“The road near the City of Waters.”

Frodo, in pain from the Nazgûl’s shrieking cries, made his decision.

The relatively hidden underground route near the City of Waters naturally referred to Khazad-dûm.

He didn’t actually know much about the place itself. In truth, his decision was based largely on the name “City of Waters.” Since the city had been built under Garrett’s leadership, he instinctively felt more trust toward anything related to it.

Even “Khazad-dûm near the City of Waters” sounded more trustworthy that way.

More so than the passes of Rohan or Gondor.

Boromir’s heart darkened for a moment, but he quickly composed himself and kept his promise.

Whatever the case, he had said Gondor would support the Ring-bearer’s quest, and as Gondor’s representative, he couldn’t lose face now.

After some winding debate, the group finally set off on their journey southward. They followed the main road past Wayfort, moved swiftly past the City of Waters, and arrived at the outpost of Eregion.

“No problems nearby. Everything’s normal.”

The Ranger stationed at the outpost gave his report.

The road from the Misty Mountains to this point was under the full protection of the Free Cities, and the journey had gone quite smoothly.

“The Vales of Anduin ought to have been like this too. You could lie down and sleep right on the road, the only danger being you might feel cold if you forgot your blanket. But…”

Recalling the message a bird had brought him before departure, Gandalf’s brow furrowed deeply.

“Mordor has dispatched no fewer than fifty thousand troops to attack the North and South Undeep regions, and at least three Nazgûl. They’ve gone mad. Sauron definitely doesn’t want to see what the Free Cities will do once they react.”

At the public meeting in Midway Station, most residents had supported the idea of invading Mordor itself to capture Sauron and force him to reveal news of Garrett.

From his understanding of these lands over the years, once Midway’s mayor met with other regional leaders, this idea would definitely come up, because it was the will of the people. Even if the mayor personally disagreed, he’d have to mention it.

“But they held the line, and even gained the upper hand.”

Unlike Gandalf, Boromir cared more about the balance of power.

That was fifty thousand orcs and Uruk-hai, not to mention at least three Nazgûl leading them.

That kind of force could march straight from Osgiliath to the White City, and even if Minas Tirith managed to hold, it would suffer heavy losses.

Yet in the Free Cities, a hastily gathered coalition force had managed to suppress Mordor’s army within just a few days, buying themselves more time to muster reinforcements. They might even counterattack at this rate.

The comparison was… painful.

And this was without Garrett being there. If he had been, would they have already reached the Black Gate by now?

“Come, let’s go inside.”

Gandalf called to the group as they approached Khazad-dûm.

“I’ve traveled this road through the mines several times before. If we’re lucky, we might even find the campfires and marks Garrett left behind. They’ll guide us safely to the other side.”

“Then…” Pippin began to say something, but Merry quickly clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Then what?” Gandalf turned with an unpleasant look.

“Nothing. We’ll be fine,” Merry answered for him.

Thanks to that, Pippin avoided a scolding.

Gimli clapped both Hobbits on the shoulders and said, “Come, lads. Time to see our lost homeland.”

Would it really go smoothly?

Forced to stay silent, Pippin glanced at Gandalf’s worried figure leading the way, feeling a growing sense that something ominous was about to happen.

When they reached a campfire spot still bearing Garrett’s personal crest, Gandalf suddenly muttered, half to himself, “The noise of ancient ages always needs someone to clean it away, and that’s a wizard’s duty. My premonition grows stronger, Aragorn.”

“What?” Aragorn looked puzzled.

“Nothing. Just that… a bit of small noise, I can handle it. Compared to the vast, hidden rumblings in the North, this truly is small. Take care of Frodo, and the Hobbits behind you. We must go.”

After resting briefly by the fire, the group pressed onward.

Deep beneath the earth, flames began to stir.

Following their footsteps, they rose slowly upward.

—

Achoo!

Far, far below the world, in a prison shrouded in gray-black mist, a place almost beyond Arda itself, Garrett suddenly felt an itch in his nose. The air here was so foul it was practically toxic. Even breathing put him on the edge of poisoning.

It was suffocating.

At this level of pollution, one deep breath would definitely earn him a few seconds of poisoned status.

At that moment, he had already entered the ruins of a fortress dating back before even the First Age.

Judging by his current position, he was probably deeper than the bottom of the ocean itself.

Whatever remained of Utumno, the fortress Morgoth had built and that was later destroyed, all of its lingering power and essence must have settled here.

In truth, even if left alone, nothing here would have changed for a very long time, perhaps for many ages. The things sealed here had no strength to escape on their own.

But once Morgoth returned, that would be another story.

According to prophecy, he would return at the world’s weakest moment, bringing about destruction and the final battle that would remake the world.

When that time came, things would get… interesting.

But for now…

He drew his Dragonflame Steel Greatsword from the corpse of a Balrog, stood up, and slowly descended from the mountain-sized pile of bodies.

Now, aside from Garrett himself, nothing else here could move.

Utumno was empty.

Let the future, when Morgoth returns, be his lonely one.

“So… how do I get back now?”

Should he dig his way straight to the surface, or try to find a path?

As that thought crossed his mind, a pillar of white light suddenly appeared before him.

The radiance within it called out to him. Following that call, he immediately understood. This light could take him somewhere, somewhere sacred.

Without hesitation, he stepped into it, letting his form be completely swallowed by the beam.

His vision was engulfed by endless white. The sensation was strange, indescribable, as if reality itself had been blurred.

Perhaps only a moment had passed. Perhaps an eternity. Within that timeless void, he arrived in a grand, immaculate hall, pausing briefly as he took in the sight.

During that brief pause, an image appeared, projected from nowhere.

It showed the summit of a mountain, within a tall tower. A grey-robed wizard was locked in battle with a monster wreathed in flames.

What else could that creature be, if not a Balrog?

Their battle was cataclysmic, at least, from a mortal’s perspective.

On that desolate mountaintop, the Grey Wizard no longer restrained his power, while the Balrog fought back with all its might, unleashing terrifying bursts of flame and shadow.

The peak seemed wrapped in a raging storm. Their struggle inevitably reached the Tower of Durin that stood there, and with every roar and shockwave, cracks spread across its walls until the tower finally collapsed, shattered into fragments that tumbled down the slopes.

The battle raged for two full days and nights.

When Gandalf at last drove Glamdring deep into the Balrog’s chest, ending its life, the Tower of Durin was gone, completely destroyed by the aftermath of their fight.

Even the path from Khazad-dûm’s depths to the mountaintop ruins was blocked by fallen debris.

From then on, the Dwarves would no longer need to wonder about the fate of the Tower atop their ancient home. Gandalf could tell them it truly was gone.

As for how he knew… he would likely say little.

Through some strange, divine vantage, what Garrett preferred to call “observer mode,” he watched as Gandalf, after confirming the Balrog’s death, finally exhaled in relief… and then collapsed to the ground, gasping for air.

His breathing grew weaker and weaker.

His strength was gone, utterly exhausted, until even his life could no longer be sustained.

Gandalf did not survive.

His breathing ceased. He truly died, his life ended by sheer exhaustion.

But then, the presence that had called Garrett here stirred.

Gandalf’s soul was summoned back.

As the only one among the five Istari who had never strayed from his purpose, who had remained faithful and uncorrupted from beginning to end, he was granted permission to return to Middle-earth, and to wield more of his true Maia power, no longer bound by the former restrictions.

In a hazy moment, as his awareness returned, Gandalf felt a pull from the very source of existence, a great Being calling to him, bestowing upon him a new mission.

That Being was none other than Eru Ilúvatar, the One, the omniscient and almighty Creator of the world.

And so he accepted the mission in reverence.

Yet, as he did, he instinctively frowned, an act that could be seen as blasphemy before the Creator.

Ilúvatar did not mind such a small gesture. He continued to play the chords of His eternal symphony.

The reason he had frowned was because, besides Ilúvatar, he sensed another presence nearby, one that felt deeply familiar, watching him.

“Garrett!”

On the mountain summit, Gandalf’s eyes snapped open. With a look of surprise, he cried out that name.

“How is he here?”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep