Whether for Garrett or for Gandalf, travel and adventure had long become routine.

Especially for Garrett, who had only recently returned from the Nether, after growing accustomed to the extreme conditions there, trekking across Middle-earth again almost felt like a leisurely countryside walk. At least he no longer had to constantly endure the acrid smell of sulfur or suffer through scorching heat. Although the Nether’s high temperatures didn’t physically affect him, that didn’t mean he enjoyed being in such a sweltering environment.

“Which way do we go?”

He casually inquired. To cross the Misty Mountains, there were two options: one was a direct passage through the mountains, the other a longer detour via Isengard heading north, though that way was considerably farther.

“The High Pass,” Gandalf replied without hesitation.

“That place, eh… Could prove dangerous. I remember there being numerous orcs in that area.”

After all, the nearby region housed an orc stronghold, home to the very Goblin-king who had placed a bounty on Garrett’s head.

“There are two paths through the High Pass. We’ll take the higher route, attempt to avoid them as much as possible.”

“Alright.” Garrett had asked merely out of habit. In truth, with his current equipment and supplies, he could fight his way clear even if he found himself in the middle of the orc stronghold alone.

His expedition to the Nether hadn’t been in vain, the gold blocks from the bastion remnants had made him quite wealthy. At present, he even carried a full stack of enchanted golden apples in his pack.

As long as Gandalf remained safe, he would be fine as well.

Still, the High Pass…

That place harbored more than just orcs. Deep within the mountains, near underground streams, something else dwelt.

Gollum.

The image of a golden ring briefly flickered in his mind’s eye.

Although they weren’t riding horses, Garrett and Gandalf were still making excellent time. Other than brief pauses for meals, they rarely stopped.

Garrett required no rest. As long as he had food, he could maintain his energy indefinitely.

As for Gandalf, the old wizard might not appear particularly robust, but his endurance wasn’t necessarily inferior to Garrett’s. In fact, once he realized Garrett didn’t need to rest, he never mentioned taking breaks again.

They crossed the wilderness, passed the Last Bridge, and finally, on a bright sunny morning, they arrived near the Misty Mountains.

Looking up at the towering snow-capped peaks in the distance, Garrett couldn’t help but release a gasp of admiration.

They had reached the greatest mountain range in Middle-earth, the Misty Mountains!

“No time for sightseeing. We need to quicken our pace,” Gandalf called ahead. “While the sun remains high, we must traverse the pass swiftly, don’t want to encounter orcs emerging at nightfall.”

“Understood.”

Taking advantage of the daylight, the two began ascending the mountain. They didn’t pause for the entire day, not even during meals. But despite all their caution, they still encountered an unexpected situation.

“Growl…”

A low snarl made both Garrett and Gandalf halt, scanning their surroundings warily.

Gandalf gripped his staff firmly.

Garrett drew his luminous elven blade.

Yet the anticipated attack never came.

Exchanging glances, the two crept toward the source of the sound. Behind a massive boulder, they observed two wargs and five orcs gathered together, creating quite a commotion.

“I saw it first! It’s mine!”

“You saying you saw it first doesn’t make it yours! It’s right there, why can’t I have it?”

“Growl!”

The orcs and wargs appeared to be quarreling about something.

“An animal carcass,” Gandalf whispered.

“It appears they’re fighting over how to split it. The wargs believe their size entitles them to the largest portion, while the orcs claim they discovered it first and should receive more.”

“Wargs arguing with orcs, huh? That’s a sight,” Garrett mused.

“Those wargs aren’t mere beasts. They possess intelligence and their own speech. Their relationship with orcs is one of alliance, not servitude.”

“No wonder they can’t be tamed.”

Gandalf gave Garrett a meaningful look and said slowly, “Unless you embrace darkness, you’ll never make those creatures submit. After all, they are wargs, not ordinary wolves simply hunting for food.”

Garrett shrugged. Clearly, they were discussing different concepts, but close enough.

As they spoke, one of the wargs suddenly caught a scent, lifted its head, and surveyed the area alertly.

“I believe we should depart,” Gandalf suggested.

“No, I think it’s time to get ready for a fight.”

“Grrr!”

One of the wargs suddenly charged toward their hiding spot. Garrett didn’t bother hiding anymore. He drew his longsword, leaped down, and swung in a heavy arc.

Thud!

As the blade made contact, flames danced along its edge. Instantly, the warg’s fur ignited, and the creature was consumed, becoming a howling inferno.

With a single stroke, fire and steel united, the warg was reduced to a charred, motionless carcass.

Gandalf observed the ancient elven sword, then studied Garrett, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. He said nothing, nor did he intervene to assist.

On the other side, initially, the orcs had intended to capitalize on their numerical advantage, typical orc tactics. But once they witnessed the fearsome black armor beneath Garrett’s linen cloak and the flaming sword in his grasp, they immediately panicked and scattered. Even the remaining warg yelped and fled.

One glance revealed this warrior was of heroic caliber. What could five or six common orcs accomplish against such a foe? Better to retreat and summon reinforcements.

“All done,” Garrett declared as he sheathed his weapon.

“It seems I’ll be having a more comfortable journey,” Gandalf remarked casually.

He was clearly preparing to let Garrett handle the heavy lifting.

“Let’s go, before they get the word out,” Garrett urged.

The sky was growing darker.

Gandalf led the way, and just as the two finally reached the end of a descending trail, about to leave the snow-covered mountains behind, whoosh, an arrow suddenly flew toward them and struck Garrett’s breastplate directly, only to bounce harmlessly away.

His health bar didn’t even flicker.

Garrett and Gandalf turned simultaneously. Behind them, a large force of orcs was pouring down the path, shouting and hurling weapons, firing arrows.

“Run!” Gandalf shouted, dodging a flying scimitar and immediately turning to flee.

But Garrett examined the narrow mountain pass and smiled grimly.

“I think I’ll stay.”

Shing.

Drawing his gleaming sword, he donned his helmet and walked in the opposite direction from Gandalf, positioning himself alone at the mouth of the pass.

Thud!

With a single downward strike, the first orc in line was cleaved completely in two. The force of the blow sent nearby orcs flying, some suffered shattered bones, others lost their weapons entirely.

Thud!

Another sweep, several orcs were launched through the air, wreathed in flames, crashing into their comrades and spreading the fire further.

Garrett held his position at the narrow passage, swinging his sword in precise arcs and devastating slashes. No matter how many orcs charged, their weapons rang uselessly against his armor. He stood immovable as bedrock.

One orc finally slipped past the blade and closed distance, striking at Garrett with all its strength. After several seconds of clanging and battering, Garrett’s health bar dropped barely, then instantly regenerated. When the orc looked again, its weapon was chipped and worthless.

This was netherite.

Before long, the ground was carpeted with scorched corpses.

Initially, the blood and violence only inflamed the orcs and wargs, stoking their battle-frenzy. But as the bodies accumulated and the stench of burning flesh overcame the smell of blood, a different emotion began to spread, terror.

“He’s the one! The Fortress Lord!”

Finally, one keen-eyed orc who had participated in the earlier assault against Garrett’s stronghold recognized him and screamed.

Panic.

Orcs and wargs alike instinctively retreated, eyes fixed on the black-armored figure.

A warg whimpered, jaw trembling from a broken fang, growling in frustration and fear.

“Come then, you filth, try to pass me!”

Garrett taunted, his voice carrying as he faced the terror-stricken horde.

Witnessing this scene, Gandalf experienced a peculiar sense of déjà vu.

Long ago, when Sauron had descended from Barad-dûr in physical form, marching forth from Mount Doom, when he had faced the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, and single-handedly struck down both Gil-galad and Isildur’s father, this was what it must have resembled.

He couldn’t help but wonder: if these two ever fought… who would emerge victorious?

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep