Gandalf and Balin departed.

The two returned together to Erebor, the place where their journey had begun.

After arriving back at Erebor with Balin, Gandalf immediately set out again, none knowing where his new travels would take him.

As for Balin…

“It was quite an adventure, was it not?”

He regaled his old friends in Erebor with tales: of the great bear gazing at the moon from the cliffs of the Carrock, of the sights along the Sky Road, of the battle at Wayfort, and of Bilbo’s recent circumstances.

When he finished, he listened to news from his kinsmen about the battles near Dale.

But comparing the two accounts, it was clear that the events at Wayfort had been far more stirring.

“That sounds much more exciting than what we experienced here.”

Some Dwarves imagined the scenes Balin described, along with the chronicles of Wayfort, after all, those were official records…

“What’s so special about it? We didn’t go, and we’re still alive and whole, aren’t we?” one Dwarf muttered, turning away, his words thick with envy.

“As long as you’re content,” Thorin replied.

He was pleased for his good companion, his most trusted aide and counselor.

Leaving him behind during the recent expeditions had indeed been rather inconsiderate of the company.

“But Balin, why is there a bare patch in your beard…?”

Balin’s face immediately stiffened.

“This is proof of my battle with a Nazgûl. You should not ask about such things, and the rest of you must not laugh. That wraith nearly struck my throat with its accursed blade. My beard saved my life. It is the finest beard in all of Erebor.”

“Oh yes, the finest beard, once upon a time.”

Someone added fuel to the fire with that remark, nearly making Balin collapse with indignation.

“Enough of this.”

Thorin raised his hand to quiet the chatter.

“Let us turn to serious matters.”

“Recently, the miners working in the deepest chambers of the mountain have reported difficulty breathing as soon as they descend. Their spirits grow heavy, and they become restless and ill-tempered.”

“Have they delved too deep? That seems unlikely. We once mined even deeper levels, and nothing of this sort occurred.”

“Could it be the heat from the forges?”

“Impossible. Think before you speak. Which of us here has not worked the forges? Which has not stood beside roaring furnaces for years? Did any of you feel unwell from such work?”

“No, of course not.”

Dwarves were renowned for their endurance against heat and disease. Like the stone they worked, hard, stubborn, and resilient.

They almost never fell ill. In truth, no record of disease among the Khazad existed at all. Mortal ailments could not touch them; their constitution was extraordinarily hardy.

“Perhaps it is the air itself, then.”

“We could improve the working conditions, provide better food and drink. What about sending down ice blocks and cool ale?”

“That might provide some relief.”

The discussion continued regarding affairs within the mountain, and soon the earlier banter was completely forgotten.

All seemed well.

—

Meanwhile, at Wayfort, Garrett had remained in residence ever since returning to his domain. He even joined the construction crews, personally leading the building of new structures.

Walls, houses, shipyards, docks… all manner of projects proceeded in orderly fashion, progress accumulating day by day.

There was no shortage of manpower, materials, or expertise.

As for the challenging terrain, normally, even with the tools and authority provided by his domain’s systems, reshaping the land would still prove difficult for ordinary folk.

But it mattered not.

Garrett himself appeared at the forefront of every work site.

He became Wayfort’s greatest overseer, accomplishing the work of several teams single-handedly. He labored without rest, day and night, never pausing until each task reached completion.

The townsfolk observed him with both admiration and concern.

Witnessing his tireless efforts, many of them lost sleep, feeling troubled by his pace.

“Perhaps you should rest for a time, my lord,” one finally ventured, out of genuine concern for their ruler.

“Rest?”

Garrett looked puzzled.

“But I am resting right now.”

Even as he spoke, he fitted another stone block perfectly into place.

The townsfolk were left speechless.

That evening, the one who had questioned him spent long hours in thought.

Indeed, in this domain, none had ever been compelled to do anything against their will. There was no pressure forcing anyone to make unwanted choices. Everything stemmed from each person’s own decision, their own passion for the work.

The concerned townsman suddenly rose from his bed, lit his lamp, and went to work.

Many looked at his figure in confusion.

Regardless, the construction and development of Wayfort flourished; each day brought new improvements to its appearance.

Building, shipcraft, fortification work… And occasionally, journeys to the gates of Khazad-dûm.

Since the great battle, the surrounding region had grown much quieter. Nearly all the orcs within had been eliminated.

The were-worms too had retreated to the deepest places underground, even deeper than where the Dwarves had once awakened Durin’s Bane.

They had vanished entirely, leaving only mysterious, hollow passages.

When there was no urgent construction or important decision requiring attention, Garrett would take time to visit Khazad-dûm’s western entrance.

He walked directly from the west gate to the eastern side without hindrance.

No orcs appeared, nor was there any trace of the Balrog.

“Perhaps it is safe.”

After some consideration, he walked the path again, leaving clear markers along the way so that future travelers might navigate safely.

Thus, a year passed peacefully, though perhaps not so peacefully to the wider world.

A massive new shipyard was no trivial matter. Both allies and enemies kept watchful eyes upon it.

Even in lands that normally remained tranquil and distant from conflict, news of it spread, discussed casually over meals and evening conversations.

In the blink of an eye, the year drew to its close.

Apart from this rising shipyard and the wars that had sprung from it, no great events shook Middle-earth.

If one had to mention something noteworthy…

In the borderlands where the strife between Mordor and Gondor was most bitter, there arose strange stirrings among the Uruks of the eastern camps.

“We have never seen your face before, cripple.”

In one encampment, several Uruks noticed a limping newcomer approaching and began their interrogation.

The limping Uruk raised his head and looked upon these unfamiliar faces. For a long moment he said nothing.

All new arrivals…

The previous Uruks who had been stationed here were all dead.

Their own master had delivered them to the enemy for slaughter.

“We are speaking to you, from whence do you come?”

“I crawled back from the bloodiest of battlefields.”

The lame Uruk made no attempt to conceal his origins.

“A cripple, a cowardly wretch, a deserter!”

The questioning Uruk immediately began his mockery.

Among the orc-kind, there was no concept of mercy; the weak existed to be humiliated by the strong, such was their way.

“A deserter, you say?”

“You’ve never witnessed true hell, yet you run your mouth in front of me!”

“What did you just say?”

To see this weakling speak back with such defiance enraged the Uruk, who instantly raised his blade to strike.

But the limping Uruk’s fury blazed forth. He lunged forward, seized the weapon despite suffering deep cuts to his hands, and wrenched it away. Then, wielding it himself, he hacked savagely until his tormentor was reduced to bloody ruin, armor dented and shattered.

“Who else wants to challenge me!”

He raised the gore-stained blade and roared his challenge.

The surrounding Uruks stood stunned and cowed; none stepped forward.

From that day forth, among Mordor’s newly deployed forces there arose a fearsome figure: lame of leg, yet powerful and savage, strong in body and skilled in battle. Many Uruks willingly bent to his command.

Later, this limping Uruk replaced his arrow-shattered foot with crude metalwork. He even had his skull reinforced with iron plates, using the brutal, bloody methods known to orc-smiths.

During the procedure, his screams were terrible to hear, but through sheer force of will, he endured every moment.

When the prosthetic and iron skull-guard were complete, he was utterly transformed, both in appearance and in temperament.

Thereafter, he adopted a name: “The Iron Skull.”

It came from his grotesque appearance and the metal that now protected his head.

The Iron Skull gradually conquered every Uruk and orc camp in the region, being hailed by them as “Warlord.”

His reputation grew ever greater, until one day, he came to the attention of a Nazgûl.

“You shall serve as chieftain.”

“Yes, Master!”

When he strode forth from Minas Morgul, the Iron Skull grinned with hideous satisfaction.

“My lord, I have returned to serve.”

Then came the command that would define his new role:

“Hold your position. Do not provoke the power that dwells beneath the Crossroads.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep