At this very moment, if one stood atop the Lonely Mountain and gazed far into the distance, they would clearly see the orc army surging forward like an endless black cloud, blanketing the sky and earth.
They split into two forces. One, like a raging tide, charged fiercely toward the Lonely Mountain—yet the seemingly slender defense line stood as unyielding as a wall of steel, holding them back firmly.
The other orc contingent raced along the riverbank toward Dale at breakneck speed. On the stone bridge connecting the Lonely Mountain to Dale, Bard and Gandalf, leading the Lake-town fishermen, sprinted desperately toward Dale.
Dale was crucial to this war. It was not only the retreat route for the dwarven and elven armies, but also the key to whether the orc army could seize favorable terrain outside the Lonely Mountain and establish a camp capable of both offense and defense.
On the battlefield before the Lonely Mountain, the dwarven ironclad infantry, under the command of their sergeant, formed a tight defensive formation once more. Yet Dáin Ironfoot—who should have been commanding the dwarves in battle—was now acting like a man possessed. Leading the dwarven goat cavalry, supported by chariots, he launched constant attacks on the flanks and rear of the orc army.
The elven saber warriors, led by Owen, moved like killing machines, cutting down the elite orc vanguard one by one.
"Fall back!" As Owen swung his sword to slay an elite orc, he never took his eyes off the rear of the orc army.
By now, Owen had detected a massive contingent of orc archers gathering in the rear, advancing toward them.
Owen, having honed his skills on the battlefields of Westeros, possessed rich combat experience. Seeing this, he immediately ordered the elven saber warriors to retreat.
These agile elven elites quickly disentangled themselves from the orcs and withdrew rapidly to the rear of the dwarven army.
"Raise shields for defense!" Owen's voice rang out among the dwarven and elven warriors.
The dwarven army at the front immediately lifted their stacked shields, forming a wall of steel that firmly blocked the orc arrows.
"Loose arrows!" King Thranduil gave the order to the elven archers arrayed before the Lonely Mountain. Countless elven arrows, glinting coldly, the sky like rain, covering the orc vanguard.
"Ugh... ah..." Orc screams echoed across the battlefield.
"Form ranks, hold spears, advance slowly!" Seizing the opportunity, Owen immediately ordered the dwarven army to press forward against the now completely disorganized orc vanguard.
"Forward!" the dwarven sergeant roared. "Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!" Rousing battle cries erupted from the dwarven steel formation.
"Boom... boom... boom..." The dwarven ironclad army marched in unison, gripping their spears tightly as they charged unyieldingly toward their orc foes. Not a single orc could stand against the dense forest of sharp dwarven spears.
"Toot..."
On the high signal tower, the orc horn sounded again. Azog had seen that his vanguard was nearly wiped out, so he immediately ordered the horn blown—summoning the slow-moving troll army from the rear to take the vanguard's place.
The massive trolls, their bodies weighing tons, marched heavily toward the dwarven army at the foot of the mountain. With each step of their heavy frames, the ground trembled.
The dwarven ironclad army, which had been gaining the upper hand, now halted their advance. The dwarven sergeant's face turned pale as he watched the approaching trolls.
"Close ranks!" the sergeant shouted at the top of his lungs. The dwarven formation—originally only three rows deep—quickly transformed into a thick defensive wall. All the dwarven soldiers gripped their spears tightly and braced their shields, ready to withstand the trolls' devastating blows.
"Ha!"
Just as the dwarven warriors prepared for their final stand, a fierce shout rang out from behind their ranks. Owen once again stepped on the dwarves' shoulders and leaped into the center of the battlefield.
The moment he landed, he plunged his twin swords—glowing with magical light—into the ground. A surge of immense magic flowed into the earth, stirring the endless magma deep within the Lonely Mountain.
In an instant, the entire battlefield shook violently. Even those on the distant signal tower could feel the tremor clearly.
This sudden turn of events silenced both sides in the middle of their battle.
Only Owen knew what was happening. A faint smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he slowly looked up at the endless sea of orcs—and the heavy troll contingent at the front.
Ancient runes swirled in Owen's mind. Orc arrows turned to dust the moment they touched the glowing aura around him. An obscure incantation fell from his lips—an elven spell, one that allowed communication with the natural magic of the world.
His voice was not loud, yet it reached everyone's ears. King Thranduil and Gandalf the Grey stared in shock toward the source of the voice, their faces filled with confusion.
As the incantation continued, dazzling light began to emanate from Owen's twin swords. From where the blades pierced the earth, web-like veins of light spread rapidly across the ground—penetrating the orcs' tunneling mines and reaching the hidden magma rivers 300 meters below.
"Boom!"
Suddenly, countless cracks appeared in the previously calm ground. Following the tips of Owen's swords, the cracks spread unceasingly toward the orc army.
Scorching hot steam gushed from those narrow cracks. Before anyone could fathom what was happening, "Bang!"—billowing magma erupted from the fissures.
The moment the magma broke free from the rock, the immense pressure sent it shooting 20 to 30 meters into the air. Then, like falling meteors, it scattered and rained down onto the orc army.
The river of liquid flame poured endlessly from the earth, forming flowing streams of fire that surged toward the orcs.
Beneath this "heaven-sent punishment," the orcs scattered in all directions like frightened birds and beasts. The slow-moving trolls and orc soldiers were engulfed by the scorching magma—their flesh vaporized instantly, their armor and weapons melted into glowing red liquid steel.
The dwarven and elven armies on the battlefield witnessed a sight they would never forget: molten lava roses bloomed across the charred earth, each petal a crystal of solidified flame.
When the last wave of magma subsided, the orc army outside the Lonely Mountain had lost all their ferocity. The sound of war drums was replaced by the endless wails of the wounded.
YOU ARE READING
New students start from 'Game of Thrones'
FantasyIn Westeros, a village in the North, a named guard, accompanied by a simple system, drifts with the flow in this world full of conspiracies and death, embarking on a journey towards a diverse world.
