Elrond

The Deathclaw Robin, a terrifying creature capable of carrying power mechs on its back in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, proved to be an unstoppable force on this battlefield. The wargs, once feared for their ferocity, appeared as mere pups in the presence of this massive beast. Though there were twenty or thirty wargs, their numbers meant nothing as they tried in vain to surround and overwhelm the Deathclaw.

From a distance, the scene looked more like the frantic slaughter of helpless mice rather than an actual battle. The wargs' sharp teeth, which they usually relied on, couldn't even scratch the thick, armored hide of the Deathclaw. Their bites failed to penetrate the creature's skin, and in some cases, the wargs broke their own teeth in the futile attempt.

With a roar that shook the ground, Deathclaw Robin unleashed its fury. The three wargs closest to the beast froze in place, paralyzed with fear, unable to move or flee. Within moments, the Deathclaw's massive, razor-sharp claws came down on one of the wargs, crushing it instantly. Bones cracked, and the beast's internal organs exploded on impact. The warg was flattened into a mass of bloody pulp before it could let out a single cry.

Robin's other paw reached out, grabbing both an orc and its warg mount in one sweep. With a brutal squeeze, Robin crushed them together as if they were mere fruit, the blood and flesh splattering everywhere before the Deathclaw shoved the remains into its gaping maw. It was a scene of pure carnage, blood flowing from its mouth, staining the ground beneath it.

Perhaps it was the long-restrained savagery being unleashed, but as Robin continued to devour its foes, the beast let out another ferocious roar. The remaining orcs and wargs trembled, petrified by the sight of their comrades being torn apart.

From above, Wayne, watching from his flying carpet, frowned. The Deathclaw's unrestrained ferocity was something he had expected but needed to control. Drawing his bow, Wayne took aim and loosed a steel arrow, instantly striking down an orc and its mount, pinning them to the ground.

At the sound of Wayne's voice, Robin, previously indulging in its killing spree, suddenly halted, its dominating posture shrinking. It spat out the mangled corpse it had been chewing and resumed a more disciplined killing spree, no longer consumed by bloodlust but still ruthlessly efficient.

Robin's greatest weapon wasn't only its massive jaws and sharp claws but its thick, barbed tail. Covered in spikes and nearly three meters long, the tail lashed out like a living whip, smashing any warg that attempted to attack from behind. With every swing, the tail turned into a blur, striking with such force that the wargs were either thrown across the field or sliced cleanly in half. No sneak attack could succeed against such a deadly and reactive defense.

Realizing that they were hopelessly outmatched, the orcs and wargs began to flee, their morale shattered. But by this point, it was far too late. In less than five minutes, more than thirty wargs and a dozen orcs had fallen to the Deathclaw's claws and tail. Those who attempted to escape found no refuge either. Wayne's arrows, fired from above with uncanny precision, found their targets, pinning them to the ground and turning them into statues of death.

When Thorin, Gandalf, and the rest of the dwarves arrived, the battle was already over. The field was littered with the corpses of orcs and wargs, most of which had been torn apart by the sheer power of the Deathclaw Robin. Blood soaked the earth, and the bodies of those who had tried to flee lay scattered across the field, skewered by Wayne's arrows.

Even the hardened dwarf warriors, who had fought in many battles, were stunned by the level of devastation. Bilbo, however, was the most affected. Having never participated in combat before, the gentle hobbit could barely handle the scene of carnage before him. He almost fainted from the shock, and it was only with the support of a dwarf named Bofur that Bilbo managed to keep from collapsing, clutching his chest and breathing deeply to steady himself.

After witnessing the combined might of Wayne and his beastly companion, the Deathclaw Robin, no one in the group doubted Wayne's power any longer. His strength was far beyond that of ordinary warriors, and it became clear that he was likely on par with the legendary heroes of old.

Without Wayne and Robin, the group would have had no choice but to flee in the face of such overwhelming numbers. Defeating the orcs and wargs without them would have been impossible.

Radagast, who had just reunited with Gandalf, looked on in disbelief. He scratched his bird-dropping-covered head and turned to Gandalf, asking, "Who is this man? And what manner of beast is that creature with him?"

Radagast's voice trembled with awe as he added, "I've spent my life in the forests, and I've never seen anything like that. Not even the spawn of the ancient evils could match this monster."

Gandalf, stroking his beard, observed the Deathclaw with a keen, thoughtful gaze. Its resemblance to dragons and ancient lizards did not escape him. 

"Yes," Gandalf murmured, "I've never seen a creature quite like it either. But its strength, it may very well rival the beasts forged by the Creator himself."

As powerful as the Deathclaw was, even Gandalf, a Maia, had to admit that its combat prowess could place it among the top ranks of the most formidable creatures in Middle-earth. 

As the team members were still processing the aftermath of the battle, Wayne descended from the sky. With one hand, he grabbed the only half-orc left with an intact body, clutching him by the scruff of the neck as if he were nothing more than a ragged old dog. With little effort, he tossed the struggling orc at the feet of the group, specifically in front of Gandalf.

Wayne dismounted from his magic flying carpet, placing a heavy boot on the orc's chest. The sheer force made the orc gasp for breath, his eyes wide with terror.

"This one's still breathing," Wayne remarked coldly. "Do you have any questions for the orcs, Gandalf?"

Before Gandalf could answer, Thorin interjected, his voice firm. "It's a waste of effort, Wayne. The orcs speak a different language, and though they are vile and cowardly, they are known for their loyalty to their kin. Many have tried to extract information from them, but none have succeeded. We'd be better off killing this filth now and sparing ourselves the trouble."

Wayne didn't respond directly to Thorin, instead turning to Gandalf. "Can you understand the language of the orcs, Gandalf?"

Gandalf stroked his beard thoughtfully before nodding. "Yes, the orcs use a corrupted form of Sindarin, the language of the elves. While it's not identical, I should be able to understand it well enough."

With that confirmation, Wayne acted without hesitation. He raised his hand, tracing an Axi sign in the air. A surge of invisible force enveloped the orc's mind, instantly pacifying him. The struggling ceased, and the orc's eyes glazed over, his expression now dull and vacant, as he fell into a deep, hypnotic state.

"He's under my spell now," Wayne said, his voice steady. "Ask whatever you wish. He can't lie, nor can he refuse to answer."

The display of magic left everyone, including Gandalf, visibly surprised. They had already witnessed Wayne's physical prowess, but his ability to cast such intricate spells further solidified the group's growing respect for him.

Gandalf wasted no time, stepping forward and asking the orc several key questions: the location of their pursuers, the number of forces, and most importantly, who was leading them.

Over the next few minutes, the orc—entranced by Wayne's spell—answered everything with blunt honesty. Once the interrogation ended and the orc was of no further use, Wayne stepped forward and, with an expressionless face, kicked the orc in the chest. The force of the blow sent the creature flying several meters into the air before he collided with a rock, his body crumpling like a ragdoll. Blood poured from his mouth as his life slipped away.

No one said anything about the orc's demise. Instead, they stood in silence, their expressions growing more grim as they processed the information they had learned.

The orc leading the hunt was none other than Azog, the Pale Orc, Chieftain of the orcs from the Misty Mountains and a sworn enemy of the dwarves. Azog had murdered Thorin's grandfather, making him a hated figure among the dwarves. Under his command were hundreds of orcs, their numbers growing with each passing day. This was no small skirmish; it was an organized hunt, and Azog had placed a massive bounty on Thorin's head. Not only the orcs chasing them now but every orc force along the road to the Lonely Mountain would be gunning for them.

The weight of this news hung heavily on the group. Their journey was already treacherous, but with the constant threat of orcs pursuing them, many began to wonder if they would ever reach the Lonely Mountain alive.

As the gravity of the situation settled over the company, Wayne spoke up, his tone casual but cutting through the tension.

"Azog, the Pale Orc—he's still just an orc. Is he stronger than Smaug?"

All eyes turned to him as he continued, his gaze settling on Thorin. "Prince Thorin, what do you say we add another condition to our contract?"

"Next time, after we encounter this so-called Azog, I will help you capture him alive, so that you may exact your revenge in person."

"As for the reward, I've heard the dwarves possess a rare metal called mithril among their treasures. Mithril armor, forged from it, is not only incredibly strong but also remarkably light. It's known to be a piece of enchanted equipment."

"If I help you capture Azog, will you reward me with ten pieces of mithril armor? How about that?"

Upon hearing Wayne's proposal, Thorin initially frowned, unwilling to accept the condition. He firmly believed he could face Azog on his own. However, when he noticed the worried expressions of his companions, he reconsidered. After a few moments, he nodded and said:

"Your offer is intriguing, Wayne. I trust in your capabilities."

"But know this—you must bring Azog to me alive. I will not accept a corpse."

"I intend to duel him fairly. I will defeat him myself and sever his head, avenging my grandfather and reclaiming the honor."

"If you can do that, I will be willing to amend our contract."

As Thorin finished, a system prompt sounded in Wayne's ear.

Ding! The mission [Capture Azog Alive] has been triggered—Master Level.

Accept/Decline

Wayne chuckled and accepted without hesitation. The other dwarves, encouraged by Thorin's and Wayne's boldness, joined in with laughter. This journey to the Lonely Mountain was proving to be more rewarding than Wayne had imagined. Beyond escorting the expedition, he had also been entrusted with two great tasks: the slaying of Smaug and capturing Azog alive. These were no ordinary missions—they were legendary in scale.

The most thrilling of them was the task to kill Smaug—an epic quest, and surprisingly, the easiest for him to accomplish.

[Kill Smaug]

Level: Epic.

Objective: Kill the dragon Smaug.

Reward: 3000 experience points, Epic Treasure Chest x1, Attribute Points +3.

The mission was straightforward, the rewards generous, and it wouldn't consume much time.

The land of Middle-earth, much like the world of The Witcher, was steeped in clear-cut battles between good and evil. The quests here reflected that simplicity, which Wayne appreciated. He felt confident that during this long journey to the Lonely Mountain, he would trigger many more high-level missions and accumulate even greater power.

Just as the expedition team was reveling in their good fortune, the rumble of hooves and the panicked neighing of horses echoed from the direction of the battlefield. Amidst the noise, the ferocious roar of the Deathclaw, Robin, tore through the air.

Wayne's face darkened upon hearing this. He quickly addressed the group, "I'll go check on the situation."

Without wasting time, he mounted his magical flying carpet and swiftly flew towards the Deathclaw's location.

Wayne wasn't concerned for Robin's safety. The sheer might of the Deathclaw made it a formidable force against any adversary—it could crush its enemies with ease. However, its terrifying appearance often provoked hostility. Should things escalate, there could be severe casualties, which could lead to unwanted conflicts with other races.

As he flew closer, Wayne saw what had caused the commotion. Dozens of knights clad in silver armor, their warhorses similarly armored, surrounded the Deathclaw in a cautious formation, seemingly unsure whether to attack the fearsome beast.

Robin remained obedient, showing no overt aggression toward the knights. His vertical, dragon-like pupils casually observed the armored figures, while his massive jaws, lined with sharp teeth, let out the occasional low growl—just enough to demonstrate his devastating power.

Thankfully, there had been no conflict yet, which brought Wayne some relief.

Guiding his carpet over the Deathclaw's head, Wayne descended in front of the silver-armored knights, all of whom watched him warily. He looked down at them and said in a commanding tone:

"Who are you? And do you have any alliance with these orcs?"

For a moment, there was silence. Then, a tall knight wearing an elaborately adorned helmet stepped forward, his graceful warhorse trotting beside him. Removing his helm, the knight revealed a strikingly handsome face and pointed ears, characteristic of the Eldar.

He glanced up at Wayne on the flying carpet, a glint of surprise crossing his face, before he spoke in a calm, authoritative voice.

"I am Elrond, King of the Elves of Rivendell. We are here to hunt down the orcs."

"And who might you be, stranger?"