Upon the banks of the Forest River, a fierce and desperate battle unfolded.
The Silvan Elves, fearless and unyielding, surged forward to meet the blood-eyed Orcs. The two forces clashed in a violent storm of steel and fury.
Some Elves, armed with long swords and spears, charged headlong into melee, parrying and striking in a brutal dance of death. Others, nimble and swift, leapt across rocky outcrops on the river's edge, loosing arrows from silver bows—each shot swift, precise, and fatal.
Among them moved Legolas, his form a blur of motion. Every arrow he loosed found its mark, gliding as though guided by unseen hands.
From behind came the rear guard—Elven warriors led by Tauriel, the valiant captain of the Silvan host. She flanked the enemy, moving to encircle the Red-Eyed Orcs and cut off their retreat.
"Our master reigns eternal! Darkness is everywhere!"
A monstrous Orc—over two meters tall—bellowed as he raised his jagged blade and charged toward Tauriel, intent on silencing the elf who had hunted his brethren.
As if on cue, the rest of the Orcs roared and launched a suicidal assault, desperate to break through the encirclement.
EXP +3
EXP +3
Kaen, clad in heavy armor, fought at the Elves' side. He struck down foe after foe, cutting a path through the chaos. Each of these Red-Eyed Orcs was worth three of their lesser kin in both strength and experience—and in danger.
Though their gear appeared crude, it was wickedly enchanted. Their weapons were laced with foul sorcery, and a single cut could poison the flesh and darken the soul.
Even Kaen, a warrior of Epic caliber, dared not grow careless. This was no duel—it was war, and the battlefield cared not for skill if it was met with folly.
A single mistake could mean death.
And yet, Kaen pressed on. After felling more than a dozen foes, a new message flashed across the panel that only he could see:
Level: 4 (2/500)
Wooooom!
A radiant light burst from his body, golden and white intertwining like twin stars colliding in harmony.
The elemental forces of the forest surged toward him, as though drawn by destiny itself. The light grew brighter, fiercer, more defined.
Gold at the core—divine, commanding, powerful.
Silver on the outside—pure, healing, serene.
All around, wounded Elves and those afflicted by the dark poison felt the pain lift from their bodies as Kaen's brilliance washed over them. The corruption was purged. The wounds closed.
Legolas and Tauriel stared in stunned disbelief. The warriors nearby dropped to their knees, their faces lit by awe and reverence.
They felt it—not just the light, but what it meant. Warmth, hope… kinship with life itself.
To the Elves, it was as if the light touched the very soul of the forest.
But to the Red-Eyed Orcs—it was agony.
They screamed in torment. The golden light seared their blackened souls, while the silver drained their strength. What had once been an overwhelming assault turned to chaos and panic.
In Kaen's eyes, the battle slowed to a crawl.
Everything—each movement, each blow—appeared in slow motion. Yet his mind remained clear, his awareness heightened. He could feel the transformation unfolding within him—his strength, his senses, his very essence… ascending.
It wasn't instantaneous. It moved in waves, steady and profound.
"Haaaah…"
He drew in a deep breath and pulled the light back into himself. Most of it vanished into his core, but some remained, swirling faintly around him—like a halo made flesh.
Kaen had crossed a threshold.
He now stood among the Legendary heroes of Middle-earth—equal to the kings of the Elves in might.
On both banks of the Forest River, the Elves stared, breathless and wide-eyed. Their hearts pounded—not with fear, but with hope.
Kaen said nothing.
He simply raised his sword high and cried, "Drive out the darkness!"
His voice rang like a bell of fire.
The Elves roared in response, a chorus of war and courage, their morale surging like a flood. They charged, blades gleaming, into the now-weakened enemy ranks.
The Red-Eyed Orcs, confused and faltering, could not withstand the renewed assault.
Hundreds fell. The few who remained grouped together, snarling in defiance, and made their final stand upon a narrow sandbar at the river's edge.
"Draw!"
"Loose!"
At Legolas's command, a volley of arrows screamed through the air, ending the last of the invaders in a storm of death.
And then—something strange.
A flash of purple light soared from the corpses skyward, piercing the clouds.
BOOM!
A thunderous explosion rent the sky, and an arcane message burned into the air—glyphs black as pitch.
None present could read them.
Until a voice called out from behind.
"It is the Black Tongue," came the answer, deep and solemn. "It reads: 'The enemy is here. A new enemy has appeared.'"
All turned.
Behind them stood King Thranduil, white-robed Saruman, grey-cloaked Gandalf, and Thorin with his Dwarves—followed by ranks of Elves, having arrived too late for battle but not too late for witness.
Kaen stood at the river's edge, golden and silver light still dancing faintly about him, though dimmer now than before. Yet it still crowned him like a mantle of divine fire.
Gandalf's voice trembled slightly. "Kaen… you've grown stronger—again."
Thranduil's eyes narrowed, clouded with thought. The sight before him—Kaen bathed in sacred light—stirred memories long buried.
Melian, the Maia queen of Doriath, wife of Thingol, had once cloaked the kingdom in her divine protection—the Girdle of Melian.
Now, Kaen's radiance stirred echoes of that same power.
The Dwarves and even the Hobbits stood dumbfounded. Especially Thorin, who gazed at Kaen in awe.
In that moment, he thought to himself: Even the Arkenstone never shone so brightly, nor so purely.
Only Saruman stepped forward, his brow furrowed, voice laced with warning.
"This was a probe," he said. "A test of our strength."
He turned to Kaen.
"You have drawn the eye of darkness. Sauron has noticed you."
...
Far to the north—at the very peak of Mirkwood, atop the black crown of the forest—a figure sat astride a dire warg, watching the purple signal fade.
Bolg, son of Azog, sneered beneath his twisted helm.
He was larger than his father, more armored, more monstrous.
A lesser Orc captain stood beside him. "The strike team is gone. The Dwarves are in the Woodland Realm. The human king as well. Shall we press the attack?"
"No," Bolg rasped. His voice was like rusted chains dragged across stone. "My father marches on Erebor. We return to Mount Gundabad to rally the northern legions."
He turned his back to the forest.
"Let them savor their little victory. The true battle is not here."
"It waits at the foot of the Lonely Mountain."
He grinned, baring jagged teeth.
"Wizards, kings, princes… they shall all die there."
...
PS: The coming battles—against the dragon and the armies of shadow—shall follow the epic scope of the films. This will allow for grander, more vivid war scenes as the armies converge for the final reckoning.