The end of the war
The two colossal beasts crashed into the Nazgûl and their flying mounts with the force of an avalanche, pinning them to the ground beneath their tremendous weight. The beasts, struggling and thrashing, found no chance to retaliate as the jaws of their assailants tore into them mercilessly.
Wayne, muscles swollen and surging with power, flashed behind the Witch-king of Angmar. The electric blade in his hand shot forward like a lightning bolt, aimed at his foe with deadly precision.
The speed and force behind the strike were overwhelming, and even the Witch-king couldn't block it outright. But as the most powerful Nazgûl and Sauron's chief lieutenant, the Witch-king wielded formidable dark magic. In the instant before the blade connected, his form dissolved into a swirling black mist, slipping away from his mount and reforming dozens of meters away.
However, Wayne's weapon carried lightning power that lingered. As the Witch-king reassembled, electricity crackled across his dark form, and he let out a cry of pain, his body flickering as sparks danced across his robes.
Though his initial attack missed, Wayne didn't falter. With a swift, decisive motion, he gripped the hilt of the blade with both hands and plunged it into the skull of the thrashing mount beneath him. The sharp blade drove through scales and bone, sinking deeper into the beast's brain with a sickening crunch. The mount convulsed violently before collapsing lifeless beneath him.
Wayne slid the electric blade into his space bracelet, replacing it with the Sword, glowing with latent energy from countless battles.
Before the mount's corpse hit the ground, Wayne's form flickered once more, teleporting behind the Witch-king of Angmar.
This time, however, the Witch-king was ready. He slammed his staff into the ground, summoning a translucent barrier of dark energy around him. The shield pulsed with malevolent magic, capable of absorbing even powerful attacks.
With a low, guttural chant in the ancient tongue of sorcery, the Witch-king pressed his gloved hand against the ground. In response, pale, ghostly figures began to rise from the earth, their twisted, ethereal forms emerging like nightmares from the underworld.
These spirits, tainted souls corrupted by dark forces and tortured beyond recognition, screeched as they took shape. They resembled distorted, skeletal elves with jagged nails glinting with a sinister black sheen. Their hollow wails echoed through the canyon, clawing at the minds of the living.
Ordinary weapons would be useless against these specters. They were immune to physical strikes, making them ideal tools for the Witch-king's dark sorcery, intended to overwhelm mortal warriors through fear and confusion.
Wayne, wielding the Sword, remained unshaken by the appearance of the dark spirits. The chaotic magic within him surged like a storm, and as a sorcerer, his magical reserves rivaled, if not exceeded, those of the Witch-king of Angmar.
The holy sword, blessed by the Lady of the Lake, pulsed with divine energy accumulated over time. As Wayne poured his magic into the blade, the weapon blazed with radiant, silver-white light, illuminating the battlefield like the sun. A shockwave of divine energy erupted outward, vaporizing the dark spirits instantly, their cursed forms reduced to nothing but ash in an instant.
The blast of holy power cracked the Witch-king's magical barrier like shattered glass, sending ripples of weakness through the Nazgûl nearby. Even the two Ringwraiths guarding the perimeter faltered under the sacred shockwave, temporarily disoriented by its brilliance.
The Witch-king, stunned by the sword's sheer power, instinctively tried to shift back into his mist form to flee. But Wayne did not grant him the chance. With a mighty roar, he channeled his energy into the blade, causing it to expand into a colossal sword of light, over sixteen meters long, radiating divine fury.
Before the Witch-king could react, the gigantic blade cleaved downward. His dark barrier shattered under the immense pressure, crumbling like parchment before the divine sword.
The Witch-king, with no other choice, swung his iron staff in desperation, meeting the descending lightsaber with all his might.
BOOM!
The clash sent a thunderous shockwave through the battlefield. But the concentrated magic within Wayne's sword overwhelmed the Witch-king's defenses. The ground beneath them cracked and caved in, leaving a deep crater where the blow landed.
When the dust settled, there was no trace of the Witch-king—his form obliterated, reduced to nothing more than ash scattered to the winds. The most fearsome of Sauron's servants had been destroyed, his essence returning to the shadow of his dark master.
Wayne, high on the surge of power from his distortion enhancement, felt the intoxicating pull of destruction. The amplification coursing through his veins made every muscle thrum with uncontainable energy, giving him a dangerous sense of invincibility.
Meanwhile, Deathclaw Robin and Beorn, in his giant bear form, grappled with the remaining Nazgûl, keeping them at bay. The two disoriented wraiths, still reeling from the sacred shockwave, struggled to regain their focus.
It had all happened so quickly—within mere moments, Wayne had turned the tide of battle and vanquished the Witch-king.
However, the two remaining Nazgûl, as relentless as ever, regained their composure. Without hesitation, they tugged at the reins of their dragons, charging at Wayne without fear. For these undead beings, retreat was never an option—only endless battle and death awaited them, as commanded by their dark master, Sauron.
Wayne, grinning slightly, felt the intoxicating power surge through him once more. The first of the approaching Ringwraiths was a hulking figure clad in heavy armor, wielding a shield and a spiked flail.
The Nazgûl raised the massive flail high above its head, the iron weight spinning ominously. With murderous intent gleaming from the void where its eyes once were, it barreled toward Wayne, preparing to bring the weapon crashing down.
But Wayne remained calm, an amused smile curling his lips. With a subtle shift in his stance, he planted his right foot back, gripping the hilt of the Sword in both hands, ready to strike.
When the armored wraith closed to within seven meters, Wayne exploded into motion. He pushed off with immense force, his muscles contracting with unnatural precision, unleashing a burst of power that launched him forward like a spear.
CRACK!
The Sword pierced through the heavy shield, driving through armor and flesh alike. The wraith let out a strangled hiss as the blade skewered it, lifting its lifeless form into the air.
Wayne's relentless assault did not cease. With a savage roar, he gripped the impaled Nazgûl on his sword and swung it like a massive hammer. The force of his blow sent the Ringwraith crashing into the flying dragon beneath him, slamming them both into the ground in a twisted heap of flesh, blood, and shattered bones.
The remaining Nazgûl, witnessing Wayne's overwhelming power, tugged frantically at the reins of its mount, trying to retreat and regroup. But Wayne didn't grant it the opportunity. With a powerful lunge, he seized the tail of the fleeing dragon, yanking it and its rider down from the sky. The pair hit the ground hard, stunned by the impact.
The trapped Nazgûl struggled to rise, but Wayne, filled with unrestrained fury, stomped onto the wraith's chest. With a thunderous crunch, the armor dented inward, shattering ribs and crushing organs, leaving the dark spirit broken and lifeless beneath his boots.
Even this didn't sate Wayne's destructive hunger. Spotting the dragon writhing in pain, he swung the Sword with surgical precision, severing the beast's wings in one swift motion. Ignoring its agonized cries, Wayne continued to rain down strikes, his blade cutting deeper with each blow. Within moments, the once-majestic creature lay in a bloody mess, reduced to nothing more than shredded flesh and broken bones.
Satisfied at last, Wayne allowed the distortion-enhancement to fade. The sudden loss of power left him feeling drained, his strength reduced to half of what it had been. Yet, he felt no concern—the tide of the battle was turning. With the Witch-king of Angmar and the Nazgûl defeated, the remaining orc forces inside the Lonely Mountain were nothing more than scattered remnants—hardly a threat worth worrying about.
Meanwhile, Deathclaw Robin and Beorn, the giant bear, had finished off their adversaries. Robin, always confident in his master, had not felt the need to assist. Instead, the beast turned its attention to the corpse of the slain dragon. Opening his enormous maw, Robin began tearing into the fallen beast, devouring its flesh with gusto and releasing a triumphant roar between mouthfuls.
Wayne made no effort to stop him. He understood Robin's instincts—this was the natural order. The more powerful the enemy, the more satisfying the meal. He let his companion feast, knowing it was both a celebration of victory and a necessary replenishment of strength.
---
Ding!
The system notification rang clearly in Wayne's mind.
Master-level mission [Operation Decapitation] complete.
Reward: 450 experience points and a master-level treasure chest.
...
Two days later, when Thranduil, the King of the Woodland Elves, arrived at the Lonely Mountain with his army, he was greeted by an astonishing sight.
The expected orc army was nowhere to be found. Instead, the ground and the city walls of Erebor were littered with the corpses of orcs, and the charred remains of siege engines continued to smolder, sending thick plumes of smoke into the sky.
Amidst the battlefield, a massive, terrifying beast rummaged through the bodies, pushing aside the fallen orcs with disdain. The creature seemed to sort through the dead, tossing aside the orcs and devouring the corpses of wargs with relish.
As soon as the beast noticed the arrival of Thranduil and his soldiers, it raised its massive head, tail swaying slightly. With a high-pitched roar, the creature seemed to proclaim its triumph, as though announcing to its absent master that reinforcements had arrived.
The creature was none other than Robin, Wayne's Deathclaw. But now, it looked even more fearsome than when it had last fought in the Woodland Kingdom. The changes in its form—its size, scales, and aura—unsettled the elves, sending ripples of anxiety through their ranks. Despite their discipline, the sight of the beast put the woodland warriors on edge.
King Thranduil frowned, scanning the strange scene. His sharp gaze shifted toward the figures standing beside him—Balin, the old dwarf, and the members of the White Council.
Accompanying the Elf King on this expedition were Gandalf the Grey, Saruman the White, and Radagast the Brown. Alongside these wizards stood Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, and the mighty Elven Queen, Galadriel.
They had all gathered after learning that the Witch-king of Angmar and the other Nazgûl had abandoned Dol Guldur. Fearing the devastation the Witch-king might bring to the north, the White Council had rushed to the Woodland Kingdom. After meeting with King Thranduil, they had learned from Balin what had transpired at the Lonely Mountain. Determined to confront the Witch-king and destroy the orc army, they had come together for this mission.
However, nothing could have prepared them for the scene before them now.
The Deathclaw's triumphant roar echoed through the mountain pass, and moments later, Wayne emerged from the entrance of the Lonely Mountain, riding on his magic flying carpet.
Wayne's sharp eyes quickly scanned the gathered leaders. Spotting Gandalf, Thranduil, and the others, he raised an eyebrow in mild surprise before descending to meet them. He stepped off the carpet and landed gracefully in front of the council members, nodding to the familiar faces in greeting.
Gandalf, leaning on his staff, stroked his beard thoughtfully, his expression grave as he addressed Wayne.
"Wayne, tell me—how stands the situation? Are Thorin and Dáin Ironfoot safe? Have you encountered the Witch-king of Angmar or the Nazgûl? And what became of the orc army?"
Wayne met the wizard's gaze calmly, his expression unreadable. With a glance toward the others, he replied matter-of-factly:
"The Witch-king of Angmar and the other Nazgûl have been slain by me. The orc army has been defeated as well."
Wayne's tone was casual, almost indifferent, as if recounting an ordinary day's work. "The remnants of the orc force have fled deeper into the Lonely Mountain. I'm currently searching for Thorin and Dáin. However, with the extensive network of mines inside the mountain, locating them is taking time."
At Wayne's words, the assembled leaders were struck with disbelief. Thranduil and Balin were the most visibly stunned, knowing full well that Wayne had arrived only three days earlier—and alone.
In just three days, this lone warrior had annihilated an entire orc army, defeated the Witch-king of Angmar, and vanquished the other Nazgûl. Such feats were unheard of, not even in the grand myths of the First Age.
A range of emotions spread through the group—shock, awe, suspicion, and admiration. Gandalf's eyes glinted with a mixture of curiosity and unease, while Galadriel watched Wayne closely, her expression both intrigued and concerned. Elrond's gaze was contemplative, while Saruman seemed skeptical, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Wayne, however, did not linger on their reactions. His weariness was beginning to show. Turning to Balin and Thranduil, he spoke in a slightly fatigued tone:
"Now that you've arrived, the rest is up to you."
"I've been at this for three days without rest, and with you here, I can finally step back.