Originally, Wayne had expected Prince Thorin to be the first to express dissatisfaction with his proposal. But before Thorin could speak, the young and brash Fili and Kili stood up, their fiery dwarven pride on full display.
"Wayne," Fili began, his voice full of challenge, "you seem very confident in your strength. Do you really think you can take on Smaug, the same dragon that defeated our people? Perhaps you'd like to prove you're not just boasting."
Kili chimed in, crossing his arms. "Yes, let's see if you can back up your words."
Wayne wasn't angered by their challenge. He glanced at Thorin and Balin, noticing that neither of the dwarf leaders stopped the young princes from speaking. Gandalf, for his part, looked intrigued, while Bilbo, clearly anxious, seemed to want to intervene but remained silent.
A smile tugged at the corner of Wayne's mouth. It was clear to him that proving his strength now would save time later.
Keeping his expression calm, Wayne studied Kili and Fili for a moment. They were both young for dwarves, barely a century old, born after the exile of their people from the Lonely Mountain. They had never known the terror of Smaug firsthand, nor had they fought in any battle. Though they were Thorin's nephews and heirs of the Durin line, they lacked the experience their elders carried.
In the original tale, these two had fought bravely to protect Thorin during the Battle of the Five Armies, giving their lives alongside him. Their deaths marked the tragic end of Thorin's line, leaving the title of King under the Mountain to Thorin's cousin, Dáin Ironfoot. Wayne reflected on this, but his mind remained focused on the present.
Instead of directly accepting their challenge, Wayne clapped his hands together, the sharp sound echoing through the hall. With a confident smile, he addressed everyone:
"If anyone has doubts about my strength, let me prove myself with action."
"Since we're all well-fed, a little exercise after dinner sounds fitting," he added with a grin.
Without waiting for anyone to agree or object, Wayne stood and strode out of the banquet hall, leading the group to the indoor training room on the manor's first floor.
As a warrior who valued skill and physical prowess, Wayne had ensured his manor was equipped with a well-furnished training ground. Though he mostly preferred to train in the wilderness, Old Ford had maintained the room well. It was clean, with every weapon and piece of equipment meticulously arranged.
Wayne approached the weapon rack, selecting a sturdy wooden sword. Turning to face the group of dwarves, he said:
"Come on then, let's have a friendly match."
He raised the wooden sword with a grin. "Though swordsmanship is just one of my skills, if I can't defeat you in under five minutes, I'll join the expedition with no reward. How does that sound?"
Thorin's eyes narrowed, his pride as a prince and warrior roused. The idea that a human, no matter how skilled, would boast of besting thirteen dwarves—elite warriors, no less—within minutes made his blood boil.
After exchanging glances with the other dwarves, Thorin stood up, his hand reaching for a wooden sword from the rack. His expression was firm as he spoke.
"No, Wayne," Thorin declared. "We're the ones who will beat you."
"If you lose, the contract stays as it is. You'll receive only one-fifteenth of the treasure, and you'll stop looking down on dwarves as if we're beneath you!"
Wayne smiled, unaffected by the dwarf prince's fiery words. He noticed that only three dwarves—Thorin, Kili, and Fili—had picked up weapons. It seemed the others preferred to watch, unsure whether Wayne could deliver on his bold claim.
Deciding to make an impression, Wayne waited until Thorin, Fili, and Kili positioned themselves on the training floor, ready for a spar. Then, without warning, he unleashed his full speed, moving so quickly that he became a blur, disappearing from view for a split second.
By the time Thorin registered the movement, Wayne was already in front of him, charging with a force that stunned everyone. Thorin barely had time to raise his arms in defense, crossing them over his chest, but Kili and Fili hadn't even reacted.
Wayne didn't swing the wooden sword. Instead, he rammed his shoulder into Thorin's chest with incredible strength. The impact sent the dwarf prince flying backward, a grunt of pain escaping him as he crashed into his two nephews, knocking them down like bowling pins.
Thorin, Fili, and Kili landed in a tangled heap on the ground, all looking far more disheveled than they had moments earlier, their earlier confidence reduced to surprise and confusion.
Wayne, still calm and collected, turned to face the stunned dwarves gathered around the training ground. His breathing steady, and his heart rate unphased, he addressed the group with measured confidence.
"Gentlemen," Wayne began, "I'm not boasting or underestimating any of you. It's simply that, with my strength, when I face only one or two opponents, I tend to defeat them almost instantly. It doesn't give you a clear sense of what I'm capable of."
As Wayne spoke, Thorin, still recovering from being knocked aside, got to his feet, using his wooden sword for support. His expression was one of surprise, though it quickly hardened with respect. After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Thorin turned to his fellow dwarves and, with a serious tone, called out:
"Wayne is right. We've underestimated him."
He then raised his voice, addressing the other dwarves directly. "Dwarves, take up your weapons and join me. Wayne is a formidable foe, unlike any we've faced before. He's an opponent worth fighting, and we must prove our strength to him. Let's show him what dwarves are made of!"
Spurred on by Thorin's words, the other dwarves quickly took up arms, selecting their weapons from the racks: shields, wooden hammers, spears, swords, and axes. They gathered around Thorin, forming a tight defensive formation—one that was more suited for the battlefield than for sparring.
With a synchronized clap of their weapons and battle roars, the dwarves closed in on Wayne, surrounding him from all sides.
Despite the dwarves' numbers and ferocity, Wayne's expression didn't change. His calm demeanor remained intact as he glanced briefly at Gandalf and Bilbo, who were watching from the sidelines, both with different reactions—Gandalf intrigued, Bilbo concerned. Wayne then gripped his wooden sword and, instead of dodging or retreating, he moved directly toward the front line of dwarves, launching his attack.
Though the dwarves of Middle-earth were far stronger than ordinary humans, their strength paled in comparison to Wayne's enhanced abilities. As a Witcher, Wayne's strength, speed, and reflexes far exceeded those of even the strongest dwarf. The gap between them was not merely a matter of physical power, but also technique—Wayne's swordsmanship, honed over years of fighting monsters and mastering the art of combat, was far superior to the more aggressive and brute-force style of the dwarves.
The ensuing battle was not the exciting, evenly matched contest the dwarves had hoped for. Wayne's skill was overwhelming. With every dwarf who came at him, Wayne met their attack with precise parries or graceful dodges, often defeating each opponent with a single, well-timed move.
Their attempts to strike him were either blocked with effortless precision or dodged with such agility that they couldn't land a single meaningful blow. The sheer speed with which Wayne moved left them struggling to keep up, and even their collective strength was no match for his well-calculated strikes.
Some of the dwarves, determined to bring Wayne down, tried to use their bodies to overwhelm him, attempting to grapple or immobilize him with sheer numbers. But Wayne's agility was unmatched. With a single, powerful leap, he could jump over their heads, landing behind them before they even realized he'd moved, leaving them swinging their weapons at empty air.
In less than five minutes, the once confident and united dwarf team, who had been certain of their victory, lay defeated on the training ground, completely stripped of their ability to fight.
Wayne stood calmly in the center, holding his wooden sword, not a drop of sweat on him. His gaze shifted toward the fallen dwarves before settling on Prince Thorin. In a polite tone, he asked:
"Prince Thorin, would you agree that I've won this match?"
Thorin, still trying to gather his thoughts, glanced at his companions—his fellow dwarves lay on the ground, bruised and battered, with several even knocked unconscious. He exchanged a look with Balin, both realizing the undeniable truth: they had been thoroughly beaten by the Witcher. Wayne, on the other hand, was untouched, unscathed, and composed.
If Wayne had been wielding anything more dangerous than a wooden sword, the match would have ended even more swiftly. In fact, toward the end, Wayne had noticeably held back, only escalating his strikes to knock a few dwarves unconscious to end the bout.
Faced with such clear evidence of Wayne's overwhelming superiority, Thorin didn't attempt to argue. With a deep sigh, he finally spoke:
"You've won, Wayne. You are far stronger than we anticipated."
"You defeated all of us," Thorin acknowledged, the weight of the loss heavy in his voice. "As dwarves, we honor our promises. I agreed to the terms you set forth."
"If you can indeed slay Smaug, one-third of the gold from the Lonely Mountain will be yours, and you'll be regarded as a trusted friend of the House of Durin."
Though it was difficult for Thorin to admit defeat and promise a portion of the treasure, as soon as the words left his mouth, a strange sense of relief washed over him. This entire journey to reclaim the Lonely Mountain had felt like a fool's gamble, a desperate act driven by a mixture of honor, revenge, and the dream of restoring his people's lost glory.
When Gandalf had first proposed the expedition, Thorin and the others had set out with little hope of success. In their hearts, they had all prepared for the possibility of failure or even death. It explained why only a dozen dwarves had agreed to join—the odds were so slim that even Thorin's royal prestige couldn't gather more.
But now, with Wayne—a warrior who had bested them all with apparent ease—joining the expedition, Thorin felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps, with someone like Wayne fighting alongside them, the odds had shifted.
Though Thorin understood that swordsmanship wasn't everything, Wayne's skill and strength were undeniable. And if Wayne's words were true—that his swordsmanship was merely a small part of his abilities—then perhaps this mysterious human would indeed bring more surprises along the way.
Seeing Thorin's acceptance, Wayne smiled warmly, extending his hand to help the dwarf prince to his feet. As he did, he spoke with an encouraging tone:
"You are a noble prince, Your Highness Thorin. And tonight, all of you deserve rest. Stay here in my manor, and tomorrow we will finalize the new contract."
Wayne's eyes gleamed with confidence as he continued, "I promise you, inviting me to join the expedition to the Lonely Mountain was the best choice you could have made. This journey will be far smoother than you think."
Thorin, who had spent years carrying the heavy burdens of revenge, honor, and the daunting task of reclaiming the Lonely Mountain, couldn't help but feel a spark of optimism in Wayne's words. For the first time in a long while, the weight on his shoulders felt lighter. Smiling faintly, he nodded and replied:
"I hope so, Wayne. For hundreds of years, reclaiming the Lonely Mountain has been the greatest wish of our people. We are all willing to give our lives for it."
As the atmosphere between Wayne and Thorin grew more relaxed, Gandalf, who had been watching the exchange with a knowing smile, finally approached.
Gandalf puffed thoughtfully on his pipe as he praised Wayne's combat prowess and the dwarves' unity and bravery. His words were measured, carefully navigating the relationship between Wayne and the dwarves. As the architect of the Lonely Mountain expedition, Gandalf understood the importance of strong allies. Defeating Smaug was essential, but even more so was thwarting Sauron's return, a danger that loomed larger than any one dragon.
Initially uncertain of Wayne's abilities, Gandalf was now the most enthusiastic supporter of Wayne's involvement after witnessing the battle. The Witcher's strength was undeniable, and Gandalf knew their chances of success had risen substantially.
That evening, Wayne showed his generosity by sharing his prized intermediate healing potions. Not only did he heal the dwarves' injuries from their sparring match, but he also gifted each warrior—along with Gandalf and Bilbo—a large bottle of the potion, ensuring everyone was well-prepared for the journey ahead.
Gandalf, ever the curious wizard, was fascinated by the potion and its properties. As a battle mage proficient in flash magic and swordplay, he was intrigued by this magical concoction. He even asked Wayne if he'd be willing to sell the potion or its formula.
However, Wayne politely declined. It wasn't that he was unwilling to share, but rather that the potion originated from Azeroth, a world whose magical composition was vastly different from Middle-earth's. The herbs of Middle-earth lacked the potency required for such brews. Wayne had already attempted to craft Witcher potions using local ingredients, only to find them ineffective. The magic of Middle-earth simply couldn't replicate the alchemy of Azeroth, much to Wayne's disappointment.
The next morning arrived swiftly. After a hearty breakfast, Wayne carefully drafted a new contract. With Gandalf as witness, each member of the party signed the document, formalizing their commitment to the expedition.
With the contract settled, the journey to the Lonely Mountain officially began.
As Wayne emerged, mounted on the massive Deathclaw, Robin, the sight was nothing short of awe-inspiring. At eight meters tall, the beast commanded attention. Except for Gandalf and Bilbo, who had seen the Deathclaw before, every dwarf in the party was left speechless, their jaws practically dropping at the sheer size and presence of the creature.
Robin's sharp claws glinted in the light, its muscles rippling beneath its thick, steel-like scales. Its maw, filled with razor-sharp fangs, looked more than capable of tearing through anything in its path. The dwarves, seated on their horses, couldn't help but exchange nervous glances. None doubted that if Robin so desired, it could easily crush a horse in one bite.
Though they had yet to witness the Deathclaw's full combat abilities, its imposing appearance alone bolstered the confidence of the Lonely Mountain expedition. The dwarves, who had been filled with uncertainty and doubt, now felt a renewed sense of hope. For the first time, they began to believe that this mission might succeed.
Perhaps, with Wayne and his formidable companion by their side, they really could defeat Smaug and reclaim their ancestral home.