As the pale-skinned Orc lifted Thror's head and held it up for the entire battlefield to see, Balin froze in shock. Witnessing this scene, Kargan and Zoltan exchanged glances with one another; they understood what it meant—the simulation was nearing its end. The two looked up toward the sky, where thirty-six dwarves hovered like ghosts, suspended in the air, watching them and the remaining Witcher dwarves with keen curiosity.
Most of the Witcher dwarves had fallen during the battle simulation. Only those hardened by extensive combat experience remained.
"Zoltan, Balin—be ready! Stay focused, they're coming!"
While the Orcs roared in triumph, shouting victory cries thanks to Azog, the morale of the dwarves sank even further. The already fragile balance had tipped decisively in the Orcs' favor.
Realizing the gravity of the situation, Balin immediately steadied himself. Gripping his sword with deep, seething rage, he stood his ground and waited for the charging Orcs. He deflected the first Orc's spear with his blade, severed its arms, then beheaded it in a single flowing motion. Without losing momentum, he turned to the next Orc rushing toward him, parried its attack, sliced off its leg, and as the Orc fell screaming to the ground, Balin drove his sword straight into its open mouth, killing it instantly.
At that moment, a massive Orc wielding a great axe charged Balin. Sensing the timing perfectly, Balin leapt slightly to the side. As the axe embedded itself into the ground, Balin thrust the tip of his sword into the Orc's throat and twisted. The Orc clutched its neck in stunned disbelief.
Balin wasted no time. He pulled his sword free, blocked another incoming strike, and locked weapons with his opponent. Twisting his wrist, he broke the Orc's balance. As the Orc was forced to lean forward, Balin smashed his head into it. When the Orc staggered, Balin plunged his sword into its heart, twisted sharply, pulled it free, and immediately blocked yet another attack as weapons clashed once more.
As Balin and his enemy entered a brief contest of strength, he felt a sudden chill to his left. Instinctively, he shoved his opponent away and leaned his head back. A spear grazed past his chin, slicing through his beard and nicking his jaw. Spinning swiftly on his heel, Balin slashed open the spear-wielding Orc's belly, then continued his rotation and cut across another Orc's chest.
Maintaining his fighting stance, he surveyed the enemies watching him cautiously and murmured calmly,
"Where are you, Tháin? Take command of the army at once."
Balin drew a deep breath and called out to the two behind him.
"How are things on your end, lads?"
Zoltan was blocking the attacks of two Orcs at once with his axe. As the Orcs pushed forward with all their strength, Zoltan resisted with sheer force. The muscles in his arms bulged, veins standing out on his forehead as he clenched his teeth and spoke through the strain.
"Managing… it… Just… a… minute… ple… ase—Ugh!"
Suddenly, Zoltan released the pressure and leapt backward. The Orcs, caught off guard by their own momentum, stumbled forward. Exploiting their imbalance, Zoltan acted swiftly and knocked both of them back.
He slashed open the belly of the Orc on his left, then struck the right one's kneecap with the haft of his axe, cracking it. Though the Orc groaned in agony, it grit its teeth and swung its sword. Preparing to finish it off, Zoltan flinched and retreated quickly, but the enemy's blade scraped across his chest.
Startled, Zoltan quickly felt his chest. Realizing he felt no pain, he let out a relieved breath.
"This armor really is high quality…"
His eyes lingered for a second on the limping Orc fleeing backward, but he had no time. He dodged a spear thrust by leaning sideways, lunged forward and sliced open the spearman's waist. The Orc screamed in pain, clutching its stomach. Without hesitation, Zoltan yanked his axe free, deflected an incoming sword strike by smashing into the blade with the haft, then shoulder-checked the sword-wielding Orc, staggering it backward.
Spinning swiftly beheaded the Orc that was kneeling and holding its stomach. As the head hit the ground and began to roll, Zoltan turned instantly, deflected another attack from Orc regaining its balance, and cut its leg clean off. As the enemy collapsed screaming in agony, Zoltan brought his axe down on its head, killing it without losing a second.
He retreated immediately, deflected another attack, unbalanced his opponent, then delivered a brutal punch straight between the Orc's legs.
Something cracked.
CRACK!
The Orc screamed in agony, clutching its groin and collapsing to its knees. At that moment, Zoltan blocked another attack coming from the left, then turned back and beheaded the sobbing Orc. Before the head could even hit the ground, he spun again and stopped another assault—locking eyes with an Uruk-hai.
The two entered a brief contest of strength. Zoltan's gaze caught an Orc archer drawing a bow. The instant the archer realized he had been noticed, Zoltan withdrew from the struggle. The Uruk-hai, overcommitting with its strength, lurched forward. Zoltan grabbed its head and yanked it to the right, using it as a shield. The arrow struck the Orc square in the back. Both the shooter and the struck Orc froze in shock.
Zoltan released the Orc and, with a battle cry, split its head open. Dropping his great axe, he grabbed a throwing axe from his belt and hurled it with all his might at the panicking archer attempting to nock another arrow. He ducked swiftly to evade an incoming strike, landed two solid punches on his opponent, then snatched up his axe and rejoined the fight. The thrown axe struck the archer Orc, knocking it down.
Taking position, Zoltan surveyed the mass of Orcs ahead and shouted,
"KARGAN! I CAN'T HEAR YOU! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?"
At that moment, Kargan was locked in brutal combat with three Orcs, barely finding a second to breathe. Even so, he tried to answer, deflecting a sword strike mid-sentence.
"Right now—"
Clink!
He spun left and smashed aside a spear thrust with his axe.
"—a bit—"
Clink!
He reached out, grabbed the spear-wielding Orc by the collar of its armor, yanked it toward him, and smashed his forehead into its face. At the same time, he raised his axe to the right and blocked an incoming sword strike.
"I'M A LITTLE BUSY HERE!"
Kargan dodged the axe blow coming from the side by crouching down, and then delivered a hard blow to the orc's stomach with the head of his own axe. The Orc recoiled, clutching its gut and groaning as it bent forward. Kargan turned to the right, blocked another attack, then struck the Ork he had just hit hard in the face with the handle of his axe, breaking his teeth. Spinning on his heel, he elbowed it to the ground, continued the rotation, deflected another Orc's weapon, and drove his axe straight into its chest.
The Orc's eyes widened in shock as it dropped its weapon and clutched the wound with both hands.
Kargan spun swiftly and clashed weapons with an Uruk-hai. The two staggered backward from the impact. Regaining his balance in an instant, Kargan lunged forward and slammed his shoulder into his opponent. The Orc fell flat on its back, and before it could rise, Kargan split its head open with his axe.
Without wasting a second, Kargan wrenched his axe free, turned left, deflected the incoming Uruk-hai's axe, then surged forward and buried his axe into the Uruk-hai's body. As the Uruk-hai screamed and dropped to its knees, Kargan released his axe and drew two throwing axes from his belt, hurling them in rapid succession. The two spinning axes struck two Orkun heads, killing them.
Kargan swiftly pulled his great axe from the kneeling Orc, deflected the spear thrust of an Uruk-hai attacking from the right, and at the same time shattered its kneecap with the haft of his axe. As the Uruk-hai screamed and collapsed to its knees, Kargan beheaded it. Then he felt a sudden weight and scraping sensation across his back, followed by sharp pain. Gritting his teeth, he spun around and sliced open the waist of the Orc that had cut him.
He thought to himself,
'These armors really are high quality… I only took a shallow cut… but damn, it hurts.'
In truth, the trio was fighting exceptionally well, though they had suffered several minor wounds. The Erebor dwarves had crafted their soldiers' armor with meticulous care, fully supported by their King. No matter how obsessed with gold they might be, those of Durin's line would never place their own people second. Still, armor had its limits.
After killing his opponent, Balin searched desperately for Thráin.
"…Where are you, damn it! Did they kill you too?!"
Unable to find Thráin, Balin felt deeply unsettled and hopeless. If they were left without a leader, the entire army would be destroyed. Such a loss would deal a devastating blow to the entire Dwarven race. Fighting on, Balin scanned the battlefield frantically—until his eyes locked onto a clash that made his heart leap.
"THORIN!"
Thorin was locked in a brutal duel with Azog. Azog's mace, lightly coated in frost due to his aura, collided again and again with Thorin's sword and shield, both blazing with fiery energy. Seeing Thorin's situation—and realizing there were almost no dwarves left around him—Balin panicked. After cutting down the enemy before him, he turned quickly to the two behind him.
"KARGAN! ZOLTAN! PLEASE, SUPPORT ME! WE MUST BACK UP THORIN BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!"
Even as he spoke, he cut down two Orcs in swift succession. Still fighting, Kargan and Zoltan nodded. Zoltan blocked an incoming strike and replied with resolve.
"Lead the way!"
Balin nodded, turned, and surged forward, killing all who stood in his path. Zoltan and Kargan followed close behind as the three dwarves pushed rapidly toward the heart of the battle.
Meanwhile, Thorin had just severed Azog's arm and was preparing to finish him off. But as he lunged forward, Uruk-hai immediately intercepted him, helping Azog escape. Many Orcs surged forward to kill Thorin. Ignoring his exhaustion entirely, Thorin raised the oak branch in his hand like a shield and continued fighting with his sword.
Dodging an incoming axe blow, he sliced open the waist of an Uruk-hai, spun quickly to block another attack, and simultaneously used the oak branch to stop a strike coming from his left. Acting swiftly, he killed two opponents, then blocked an attack from behind, shoved his enemy back, and cut its throat. Gasping for breath from exhaustion, Thorin suddenly felt a chill along his spine and leapt sideways just as a spear grazed his shoulder and passed through the space he had occupied. Spinning instantly, Thorin drove his sword into the left eye of the crouching spearman.
As the Orc died in shock, Thorin ripped his sword free and blocked an Uruk-hai's attack from the left with the oak branch, while simultaneously deflecting a sword strike from the right with his own blade. He swung swiftly, slicing open the waist of the Uruk-hai on his left, then blocked the right Orc's attack with the oak branch before severing its arm and then its throat.
Thorin was barely able to breathe. His body was completely splattered with the black blood of Orcs, yet he did not stop fighting for even a moment. He knew he could not fall. His grandfather—the King—was dead. His father had vanished without a trace. The Orcs vastly outnumbered them, and the dwarves were exhausted, shattered psychologically by the beheading of their King. If he fell too, his people would be consumed by despair, and the line of Durin would be stained forever.
Thorin was no longer a prince. He was a stubborn Dwarven king who would stand to the very end—even if it meant dying on his feet. A king of Durin's line, one who had to carry the hopes, expectations, and honor of his people upon his shoulders. In this battle, a king fell, an heir vanished—but a new king was born, one whose name would echo across Middle-earth.
Thorin Oakenshield.
Thorin fought the oncoming Orcs desperately, yet stubbornly. To evade the axe of the Orc charging him, he leaned forward slightly and lunged, plunging his sword into its stomach. Spinning quickly, he blocked a mace strike from another Orc on his left with the oak branch, pulled his sword free from the first Orc's belly, and slashed toward the waist of the mace-wielder. As both Orcs roared in agony and collapsed, Thorin turned swiftly and blocked attacks coming from two directions at once, wrapping his aura around both his sword and body, moving faster and stronger than before.
He killed two opponents in rapid succession. Wherever he struck, the fire aura left scorched, burned wounds behind. Thorin pressed forward. An Uruk-hai attempted a horizontal strike aimed at his head—Thorin countered instantly, deflecting the blow with his sword. Spinning on his heel, he drove his elbow hard into the creature's abdomen. The Orc screamed in pain. Thorin plunged his sword into its throat, ripped it free, and surged onward, severing the leg of another Orc. Without stopping, he spun again, raised the oak branch to block an attack, then sliced off the attacking Orc's arm and followed with a clean cut to its throat.
Suddenly, he staggered forward, gritting his teeth.
"UGH!"
Thorin felt a sharp pain across his back—an Uruk-hai had slashed him. He spun instantly and cut open the Uruk-hai's stomach. Feeling a chill run through his spine, he dodged to the right and raised the oak branch. An arrow buried itself into the wood—had he been even a fraction of a second slower, it would have pierced his throat.
Another shiver ran down his spine as Thorin darted left, but his reaction was too late; a spear sliced across his waist as it passed. Gripping the oak branch tightly, Thorin struck the Orc behind him across the head, then pivoted on his heel mid-turn and cut the spearman's throat. At the same time, he deflected the weapons of three Uruk-hai attacking him with his sword, moving without losing a single heartbeat.
He sliced through the first Uruk-hai's leg, then turned right and blocked the next attack. With a slight twist of his wrist, he broke the Uruk-hai's balance and smashed its stomach with the oak branch. As the creature clutched its belly and vomited, Thorin spun around to block an incoming axe strike—but his timing faltered, and the axe cut into his chest. Thorin groaned in pain, yet gritted his teeth and, in a surge of fury, cut down the grinning Orc before him—first its stomach, then its arm, and finally its head. Without even catching his breath, he turned again and drove his sword into the head of the Orc clutching its abdomen, pulling it free in one swift motion.
Thorin was breathing deeply now. The palm gripping his sword hilt had begun to bleed from the strain, his arms and legs trembled, and his body was riddled with wounds—but his spirit still burned with the fire of battle. He scanned the Orcs with defiant mockery in his eyes. The Orcs, in turn, did not dare approach him, fear rooting them in place. This hesitation granted Thorin a brief moment to recover.
After a short pause, the Orcs attacked again. Thorin took a battle-ready stance; enemies were closing in from all sides. He met the first attacker's sword with his own and slammed a solid punch into the Orc's stomach with his free hand. As the Orc bent forward in pain, Thorin cut its throat. He turned swiftly to the left, blocked an incoming strike with the oak branch, and slashed open his opponent's chest. Spinning again, he deflected an axe strike with his sword and punched the Orc holding it square in the jaw with the hand gripping the oak branch, stunning it. Turning right, he blocked another sword strike, twisted his wrist to unbalance the enemy, and slit its throat.
Feeling a chill on his left, Thorin raised the oak branch to block an incoming attack, then blocked another strike from his right with his sword. Seeing an attack coming from the front, he reinforced his body with his aura, shoved both enemies at his sides away, then immediately raised the oak branch again to block the frontal strike and severed the Orc's arm. As the disarmed Orc screamed and collapsed to its knees, Thorin turned instantly to block another attack from behind with the oak branch. Spinning his sword in his hand and gripping it in reverse, he stabbed the throat of the kneeling, sobbing Orc behind him, twisted slightly, pulled the blade free, and then cut the throat of the Orc in front of him. Both Orcs died choking in stunned disbelief.
Thorin felt another blow and a surge of pain across his back, staggering forward—another wound had been opened. He clenched his teeth in agony, turned swiftly, and killed the Orc behind him. Taking deep breaths, he looked around at the Orcs encircling him. Once again, they hesitated. Enduring pain and exhaustion, Thorin stood firm, teeth clenched, breathing heavily.
After a moment of hesitation, one Uruk-hai lunged forward—and with it, more Orcs gathered their courage and advanced. Thorin drew a deep breath and assumed his battle stance. There was resolve in his eyes. If this was his final moment, he would die in a manner worthy of Durin.
Just as he prepared to meet the charge, sounds of chaos erupted behind him. The Orcs attacking Thorin halted, cautiously glancing between him and what lay beyond. Seeing this, Thorin glanced over his shoulder and broke into a hard smile. Exhaling deeply, he spoke in a weary tone.
"Haaah… Why are you late?"
Grinning, Dwalin held up an Orc's head and replied mockingly.
"We have too many admirers. Wherever we go, they stop us asking for autographs. And being kind-hearted dwarves, we didn't want to disappoint them."
The surrounding dwarves—and Thorin—chuckled. Then Thorin turned forward and shouted with commanding authority.
"PREPARE FOR BATTLE! PEOPLE OF DURIN!"
The remaining Dwarven army gathered behind Thorin, cheering loudly and roaring a battle cry. Both the Witcher dwarves fighting on the field and those watching from the sky in spiritual form felt their blood boil at the sight. They had been observing Thorin for a long time now—he had already won their hearts. Their only doubt had been whether the real Thorin would truly be like this. If he was, they were seriously considering accepting him as their king.
The dwarves quickly regrouped behind Thorin, reorganizing their ranks. Of the original six thousand, just over two thousand remained—but there was no fear in their eyes, only determination, madness, and an unbreakable stubborn will. Seeing this, the Orcs grew tense. Unlike the dwarves, they were leaderless. Azog was gravely wounded and unfit to command, while the dwarves had gained both leadership and morale.
Thorin rapidly assessed who remained and issued commands in the Dwarven tongue.
"ZORDO! FROM NOW ON, THE CAVALRY WILL NOT CHARGE DEEP INTO ENEMY LINES! DO NOT STRAY MORE THAN FIVE METERS FROM OUR UNITS—FORM A RING AND KILL AS MANY ENEMIES AS YOU CAN WITHIN IT!"
Zordo, now commanding the remaining mounted forces atop his ram, replied firmly.
"UNDERSTOOD!"
Thorin continued.
"ALL DWARVES—DO NOT STRAY TOO FAR FROM ONE ANOTHER! NEVER LEAVE YOUR ALLIES' BACKS EXPOSED! IF YOU DO, YOU WILL BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THEIR DEATH! AND IF THAT HAPPENS, I WILL KILL YOU MYSELF!DWALIN! TAKE COMMAND OF THE RIGHT FLANK!BALIN! THE LEFT FLANK IS YOURS!GULDO! MORI! SUPPORT DWALIN!KORI! LEVY! SUPPORT BALIN!"
Thorin swiftly divided the army into a three-command structure: center, right wing, and left wing. This would allow faster, more systematic control. Without wasting a moment, he gave the rallied Dwarven army their next order.
"CHAAARGE!"
The dwarves charged forward, roaring a battle cry at the top of their lungs, their voices nearly tearing their throats apart. The orcs, startled but battle-ready, took up their positions and waited—yet they were caught off guard by the sheer momentum of the dwarves' assault.
The battle, which had paused only briefly, reignited once more—but this time it was far more violent than before. The orcs, who had held the upper hand just moments ago, now began to suffer what could only be described as a one-sided slaughter. The dwarves facing them fought like emotionless war machines.
Even when wounded, even when their limbs were severed, even as they lost terrifying amounts of blood, they continued to fight. It was as if a beast had possessed them. Whenever exhaustion threatened to overtake them, they looked toward their king and drew renewed strength.
Despite the wounds covering his body, the exhaustion weighing on him, and the immense psychological pressure he endured, Thorin stood tall and fought without a single complaint. And who were they to complain, when he did not? At that moment, Thorin had become a source of inspiration for the dwarves—a spiritual pillar upon which they all leaned. This state of the dwarves began to slowly instill fear within the orcs.
As he fought, Thorin constantly observed his surroundings, issuing warnings and commands without pause. He cautioned dwarves who overextended themselves, dispatched his own aura warriors against enemy aura fighters, and attempted to use the terrain to his advantage. Every command he gave granted them further momentum. Dwalin and Balin, meanwhile, almost flawlessly compensated for any gaps in Thorin's orders.
The dwarves had formed an almost perfect chain of command, and with this momentum, victory began to tilt decisively in their favor.
Witnessing this, the Witcher dwarves—who had been among them from the very beginning—were initially calm, but now stood in shock. Mephisto had shown them the battle before, but only the key moments. To witness and experience this scene firsthand was something entirely different. In all their lives, they had never seen their people function with such unity, bound to one another like true brothers.
As a result, their emotions became deeply conflicted. They admired the dwarves of Arda, envied them, and yet also felt excitement at the idea of living among such a people. They, too, wished to experience the honor of living alongside the people of Durin…
—Zoltan's Point of View—
Just a few hours ago, I had been sitting in my old friend Geralt's home, chatting and saying our goodbyes. Now, I was on the verge of crossing into another world—though apparently, we had to go through some preparations first.
The good news was that Kargan was with us. Some of my old colleagues were as well. Together. Honestly, that came as a surprise to me. How many familiar faces could one possibly find among forty-five dwarves? The world really is a small place.
The bad news is that I still don't trust this *****.
I stayed alert at all times. One wrong move, and I was ready to act immediately… until that ****** Mephisto showed up. The bastard turned my favorite axe into a bouquet of flowers. And the man chained Ciri up in seconds, we couldn't do anything. One snap of his fingers and poof…
These guys are terrifying. I'm starting to understand why they call sorceresses like Yennefer "trash."
When Ciri was captured, I thought my heart was going to burst out of my chest. If anything had happened to her, I would have died from grief. I would never have been able to look Geralt in the face again. Thankfully, nothing went wrong. I can't even begin to describe how relieved I felt.
Calling our own world the "Witcher world" feels strange. Honestly, I think Mephisto just made that up on the spot. The man's missing a few screws—but if he really is as old as he claims, I suppose that's to be expected… ah, whatever.
After releasing Ciri, Mephisto told us about the dwarves of the world we were heading to. I was impressed. The dwarves of the world called Arda resemble us greatly—yet they are just as different. They never give up. They never surrender. They would rather die than lose their honor. They possess a noble and ancient history.
Part of me doesn't want to believe it. After all, this is only the version being told to us. But what if the truth is completely different? My life experience has always taught me caution, and that caution has always proven justified.
And yet… a part of me truly wants these stories to be real. I want to see a place where dwarves are not ostracized or looked down upon. I want to genuinely feel what it's like to live in a kingdom ruled by my own people. For the first time, I find myself hoping that my caution is unnecessary.
What affected me most were Durin and his descendants. Damn it, if I had ancestors like that—leaders worth following—I'd be proud too! Where I come from, kings only brought suffering, especially to non-humans. But in Arda, things were different.
Whenever the dwarves faced hardship, fell, or lost their way, a leader would emerge and set them back on course. When Khazad-dûm fell to that fire demon they call a Balrog, the king and the crown prince stayed behind with their army, sacrificing themselves fighting an enemy that could not be slain just to buy their people time to escape.
Where I come from, kings are the first to flee or they die stupidly because of their arrogance. When they lost their homes, Thráin I stepped forward and founded the Kingdom of Erebor in the Lonely Mountain, raising the dwarves to greatness once again. Later, Thrór made mistakes and lost the Mountain but my instincts tell me there's some ******** going on there. Thrór was a good king at first, but his change was far too strange. Yes, dwarves love gold but this doesn't sit right with me.
Maybe spending so much time with Geralt has given me some kind of instinct of my own…
Anyway.
Thrór launched an expedition to reclaim their old capital… Many knew it was a foolish decision, and in my opinion, it truly was—but when you think about it, you can understand why he did it. He wanted to reclaim his people's honor through his own honor… An act that was both selfish and noble at the same time.
Later, we witnessed the Battle of Azanulbizar. It was a brutal battle. The dwarves resisted stubbornly, as befit their kind, but the enemy was overwhelming. Their king was killed—his head was even severed. The heir vanished. To be honest, I was certain they had lost that battle. They were disadvantaged from every direction…
Until that dwarf stood up.
Thorin Oakenshield…
He defeated Azog the Pale Orc with immense difficulty, defying death with nothing but an oak branch. He took command of the entire army and launched a counterattack. I felt a fire ignite in my chest—but it was very different from anything I had felt before. I couldn't understand what it was. Admiration? Pride? Envy? Jealousy? Loyalty? I can't say for sure what I felt—but I am certain of one thing.
I was truly jealous…
Damn it, I was really jealous! I wish we had leaders like that. A leader who could unite all dwarves, push them forward, protect them, organize them! I can't believe I'm even thinking this… I have always been disappointed by kings and leaders… But here, the prominent leaders of Durin's line made me feel envy. I could never say this out loud—my pride would never allow it. I can only admit it to myself…
I hope—however small the chance may be—that such dwarves truly exist in this world. If even half of what we've seen here is true, beard witness me, I'll eat the handle of my axe.
When the history lesson ended, we learned that Thorin set out on an adventure to reclaim his Mountain—and that the bastard called Igris, who summoned us here, joined him. I don't know how to feel about that… This shouldn't concern me. I'm only here because of Kargan…
Later, they made us drink some kind of potion. Honestly, I was extremely suspicious—but that bastard Kargan drank it immediately! Without a shred of hesitation! I knew he was bordering on suicidal, but I never imagined he'd become this reckless…
After drinking it, Kargan grew taller and stronger—and younger. I won't lie, I was shocked. Who wouldn't want to become younger? After him, everyone drank it, and the same thing happened. In the end, only I was left…
I hesitated for a long time, but eventually gave in and drank the cursed potion. If I didn't, they would send me back—and because of Kargan, I was forced into this. But my curiosity about the new world, my thirst for adventure, and my desire to be young again also played their part.
That bastard ***** Mephisto's history lesson lasted a full four hours, and now I thought we were finally preparing to cross into the new world… But I was wrong. There was one last thing. Mephisto threw us into an illusion…
The Battle of Azanulbizar…
To be honest, there's a vast difference between watching and living it. Just when I thought nothing could surprise me today anymore, I rode a ram for the first time in my life—and I rode it like I'd been doing it for years! I don't know how that bastard Mephisto did this to us, but there are pieces of knowledge in my mind that were never there before! I'll find out later whether that knowledge is real—but riding a ram? Damn it! It was insanely fun! Horses can go to hell—this is it for me, I'm a ram man from now on!
Ahem… Where was I? Ah!
The first time I saw the dwarf army… I can't put it into words. Even if I thought about it for forty years, I would never have imagined such a sight. A damn army of six thousand, advancing in perfect harmony, disciplined, clad head to toe in dwarf-crafted armor! If I told this to Yarpen, he'd think I'd gone mad! He'd probably assume I was enchanted and tie me up to take me to Geralt…
But I won't lie—just that sight alone turned my heart into a war drum. That presence, that nobility, that pride… Damn it, I questioned my own dwarven identity! It felt so real that my chest puffed out on its own.
For the first time, I spoke with a dwarf of Arda—even if it was fake—and instead of calling out "Hey! You! Stranger!" he called me Cousin. To someone he'd just met! To a damn foreigner! To be warm-blooded enough to call someone cousin simply because he's a dwarf… Damn it… It warmed me like finding a campfire in freezing cold.
Had I really missed this so much? Did I truly crave a sense of belonging this deeply? But this was an illusion… Not even real… What if this was a game? What if they did something to make us feel this way? Or worse—what if we had already fallen into a trap?
…
But… What if I really do feel this way? What if I truly want to belong somewhere? What if I've been ignoring and suppressing my own feelings all this time? Damn it… I don't know what to think anymore…
When I met Thrór, I didn't feel much—he was already a dead dwarf. Thorin, however… How should I put it… He was different. He wasn't like a typical prince—not arrogant, not obsessed with proving himself. The feeling he gave me was warmer… like camaraderie. Or maybe that's just how it felt to me.
When he introduced us to Balin, my sharp, charismatic eyes immediately told me Balin was different. He reminded me greatly of the scholars from my world. He spoke philosophically, and in our conversation, I learned things—things that made me think. One thing is certain: I want to speak with Balin more. I want to learn more from him. I want to know what the dwarves of Arda truly are.
I want to understand the difference between them and us. Why are they so obsessed with honor when we are not? Why are they so stubborn about dying with honor rather than surviving? Yes, I possess that awareness—I would give my life for my companions if necessary! But for the dwarves of Arda, this mindset is like breathing. Among my people, such a mentality does not exist…
During the battle, my sense of belonging deepened even further. Dwarves protected one another to the death, whether they knew each other or not. As if their companions' lives mattered more than their own. That sight affected me deeply… I felt very different. I have fought in many battles, but I had never fought feeling this much like myself…
Damn it, fighting on a ram was magnificent! Charging up sheer walls with Kargan, Zordo, and Zordo's crew, then diving down and flying straight into the orcs—it was pure joy! Hahahah!
Fighting shoulder to shoulder with Balin and Kargan was a pleasure in itself. Am I becoming a battle maniac or what? And now, we continue to fight under Thorin's leadership…
Damn it… For the first time, I am fighting under the command of a real leader—and I truly see the difference. I'm trembling from exhaustion, my body is covered in wounds, but whenever I want to stop, my body instinctively looks toward Thorin.
When I see that he's in even worse shape than I am—and the damn bastard keeps fighting as if nothing is wrong, deliberately drawing the largest and most dangerous enemies toward himself, while simultaneously observing the entire army and issuing commands in the middle of combat—I completely forget my exhaustion. I curse and keep fighting.
When I look around, I see countless dwarves doing the same. I am in awe that a dwarf younger than me can do all of this at once. Just think about it—his grandfather is dead, his father is missing, he just came out of a brutal fight with the Pale Orc, and he's exhausted to the point of collapse! His knees and arms are shaking! Blood is flowing from the hands gripping his weapon! And yet the entire dwarf army has placed its hope on him!
This dwarf is one ****** bastard!
So this is what it feels like to fight behind a true king… I never believed in kings, but something inside me is stirring right now. I don't know how to explain it…
But if Arda truly is as it was told to us, then I genuinely want to see the dwarves of this world with my own eyes…
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(5816 Words)
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