Wayne soared above the battlefield, glancing down at the orcs and Elves locked in deadly combat, casualties rising rapidly on both sides.
After a brief pause to weigh his options, he made his decision. Now that the enemy's commander and ambush had been revealed, it was time to strike. If he could deal a decisive blow and demoralize them, it would disrupt their momentum.
Activating the Quen shield, Wayne dodged projectiles hurled by the orcs below. He exchanged a quick, knowing look with King Thranduil, who had returned to the formation, and then ascended higher to evade the orcs' attacks. Wayne angled the flying carpet toward the location of Bolg, the son of Azog, the orc warlord, stationed a few hundred meters away.
Unbeknownst to Wayne, Bolg was prepared for him. After the defeat of Azog, the surviving orcs from the Misty Mountains had warned Bolg of a powerful warrior among the expedition team.
When Bolg saw Wayne take flight on the magic flying carpet, he gave a calm but calculated order. Six heavily armored trolls stepped forward, clad in enclosed metal plate armor, wielding heavy shields and weapons. They formed a defensive barrier around him.
In addition to the trolls, Bolg had a contingent of elite orcs at the ready. These warriors carried crossbows and bows, aiming toward Wayne as he approached.
The setup forced Wayne to reassess his attack. Charging directly into this formation would be suicide, as both the trolls and the archers were well-prepared.
Undeterred, Wayne retrieved three bombs. As he flew over the orc formation, he ignited and released them.
However, Bolg's forces were ready. The armored trolls raised their shields, absorbing the blasts with barely a scratch.
The bombs detonated with thunderous booms, but their explosive force merely glanced off the trolls' thick armor.
Wayne frowned, realizing that most of his ranged attacks were ineffective against such a well-prepared force. Even using the bow would do little against these walking fortresses. The only option seemed to be a direct assault, though it came with considerable risk.
As Wayne debated his next move, Bolg issued a second command. Orcs nearby raised a massive war horn and blew into it, sending out a resounding, ominous call across the battlefield.
Wayne tensed, instinctively scanning the area for signs of additional ambushes.
Then, from the shadows of the dark forest behind the orc army, four figures emerged. Cloaked in black, their armor radiated an aura of death. Their faces, hidden within the helmets, seemed only vaguely human, barely visible through the dark.
To Wayne's surprise, these riders were mounted not on horses but on winged drakes, creatures resembling two-legged dragons. From the moment they appeared, a palpable sense of dread radiated from them, unsettling even the orcs.
"Nazgûl..." Wayne muttered grimly.
These Ringwraiths, Sauron's most fearsome lieutenants, had not appeared in the original events of the Hobbit. It seemed Wayne's interference in the timeline had drawn the attention of Sauron's most dangerous servants.
The drakes let out harsh, screeching cries as they flapped their wings, swiftly closing the distance between themselves and Wayne.
Wayne knew that his flying carpet would be no match for the Nazgûl's attacks. The enchanted carpet was valuable, but it was not built for combat against such formidable enemies.
Without hesitation, Wayne turned and sped toward the Woodland Realm, hoping to reach the safety of the elven walls before the Nazgûl could catch him.
The orc warriors below erupted in cheers, interpreting Wayne's retreat as a sign of fear, and their morale surged.
Despite the Nazgûl's pursuit, Wayne managed to reach the broken section of the Woodland Kingdom's walls in under ten seconds. As he landed, he rolled off the carpet, stowing both the Sword and the flying carpet in his space bracelet.
Drawing his Electric Blade from his belt, Wayne assumed a defensive stance, his sharp senses focused on the incoming Ringwraiths.
Against humanoid enemies like the Nazgûl, the shorter blade would be quicker and more effective in close quarters.
The Ringwraiths had been chosen by Sauron from the greatest warriors among men. Each had centuries of combat experience, making them deadly adversaries. Their mounts, the drakes, snarled and snapped as they circled in the air, their talons itching to rend flesh.
The first Nazgûl to charge at Wayne wielded a black sword, his dark blade glinting ominously. As the drake beneath him swooped in, the Ringwraith leapt from its back with unnerving precision, his sword arcing through the air to block Wayne's potential escape route. It was a calculated move, intended to corner Wayne and force him into a deadly position.
Wayne saw the attack coming. As expected, he dodged the drake's assault, retreating just enough to position himself beneath the descending blade.
However, Wayne's response was not what the Nazgûl had anticipated. Rather than sidestepping or raising a guard to parry the attack, Wayne extended his left hand—encased in adamantine armorand caught the black sword mid-swing with a crushing grip.
Click! Spark!
The clash of enchanted metal and Wayne's adamantine gauntlet sent a shower of sparks flying. The Nazgûl had expected severed fingers or a shattered wrist—but the magical sword, while powerful, was no match for the incredible resilience of adamantine. Wayne held the black blade firmly in his grasp, immobilizing it.
With a sudden, violent tug, Wayne yanked the sword, pulling the Nazgûl off-balance. The electric blade in Wayne's right hand flashed toward the Nazgûl's neck, intending to sever his head in one swift stroke.
The Nazgûl, however, was no amateur. With centuries of combat experience, he immediately abandoned his sword, retreating sharply and narrowly avoiding Wayne's deadly slash.
Though the Ringwraith staggered back, Wayne couldn't follow up the attack. The other three Nazgûl launched simultaneous assaults from different angles, forcing him on the defensive.
The drakes' immense size limited the effectiveness of the Nazgûl's coordinated attacks. Despite their best efforts, the trio could not execute a proper encirclement. Wayne's masterful swordsmanship allowed him to parry their strikes and evade the chaotic assault with practiced ease.
The Nazgûl, being almost immortal beings bound to Sauron's will, fought relentlessly. Even when their first wave of attacks failed, they remained unfazed. With eerie silence, the Ringwraiths dismounted their drakes and converged on Wayne, surrounding him to deliver a brutal melee assault.
But Wayne had been waiting for precisely this moment. As the four Ringwraiths closed in, their dark swords gleaming, Wayne's figure flickered and vanished, reappearing seven meters away, just beyond their reach.
Before the Nazgûl could react to his sudden teleportation, Wayne acted. He hurled three North Wind bombs in rapid succession toward the group. The freezing explosives detonated with a series of sharp cracks, unleashing waves of bitter cold that encased the Ringwraiths in ice.
Without wasting a second, Wayne clasped his hands together, channeling the chaotic magic within him. He cast an enhanced Igni Sign, igniting a roaring inferno of searing flames that danced in shades of deep blue, hotter than ordinary fire.
The combination of ice and flame took the Nazgûl completely by surprise. Even these formidable creatures had never encountered such devastating alchemical bombs or witnessed Wayne's advanced spellcasting.
The freezing blasts immobilized them momentarily, and the ensuing explosion of superheated flames inflicted grievous wounds. Their enchanted cloaks ignited, the dark aura around them flickering like dying embers.
Despite the damage, Wayne knew better than to let his guard down. The Nazgûl were no longer ordinary beings. Even when burned and frozen, they could fight with relentless ferocity. Wayne's combat instincts urged him to act before they could recover.
The five-second interval for his abilities expired, and Wayne blinked next to the incapacitated Nazgûl in a flash. Before the Ringwraiths could fully regain their senses, Wayne swung the electric blade in a series of precise, fluid motions.
The blade whistled through the air, severing the heads of the Nazgûl one by one.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Helmets tumbled from the dismembered bodies, rolling along the broken stone walls. Though the empty darkness beneath their helms revealed no visible expressions, Wayne could imagine the humiliation and frustration these creatures felt in their final moments.
The Witcher moved too swiftly. Every action Wayne took—whether casting powerful spells, teleporting with precision, or deploying freezing bombs—completely exceeded the expectations of the Nazgûl. The elite skills and cunning of these spectral warriors were rendered useless against his overwhelming and versatile abilities.
Even though the Nazgûl were undead beings, cursed by the Dark Lord Sauron through dark sorcery, they could not function without their heads. Once Wayne's blade severed them, their bodies disintegrated into clouds of black smoke, dissipating in the cold air.
The four flying drakes, now without their riders, posed little threat to Wayne. Though dangerous to most, they were nothing more than flying targets to a Witcher armed with the Bow. Wayne's expertise in archery ensured they did not escape his relentless pursuit.
In mere moments, the drakes were brought down, their bodies crashing to the earth below. Wayne exhaled slowly, calming his senses after the intense confrontation.
...
Wayne scanned the battlefield, taking in the state of the conflict. He noticed that the Elves had retreated from their above-ground positions, falling back into the depths of their underground palace, an environment they knew intimately and where the terrain gave them an advantage.
Satisfied with the elves' tactical withdrawal, Wayne took another deep breath, retrieved his magic flying carpet, and prepared to confront Bolg, the orc commander. With the Nazgûl eliminated, Wayne knew the time had come to eliminate the orc leader and break the enemy's morale, allowing the Woodland Kingdom to conserve as much strength as possible.
Without hesitation, Wayne propelled his flying carpet into the air, soaring toward Bolg's position with lethal intent. Now that the most powerful threats had been neutralized, there was no need to conceal his abilities any longer. His focus was singular—kill the orc commander and crush the orc army, accelerating their inevitable defeat.
As Wayne flew toward his target, the sight of him in the air stunned the orcs below. Confusion rippled through the enemy ranks. Bolg and his warriors could scarcely believe what they were witnessing.
The Nazgûl—once feared as the most powerful enforcers of Sauron—had been annihilated in mere minutes by this single warrior. The orcs, who viewed the Nazgûl as nearly invincible, struggled to comprehend the sight of their defeat. It was a reality that shattered their confidence and left their minds in turmoil.
Wayne gave no thought to the orcs' confusion. His only focus was the orc commander. Without wasting time on words, he reached into his bracelet's inventory and retrieved over fifty alchemical bombs.
With a grim smile, Wayne scattered the explosives toward Bolg and his command unit like a goddess scattering flowers across the sky.
The previous failure to damage the heavily armored trolls had taught him a valuable lesson. The problem wasn't the hardness of the targets—it was simply a lack of firepower.
"If one bomb isn't enough, use ten. If ten aren't enough, throw a hundred," Wayne thought. Now, with wealth beyond imagination, he had no reason to hold back.
Despite the trolls' desperate efforts to block the impact, they could only shield themselves from a handful of the bombs—six or seven at most. The sheer number of explosives Wayne deployed overwhelmed their defenses.
The earth-shaking explosions reverberated across the battlefield, drowning out the screams of the orcs beneath the deafening roar. When the dust settled, the gruesome aftermath revealed that Bolg, the orc commander who had once stood under the trolls' protection, was blown to bits. His shattered remains mixed with those of the surrounding orcs, their corpses now indistinguishable in the carnage.
The loss of their commanders—first the Nazgûl and now Bolg shattered the morale of the orc army. Panic spread through their ranks with frightening speed, sapping their will to fight. What had been an organized assault quickly devolved into chaos, with orcs losing their enthusiasm for the battle.
Seizing the moment, Wayne launched an all-out assault. This was the time to finish the job—to chase down the routed enemy and ensure their complete defeat.
Drawing the sword, Wayne activated his mirror image technique, creating six intimidating duplicates of himself. With these illusions at his side, he unleashed a devastating onslaught on the remaining orc warriors. Each clone moved with precision, executing flawless maneuvers that enhanced the lethality of Wayne's attacks.
The orcs, already demoralized, found themselves helpless against this relentless assault. Wayne's flashing strikes and expert swordsmanship cut through them with terrifying efficiency. Fighting from the rear, Wayne coordinated with the elves, who emerged from their underground redoubt to mount a counteroffensive. With their combined efforts, the orc army was caught in a double envelopment, their forces crushed from both sides.
The two-hour battle left a gruesome trail of death in its wake. As the elves pushed forward from the underground, Wayne relentlessly pursued the fleeing orcs above ground. The enchanted blade, empowered by the blood of evil creatures, grew sharper and lighter with every strike. By the end of the battle, Wayne had achieved the incredible feat of slaying a thousand enemies.
When the elven warriors finally emerged to survey the battlefield, they were stunned into silence by what they saw. Corpses lay in towering heaps, forming a grotesque mountain of death, with rivers of blood pooling at Wayne's feet. The sheer scale of the devastation was unlike anything they had ever witnessed.
Even Prince Legolas, a seasoned warrior, gazed upon Wayne with newfound admiration. The younger elves, equally awestruck, regarded him as a hero from the ancient tales, someone who had saved the world with his sword. King Thranduil, a ruler not easily impressed, let out a sigh of admiration.
"You are the most powerful warrior I have ever seen, Wayne," Thranduil said solemnly. "In all my years, only the great heroes of the First Age could hope to compare to your strength."
Wayne acknowledged the praise with a respectful nod. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he said. "However, I must warn you—during the battle, I eliminated four Nazgûl who were sent specifically to ambush me. This confirms that Sauron's dark servants are actively participating in the war."
He paused, his expression thoughtful. "There are nine Nazgûl in total, including the Witch-king of Angmar. If they have not been drawn here, it's likely they are leading an assault elsewhere—possibly on Erebor."
Thranduil's face darkened at the grim possibility. "Your words make sense," he admitted. "The orcs' main objective may lie with the Lonely Mountain. However," he added with a somber tone, "we elves have suffered significant losses in this battle. We need time to tend to our wounded before we can lend aid to the dwarves."
Wayne nodded in understanding. "I left my battle companion, Deathclaw, to guard the Lonely Mountain. I trust it will help the dwarves hold out for a while. But to be certain, I'll depart at first light tomorrow. Let's hope I'm not too late."
...
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