Trade secret," the man replied.
After all, he could hardly say it was because of the system's item description.
After paying, he casually lifted the heavy barrel of spirits with one hand, carried it to a quiet corner where no one was watching, and slipped it into his inventory as if performing sleight of hand. Empty-handed again, Garrett continued to browse the market.
A gust of wind swept in, blowing fine droplets of water into the stalls.
"A rare heavy storm," a resident with bronze skin muttered as he glanced outside. He shook his head and decided to wait it out indoors.
Due to the climate and location, nearly everyone here bore that same sun-darkened complexion.
Westward from here lay the port of Umbar; eastward stretched the vast Harad desert, a wasteland even larger than Mordor itself.
To the north was the Harnen River crossing; beyond it lay Harondor, the contested borderland between Umbar and Gondor.
The Harnen River had historically served as the boundary between Gondor and Umbar. Harondor was once called "South Gondor" and belonged to that realm, but with Gondor's waning power and repeated Southron incursions, the territory had fallen into dispute.
The Haradrim and Gondorians constantly clashed here, and border troops on both sides maintained a wary watch over each other.
He had just crossed through that very region.
In this marketplace, built with black stone and red clay tiles, full of local character, many rain-soaked people hurried inside to avoid getting drenched.
He didn't mind the water, but he remained inside anyway, he hadn't finished exploring.
Lemons, dates, bananas, pomegranates, oranges, olives... all kinds of goods rare in the North were here, and he wanted to acquire as many as possible.
At the moment, Garrett had fully transformed into a discerning traveling merchant, carefully considering what was worth bringing back.
If it passed the "Garrett Standard of Excellence," it had to be top quality.
Anything that didn't meet his standards would never make it into his inventory.
"Watermelons?"
"Why don't I see any watermelons?"
At a fruit vendor's stall, he looked left and right, but couldn't find what he sought.
"I even saw someone selling watermelon wine, how can there be no watermelons?"
The stall owner stared at him for a long moment, then silently pointed behind him.
Garrett turned to look and saw a pile of large melons with pale green stripes stacked on the ground.
What else could they be but watermelons?
"Ah."
He picked one up, patted it twice, then pressed his ear against it to listen to the sound.
Not bad, this was a ripe melon.
"How much?" he asked.
"Two silver coins per pound."
Garrett froze mid-motion.
"Interesting. Are the seeds made of gold or is the rind made of silver?"
Clearly, the fruit seller caught the sarcasm. He said bluntly, "Buy it or not, up to you. But I'll tell you now, you won't find another stall in this entire market selling watermelons."
"Fine."
Garrett put the melon down and was about to pull out some coins when suddenly a commotion rose from outside the market.
Bang!
A wooden cartwheel struck a stone, jolting the entire wagon.
Many heads turned, eyes peering through the rain toward the source of the disturbance.
A cart, or rather, a prison wagon, was being escorted toward the center of town by seven or eight soldiers.
Inside was a man covered in blood, arrows still protruding from his shoulder and thigh. His skin tone was unlike that of anyone here, paler, more northern.
He wore silver-white mail bearing the device of a tree, and upon the tree were seven stars.
It was the emblem of Gondor, the White Tree.
A Gondorian? How could there be one here?
The prison wagon stopped before the marketplace. The soldiers fanned out, revealing the seemingly unconscious Gondorian to the crowd.
One of them shouted toward the gathering townsfolk, "Yesterday, in our battle against Gondor, we won a great victory! This man is one of their commanders, we took him prisoner!"
"Ohhh!"
The crowd erupted in cheers. Many people hurled whatever they had at hand into the cage, but no matter what struck him, the man inside remained limp, eyelids unmoving.
"Kill him! Kill him!" voices roared from all around.
But the soldier who had spoken earlier shook his head and pressed his hand downward, signaling for quiet.
"Unfortunately, we cannot execute him."
"Why not?" someone demanded.
"Because he's already dead!"
The crowd exploded again, cheering wildly.
Crack!
In the middle of the noisy throng, Garrett couldn't help but split open the watermelon in his hands, lifting a slice to take a bite.
"You just broke my melon?!"
The sharp sound drew the fruit seller's attention. He turned around, only to find that while he'd been watching the commotion, his watermelon was gone.
"I'll pay you," Garrett said casually, tossing over a handful of silver coins. The vendor's anger instantly melted into a grin; he didn't even bother to count the coins before pocketing them, better not to discover if he needed to give change.
Not dead yet.
Finishing one slice, Garrett stored the rest in his inventory and pushed forward through the crowd.
Someone standing on the edge of the gathering, getting drenched by the rain, glared back at him in irritation. But when he met the cold gaze from beneath Garrett's wide hood, he shuddered and quickly moved aside.
Garrett lifted his head, looking directly at the "Gondorian commander" in the cage.
After the soldiers declared him dead, the crowd put away their stones and rotten fruit, ceasing their attacks.
But... He wasn't dead yet.
Garrett took another step forward, his eyes never leaving the cage.
The Gondorian inside was clinging to life by the thinnest thread, alive for now, but at this rate, it wouldn't last. The next moment might be his last.
There was no time to waste.
"You there!"
The soldiers, having finished their announcement, were preparing to transport the "corpse" elsewhere when one of them frowned, turning toward the man emerging from the market.
"Can't you see we're moving through?"
Pointing at the figure in the linen robe whose face remained obscured, he barked, "Yes, I mean you. If you don't want trouble, step aside, don't block our path!"
"Trouble?"
Garrett smiled faintly.
In the next instant, his longsword came free with a sharp ring, rainwater parting for a heartbeat as the blade moved. His motion swept aside his linen robe, revealing the dark armor underneath.
Thud.
The soldier's heart gave an involuntary jolt, a nameless dread creeping in.
"Who are you?!"
Weapons scraped free as the soldiers surrounded him in a defensive formation.
"A traveler," Garrett said.
The wind howled, driving the rain sideways and pushing his hood slightly back.
It also carried into everyone's mind the tales spreading like wildfire from the East, the one who had slaughtered tens of thousands of Orcs and Easterling troops, forced the King of Khand to his knees, slain the Nazgûl lieutenant along with several other Ringwraiths, and, amidst an army's encirclement, easily cut down a Haradrim war-chief and torn a mûmak apart with his bare hands, the legendary Shadow of War.
The rumors' description overlapped with the man before them, and the soldiers felt an absurd, unreal sensation creeping in.
Could it truly be him?
No... surely not?