Before Aragorn left Rivendell, when Garrett expressed his intention to depart, Elrond stopped him and gave him another message:

“About this time next year, the White Council will convene again in Rivendell. I hope you can attend.”

“I have a feeling that Middle-earth will undergo great changes.”

Garrett agreed, though many thoughts crowded his mind.

Next year, that is, the year 2953, many things would happen.

Elrond was right. The state of Middle-earth was about to enter its next stage. If one had to give this period a name, Garrett would call it the “Transition of Prosperity.”

The Free Peoples’ realms would thrive and prosper, while the forces of evil would also continue to grow. Their struggles would not cease, though large-scale wars would not yet break out in the short term.

Some matters were brewing, others already advancing.

—

Meanwhile, elsewhere…

Another person received news almost at the same time as Garrett.

At the Tower of Orthanc, a grey figure walked up to the gate and exchanged a few words with a servant.

The gatekeeper bowed respectfully, went inside to report, and shortly after returned to open the great door, admitting the wizard.

“Gandalf, what brings you here again?”

In the hall, a white-clad figure spoke from behind.

“Saruman.”

Gandalf gave his customary greeting, observing all due courtesy and respect, faultlessly.

“I came to inform you of some news about the White Council… Would you mind turning around? I mean no offense or reproach, but to my eyes, it seems rather discourteous to speak with one’s back turned.”

The hall fell silent for a moment.

He said nothing more, waiting patiently.

When he knew he was in the right, old Gandalf was not one to back down.

Saruman slowly turned. Half his form was veiled in shadow, the other half revealed in light, enough for his face to be seen.

Gandalf narrowed his eyes.

“With respect, and perhaps it’s only my imagination, but is there a patch of color on your face that seems… different?”

“For what purpose do you ask such a thing, Gandalf?”

Saruman reacted as though someone had stepped on his foot, nearly jumping.

“Oh, nothing. Just concern.”

“Then let me ask you: if someone expressed such so-called ‘concern’ toward you, would you feel pleased?”

Saruman’s expression darkened. “Old friend, if you would take my advice, do not pry into another’s privacy. Tend to your own affairs.”

“Of course. I won’t ask again.” Gandalf smiled innocently, looking rather simple-minded.

I’ll just ask someone else.

“I already know of the Council’s summons. Do you have anything else?”

“No, nothing more. I only wished to remind you, so you wouldn’t miss the appointed time. Such an important meeting cannot lack the wise Saruman.”

“I will attend, of course. Let us only hope that certain… restless wanderers are not the ones to arrive late.”

“Your advice is duly noted.”

Gandalf bowed slightly and wisely chose to turn and leave at once.

From the look of Saruman, he was in no mood for hospitality.

Better to withdraw now.

Outside the gate, Gandalf mounted his horse and rode away, destination unknown.

—

“An incoming trainee?”

At Wayfort, in the Ranger camp, a skilled graduate of Wayfort’s ranger school looked curiously at the tall Dúnadan youth before him, who stood half a head taller than himself.

“A Dúnadan, no less?”

At this, the nearby trainee rangers all turned their heads to look.

A young Dúnadan, about their age.

Such a sight was exceedingly rare.

Dozens of eyes fixed upon him, and Aragorn felt as though needles pricked his back, making him deeply uneasy.

Faced with the reputedly outstanding graduate and now captain of the Wayfort rangers, he forced a stiff smile and nodded in response.

“Mm… Yes, he does seem like them, silent and sparing of words, like the instructors.”

“Well then, you’ll be part of our company from now on.”

The graduate who had spoken introduced himself: “My name is Arje. From today onward, I’m the captain of you and the dozens behind you.”

“Heh, what a rarity. I never thought I’d meet a Dúnadan younger than myself. If what you say is true, then I’m seven years your senior. Seven years ago, I too was just a trainee ranger. Time truly flies, now I’m a captain already.”

“Oh, and don’t think being a Dúnadan will earn you special treatment. Here at Wayfort, everyone is equal.”

Aragorn nodded earnestly.

“Ah, you…”

Arje scratched his head.

This fellow was so reserved, almost too introverted. He had said a great deal, and Aragorn had only nodded in reply.

But Aragorn could hardly be blamed. It wasn’t that he was naturally withdrawn, but that Rivendell’s quiet atmosphere had shaped him. To suddenly find himself in such a lively place was simply overwhelming.

“Introduce yourself. I’ll need to record it.”

Aragorn thought for a moment.

Before he had left, Elrond had given him some advice: “It’s best not to reveal your identity lightly, even among trusted allies.”

On one hand, revealing it would bring many inconveniences. On the other…

“You cannot predict what your bloodline might attract.”

“My name is Thorongil.”

He chose to use an alias.

Thorongil, in Sindarin, meant “Eagle of the Star.” This name would accompany him for many years.

Wayfort was only the first stop of his journey. The days ahead were long.

“Alright, Thorongil. From now on, we’re comrades in the same company.”

Arje looked at Aragorn and said, “But I have to test your skills. Everyone here has undergone the harshest, most brutal training.”

“Show me your strength, don’t hold back.”

The sparring match began just like that.

He picked up his weapon.

Aragorn also drew his sword, his expression deadly serious.

The commotion quickly drew a large crowd of spectators, who encircled them, leaving enough space before cheering and egging them on.

They were practiced at this, it only took a moment for the atmosphere to catch fire.

Even two ranger instructors came over, curious.

But when they saw the Dúnadan youth in the middle, the one called “Thorongil,” a strange feeling washed over them.

“Wait, is that…?”

They exchanged glances, each recognizing what the other was thinking.

Better to stay silent.

Clang!

In the blink of an eye, the two in the center were already locked in combat. Sword struck against sword with a sharp, ringing note.

“Oh?”

Arje was a little surprised. The supposedly green Dúnadan youth before him had incredible strength. That strike had been steady and precise, with no tremor at all.

All his self-inflicted, grueling training over more than ten years, yet he had nearly been overwhelmed.

No wonder he comes from the homeland of the instructors.

But in that same instant of surprise, Aragorn himself felt his heart sink. Clearly, this was no easy opponent.

The two separated, then exchanged a flurry of blows, neither able to break through the other’s defense.

In some sense, they shared the same roots.

Swish

Sword light flashed. Aragorn bent sharply at the waist, showing incredible flexibility, then twisted around…

Only to see Arje’s blade looming large before his eyes.

Zraaang!

In an instant, Aragorn raised his sword and caught the blow.

The two locked together, straining in a contest of strength.

So strong.

Breathing hard, he fixed his eyes on his opponent, who, though gritting his teeth, still found the cheek to raise his brows at him playfully.

Strangely, Aragorn thought he saw a trace of Garrett’s shadow in this man… not only in him, but even in the surrounding rangers who were watching.

It was an odd quality, hard to describe with words.

The stalemate dragged on. Just as Aragorn was about to yield voluntarily, Arje suddenly relaxed his strength and waved a hand.

“Enough. You really are capable.”

“The captain lost?”

A few cheeky young rangers immediately started jeering.

“Lost? Who lost?”

Hearing this, Arje flushed red. He quickly threw out words like “pulled my strikes” and “friendly sparring,” which only made the onlookers laugh harder.

Aragorn, too, couldn’t help but smile. Raising his hand, he said:

“I lost.”

“Let’s call it a draw. A draw,” Arje suggested.

“That works.”

Aragorn had no objection.

“You’ve got talent, newcomer.”

To match a ranger captain in his very first bout, that was no small feat.

Especially since this was a Wayfort ranger captain. And Wayfort rangers were notorious, if you asked why, you’d hear about their near-miraculous healing training drills, and the brutal daily regimen of “if it doesn’t kill you, keep pushing until it almost does.”

“Alright, go collect your gear. We’re setting out for the wilderness hideout.”

Aragorn obeyed at once.

He received a finely crafted standard kit, along with some regular supplies, food, provisions, and a vial of healing potion.

“You didn’t graduate from Wayfort, so some of this may be new to you. I’ll explain.”

The captain went over each item in detail.

To Aragorn’s surprise, he had thought some of the provisions were just for sustenance.

“This healing potion, it can save your life in a pinch, closing wounds and restoring strength.”

“But we rarely use it, only if we’re on the brink of death, or in extreme danger.”

“Because we’ve heard that every time a batch of potions is consumed, the Lord himself has to make a trip into some hellish place to gather alchemy materials. Just hearing the name of that place, it’s not somewhere you’d want to go.”

“I understand,” Aragorn nodded.

“Then let’s move out.”

“Our journey will be long. A northern outpost near the Ettenmoors has been compromised. We’ve heard that at night, trolls and orcs are prowling together.”

“Be ready, that’s our enemy.”

Trolls.

At the mention of the monsters, Aragorn’s hand tightened on his sword.

His father, Arathorn II, the fifteenth chieftain of the Dúnedain, had been slain by hill trolls.

Ordinary blades barely pierced their hides. Even a glancing blow from them could leave a man gravely injured…

“Then let them come!”

—

—

Completed at Chapter 405!

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep