A low, mournful note echoed from the orcish horns, but this time, no signal flags were raised to accompany it.
Levi walked to the edge of the command platform, his voice carrying over the battlefield as he shouted down to the great army on the mountain slopes.
"Your leaders are dead! Now, run for your lives, you scum!"
With a contemptuous flick of his wrist, two heads were thrown from the mountain. They tumbled and bounced down the steep cliff face, a gruesome, protracted descent, before finally rolling to a stop on the blood-soaked ground, their former appearances barely recognizable.
"I am your nemesis!"
The sight of the severed heads was the spark that ignited a wildfire of terror. A shockwave of panic tore through the orcish ranks. Even the chieftains responsible for maintaining formation could no longer remain calm, their eyes darting between the fallen heads on the ground and the menacing figure on the command platform.
In the end, primal fear won. They fled, scattering in all directions like the common soldiers under their command. The entire battlefield dissolved into an uproar, with no order left to speak of.
"Looks like it's over," Bard sighed, a wave of relief washing over him. Perhaps a peaceful life was about to begin.
"Haha! They did it!"
"This is our victory!"
The dwarves erupted in cheers, embracing each other with jubilant, back-slapping hugs. Dain, his face split by a wide grin, excitedly opened his arms, but upon seeing Thranduil in front of him, he immediately pivoted and engulfed Gandalf in a bone-crushing hug instead.
Thranduil paid no mind to this small detail, merely stating in a calm, measured tone, "It is indeed a victory worth celebrating."
Gandalf, extricating himself from Dain's embrace, replied, "With a nearly ten-to-one disparity in forces, not only did we win, but we also suffered almost no losses. It's like a dream."
"This is all thanks to our ally," Thranduil said, his gaze lifting to the figure on the mountain ridge. "Levi." In the quiet of his mind, the Elvenking silently elevated Levi's status as an ally, again and again.
"It's time to attack, lads!" After a brief celebration, Dain immediately organized his army, preparing to mop up the orcs now running around like headless flies.
Thranduil also came to his senses and ordered, "Prepare for battle!"
"Let's go too," Gandalf suggested to Radagast, drawing his sword.
However, the Brown Wizard refused him. "Oh, you go ahead. You know I'm not good at these things."
"I'll go!" Beorn roared. He leaped from the city wall, transforming mid-air into a great bear and charging into the chaotic orc army with the force of a landslide.
No one knew how many orcs died in the ensuing rout. But one thing was certain: the fiercest killer on the field was undoubtedly Levi. He had chased the Gundabad orc army down from Ravenhill, and upon entering the battlefield, he was like a wolf among sheep. Wherever he went, the orcs scattered in the opposite direction, as if pushed by repelling magnets. The scene was quite spectacular.
During the cleanup of the battlefield, no fewer than a thousand orcs died directly by Levi's sword, and skill orbs dropped like rain. It reached the point where even after the orcs had fled far into the distance and the allied leaders had all declared a halt, Levi was still in hot pursuit. When he couldn't catch them on foot, he switched to his elytra, landed amidst them, and continued to cut them down.
"Is such relentless slaughter truly necessary?" even Gandalf could not help but murmur, watching the distant carnage.
Thranduil turned his face to the wizard. "Gandalf, when did you become so merciful to your enemies?"
"No, no, I don't pity those orcs. I just think it's unnecessary."
"Nothing is unnecessary," Thranduil replied, his voice calm and steady. Some of the more warlike elven lords of previous ages often did this. Back then, it was not uncommon for one person to cut down thousands of orcs and take the leader's head. The term "one-man army" was no exaggeration. But now, in Middle-earth, you could count the number of people capable of such a feat on one hand.
And besides his combat prowess, Levi's strengths lay more in other areas...
Some distance from the Lonely Mountain, Levi picked up another skill orb and turned around with satisfaction. The orcs behind him screamed as they fled into the forest, unlikely to dare emerge for a long, long time.
"Time to go back."
After such a battle, Levi had managed to farm at least one of each type of skill orb, and his basic swordsmanship was now maxed out. Armor Piercing, Lunge, Dodge, Parry, Leap Attack, Spinning Strike, Blade Storm, Backstab, Sword Beam... A total of fourteen skills now filled his internal skill manual.
He casually swung his sword, and a bright white sword beam shot out, dissipating in the distance. With this, he could now launch ranged attacks with his sword. The range wasn't long, seventeen meters at most, and the power wasn't great. A level one sword beam dealt only a few points of damage and didn't apply fire. Perfect for cutting weeds. But even so, as long as the combo count was high enough, the damage could still increase.
The sound of a firework rocket rang out again, making the orcs hiding in the forest tremble. But this time, no black-armored doom landed in front of them. Levi ended his pursuit and returned to the Lonely Mountain.
Inside the city of Dale, the elves stood down from their alert status, finding places to sit and talk, discussing matters big and small. Occasionally, an elf would clink cups with a comrade and down a cup of strong liquor in one go. A nearby dwarf watched this, his expression thoughtful.
He must be faking it, the dwarf concluded.
The great gates of Dale rose with a grinding crash. The dwarves within immediately let out a roaring cheer.
"Ooh!"
"Welcome, welcome the return of our king!"
Dain was the first to greet him, giving Thorin a great hug. The other dwarves also put down what they were doing and gathered around to celebrate, a sea of jubilant, bearded faces.
"We are proud of you, Thorin."
"Thank you, Dain."
"However," Thorin said, his voice ringing with authority, "the glory is not mine alone. It belongs to all of us, especially..." He gently pushed Bilbo forward from the crowd. "Our master burglar."
"Ah, haha..." Bilbo smiled awkwardly at the cheering crowd. Suddenly being the center of attention, he was at a loss for where to put his hands.
"Don't be nervous, Bilbo. You deserve this. You saved our lives multiple times and helped us find the Arkenstone."
"Walk forward boldly."
Bilbo nodded, his chest gradually puffing out with a newfound confidence.
Gandalf watched this scene, stroking his beard twice and smiling. He, along with Radagast, Beorn, and the King of the Eagles, watched the returning company and paid their respects. The dwarves celebrated enthusiastically, and the humans in the city also gathered around, applauding.
In comparison, the elves' reaction was much more reserved. Although they had also stopped what they were doing and stood neatly at the city gate, they only watched quietly, a silent, graceful audience. Only Thranduil spoke. "Congratulations on reclaiming your homeland. I sincerely hope this land will be revitalized."
Thorin nodded to him in acknowledgment. "I hope the King of the Woodland Realm has not forgotten our discussion."
"I will be there," Thranduil replied faintly.
Just as the two were talking, a sharp crack echoed from above. An even greater cheer erupted from the city gate. A black-clad figure descended from the sky, landing with a soft thud, a firework rocket still smoking in his hand.