Whoosh.
The portal stirred up swirling particles as Levi's form vanished from Middle-earth, materializing in the sweltering heat of the Nether. The oppressive crimson atmosphere pressed against him like a living thing, filled with the distant sounds of bubbling lava and ghostly wails.
Another Nether highway awaited construction.
"Another soul-crushing project," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow as he surveyed the hellish landscape.
The distance from Gondor to Roadside Keep roughly matched the span between Roadside Keep and Dale. Building a Nether highway to either destination would consume at least two months of dedicated work, even if he did nothing else.
Exhausting, time-consuming, but ultimately worth the investment.
Once the Nether highways connecting Roadside Keep, Dale, and Gondor were complete, Levi could achieve truly ghostlike mobility across vast distances. Setting up additional territories between these three points and opening several more portals would allow him to reach anywhere in western and northern Middle-earth within a single day.
The possibilities were staggering: drinking with dwarves at Erebor today, strolling through Gondor's gardens tomorrow, finishing a morning walk and still making it back to Roadside Keep for lunch, then after dinner, dropping by Orthanc Tower in the dead of night to ask if Saruman was sleeping yet.
The speed was absurd just thinking about it. Faster than any horse, swifter than eagles in flight.
After roughly mapping out the Nether highway connection routes in his mind, Levi rubbed his temples and carefully noted the coordinates of this portal entrance. He wouldn't linger long in this suffocating realm today.
His material supplies were running dangerously low. A return trip to Roadside Keep was necessary before any serious construction could begin.
Through the shimmering portal, Levi returned to his underground fortress beneath Gondor's contested lands. After several days of intensive construction, the subterranean space had grown impressively large, complete with all necessary facilities and a full agricultural production cycle. Theoretically, it could serve as comfortable long-term living quarters, rivaling even the finest dwarven architecture.
Stone walls bore intricate carvings, while carefully placed torches cast dancing shadows across polished floors. The air smelled of fresh bread from the automated ovens and growing crops from the hydroponic gardens.
"This will suffice for now."
Countless possibilities existed at this crossroads location, but there was no need to rush their implementation. Casually placing decorative weapon racks and armor stands throughout the main hall, then mounting actual combat-ready equipment upon them, Levi climbed through the concealed passage to the surface, feeling warm sunlight kiss his face once more.
Today's crossroads maintained their peaceful atmosphere.
Just as the Uruk-hai commander had promised, all half-orcs and wargs under his authority no longer approached this territory. Even unruly orc bands were persuaded to retreat by that same commander's fists and cleaver when they ventured too close.
Due to Levi's intimidating presence, the enemy forces had scattered toward the wilderness on both sides, creating greater distance from Gondor's royal city.
For the first time in years, direct confrontation between Gondor and Mordor seemed to pause. At least until Sauron personally issued clear orders, this surface tranquility would continue.
Within Minas Morgul's twisted spires, the Witch-king sat motionless upon his throne, processing intelligence reports from his spy network. His hollow gaze revealed no emotion for long, troubling minutes.
Something isn't right.
Those two combatants at the crossroads, one mortal man and one Nazgûl, had likely not utilized their full potential during the encounter.
Before that warrior's transformation into a Nazgûl, he had been far more terrifying than his recent performance suggested. In his living days, he had nearly posed a genuine threat to the master himself.
What a tragic waste.
After becoming Nazgûl, everyone, even the Witch-king himself, inevitably experienced soul degradation and corruption until becoming true wraiths.
The transformation from human to Nazgûl granted the ability to traverse shadow realms, unlimited resurrection immortality, natural access to numerous dark sorceries, plus an innate fear aura that paralyzed lesser beings.
Overall strength increased considerably, but soul intensity diminished substantially.
Perhaps they remained far stronger than ordinary mortals or even most human kings, but definitely not as powerful as during their living prime.
"He failed the test," came a voice from the shadows.
Another Nazgûl materialized within the great hall, his spectral form more imposing and tall compared to other wraiths. Clearly, this had been quite a formidable warrior in life.
"As expected," the Witch-king replied curtly.
"Do you still intend to face him personally?"
"It would prove meaningless."
The Witch-king slowly shook his hooded head.
"Are you willing to accept this humiliation?"
"Then perhaps you should go instead?" the Witch-king countered.
Silence filled the hall once more, broken only by the distant moaning of spectral winds through the tower's corrupt architecture.
"We could send all nine together. He couldn't withstand such overwhelming force."
"Perhaps that would succeed."
All nine Nazgûl united, and at Mordor's very doorstep no less. This time, without wizard interference or elven intervention, fighting with calculated caution might achieve victory.
"But the master issued no such command."
Inappropriate and potentially catastrophic.
After pondering with his decayed intellect, the Witch-king still chose tactical retreat. Such aggressive action could easily trigger chain reactions throughout Middle-earth, and Mordor with its allies would likely suffer the most severe consequences.
The subordinate Nazgûl fell silent, offering no further arguments. After several tense moments, he retreated into shadow, vanishing into the tower's oppressive darkness.
Solitude once again shrouded the chamber like a funeral shroud.
The Witch-king's crimson eyes glowed through his twisted helm, flickering with barely contained rage and frustration.
The last being who had humiliated him so thoroughly was that accursed elf from Rivendell, the one who had returned from blessed Valinor: Glorfindel.
In Third Age 1975, the Battle of Fornost had erupted as the Witch-king led Angmar's vast army to invade Arnor's northern kingdom. During that brutal campaign, he had personally challenged Eärnur and frightened the prince's warhorse, leaving the future king quite embarrassed. This encounter became Eärnur's greatest shame and the reason he later couldn't resist provocation, riding alone to face the Witch-king in single combat.
When later generations recounted this historic event, they remembered only that the Witch-king had frightened Eärnur's mount, causing public humiliation. But they conveniently forgot to mention another crucial detail.
Glorfindel had been present that day. The mighty elf-lord had brought Rivendell's army to support beleaguered Arnor, arriving when hope seemed lost.
Upon his appearance, before any actual combat occurred, merely riding onto the battlefield was sufficient to terrify the Witch-king. The Lord of the Nazgûl had fled into darkness without daring to show himself throughout the entire engagement.
Not because he lacked the courage to fight, but because he genuinely couldn't face such opposition.
Glorfindel was a First Age elven lord returned from Valinor itself, possessing combat power equivalent to the Balrogs of ancient legend.
Though he now resided in Rivendell under Elrond's command and counsel, his status ranked among the highest in all Middle-earth.
To put it simply, he was Middle-earth's equivalent of a hidden master, a legendary warrior keeping watch from the shadows.
If Glorfindel were stationed at these crossroads instead of Levi, the strategic effect might prove remarkably similar.
If it had been Glorfindel who came...
The Witch-king couldn't help imagining such a scenario, then quickly banished this thought from his corrupted mind.
Why torture himself with such terrifying possibilities?
One troublesome warrior was challenging enough. If those two joined forces, what would that represent? A total assault on Mordor itself?
Fortunately, that particular elf never left Rivendell without extraordinary cause, appearing content to remain there until the world's ending.
Unlike this so-called lord of the free cities, who abandoned numerous territories to wander everywhere daily. You could encounter him anywhere across Middle-earth.
Yet when you actually sought him out, he was nowhere to be found.
Visible everywhere, yet impossible to locate when needed.
Regarding the Witch-king's frustration, the Rangers stationed near the crossroads shared deep understanding of this phenomenon.
"My lord!"
As Levi emerged onto the surface, two Rangers suddenly burst from concealing bushes, startling him so severely he nearly drew his sword in reflexive defense.
"We've been following your trail for many days but couldn't locate you anywhere."
Upon this meeting, both Rangers appeared extremely excited, their eyes bright with anticipation.
"Ah yes, Gondor's Rangers," Levi took a steadying breath, calming his racing heart. "What urgent matter brings you here?"
These fellows prove more startling than Nazgûl and Balrogs combined.
"Could you please sign something here..." one Ranger began eagerly, tugging at his travel cloak and stepping forward.
The next second, his companion silenced him by covering his mouth with a firm hand.
"My lord," the older Ranger spoke with proper formality, "the Steward formally requests your presence in Gondor for an important meeting."