In the year 2954, Mount Doom, silent for a long time, erupted once more. Scorching lava poured down its slopes, and great clouds of ash rose into the skies over Mordor.

From then on, Mount Doom erupted frequently. People living closer to Mordor, when standing on high ground and looking eastward, could always see the crimson glow and rolling black smoke.

That same year, the last group of refugees from Ithilien moved into Gondor. From then on, the land was left only to the soldiers of Gondor and Mordor, becoming a true battleground.

It was also during this refugee retreat that Garrett came to Gondor again, partly to investigate the situation at Mount Doom, and partly to check on the local base and help cover the refugees’ withdrawal.

And since he had nothing better to do, Garrett went ahead and helped Gondor rebuild the ruined city of Osgiliath, restoring its walls and the great arched bridge used for passage.

Garrett’s speed was so impressive that by the time the news reached Minas Tirith, he had already finished nearly half the repairs.

To show how much this meant, Ecthelion himself left the White City to personally express his gratitude. He also sent his son, Denethor, the then-commander of the White City guard, to assist Garrett.

This tall young commander obeyed Garrett’s every instruction without hesitation. Whatever Garrett asked, he carried it out immediately.

With Gondor’s full cooperation, the city walls were soon restored as good as new, and the bridge once again allowed passage.

Armies marched across it, while ships passed through the arches below, mostly merchant vessels from Wayfort’s harbor, or training ships from its naval academy.

Once the work was complete, Garrett left again. As for payment, he never mentioned it.

It could be said that Gondor was nearly as close to him as his own home.

When Garrett returned to Wayfort, it just so happened to be the graduation time for the group of trainee rangers from two years earlier.

At the ceremony, Garrett personally awarded medals to the outstanding rangers.

The number of “Outstanding Ranger” titles was not fixed, anyone who made exceptional contributions and had the ability could be recommended.

Of course, the standards were high. The foremost requirement was recognition from their own team.

And the Outstanding Ranger Graduate Medal was not limited to trainees. Any ranger who, later in service, made remarkable contributions or proved their skill and experience could also earn it.

But to receive it in the short term required true achievements.

Like Aragorn. He was officially recommended only after proving his strength in single combat with a troll, sneaking alone into enemy lines to retrieve vital intelligence, and then devising a plan to lead just a few dozen men in a surprise attack that destroyed a medium-sized orc camp of at least two hundred.

In truth, even half of these feats would have been more than enough for the medal.

But clearly, Aragorn was no ordinary man, he always managed bold and unexpected deeds.

Compared to him, the other four recipients may have fallen slightly short, but they were still fully deserving, whether through strength, agility, unique talents, or the accumulation of distinguished service across many battles.

“Well done,” Garrett said at last, fastening the medal onto Aragorn. Then he asked, “So, what’s next? Do you plan to stay with us? With your ability, you could directly command a fully equipped assault unit of two hundred men. Give it a few more years, and you might even become a commander yourself.”

To be honest, hearing such terms, Aragorn hesitated for a couple of seconds.

Here, as a military commander, almost no one but Garrett himself could overrule him.

Of course, commanders of the realm’s army were carefully chosen, so it wasn’t as if they would ever overstep their bounds anyway.

“This place is excellent, but,” Aragorn replied, “there are other places that need me more.”

“Good lad,” Garrett said with a smile. “Then go. You’re always welcome back.”

With that, he grabbed Aragorn by the shoulder, turning him to face his comrades.

Arje stepped forward and said, “I know you don’t belong here, but this place can always be your home.”

They embraced briefly.

That night, the entire squad held a farewell for Aragorn.

Looking at his comrades, Aragorn felt deeply moved.

“I will never forget the experiences I shared with you, nor everything I have learned here.”

He raised his eyebrows slightly at his squad captain.

Arje couldn’t help but mirror the gesture.

“That’s what you learned?”

—

Isengard.

Compared to a year ago when the White Council was held, it now looked somewhat different.

The most obvious change was the increased number of guards around the tower. The southern wall and iron gate at the valley’s entrance had also been reinforced.

It seemed the master of this place was preparing against something.

“Orcs.”

“Filthy and ignorant, without the slightest merit, no better than crawling vermin, utterly useless.”

At night, on the edge of a forest, a tall white figure stood upon a high place, looking down at a group of orcs who bowed their heads low.

“You wretches want to serve me?”

Saruman gazed at them with visible disgust.

“We can swear an oath, to you! Your will shall be our command. Whatever you require of us, we will do it, as long as you protect us…”

Even as he mouthed these promises, the orc chieftain felt bitterness inside.

Didn’t those cursed wild men say the White Wizard would accept us? Liars, the lot of them.

“Anything at all?”

Saruman’s tone shifted slightly.

“Even if it means defying the Dark Lord’s commands?”

The orc leader froze.

Although Sauron was in name the master of all orcs and wargs, his control here was far weaker than over those in Mordor.

The difference was this: in Mordor, only a leader acknowledged by Sauron was truly a leader. But in the Misty Mountains, orc chieftains could arise on their own, and if strong enough, could even bargain with Sauron to some extent.

In Mordor, his control was direct. Here, it was only indirect.

The imprint of his will upon their minds was not so absolute.

“We are willing,” the orc chieftain declared.

Sauron was too far to protect them. But Saruman stood right before them.

“Perhaps you are not useless after all.”

“Go now. Live in the shadows. You will obey my every command, and never touch that which I forbid. Do you understand?”

“We understand, master.”

The orcs departed.

Saruman watched them leave, eyes narrowing slightly.

Now, both the Dunlendings and the nearby orcs were under his hand.

The Dunlendings obeyed Saruman because he turned a blind eye to their incursions into Rohan, allowed them passage through Isengard, and even supported their so-called effort to “reclaim their land.”

The orcs, meanwhile, received his protection and labored in secret for him.

But whether Dunlendings or orcs, none would extend their malice into Eriador or the lands west of the Misty Mountains.

Instead, they would march into Rohan’s territory, under the banner of “revenge” and “restoring their homeland.”

Border conflicts were about to begin.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep