Unknown location
Anárion materialized outside the Black Gate.
It was neither instantaneous nor glorious. His appearance resembled a struggle against dissolution rather than a triumphant return. At first, an indistinct silhouette formed in the air, made of unstable shadows and dying embers. Dark smoke rose from his body, as though his essence were burning what remained of the surrounding reality. Every second spent in that state was a silent agony.
Then, with a dull cracking sound, the energy condensed.
The physical shell he had inhabited until then solidified briefly… before collapsing to the ground like an empty husk—lifeless, fractured, stripped of all will. A hoarse rasp escaped the surrounding shadows, an inhuman, almost instinctive sound, as his existence wavered.
For one terrifying instant, Sauron was nothing more than an unanchored concept—an unmoored spirit drifting between planes.
He refused to vanish.
No spell, no artifact, no external aid restored his stability.
Only his will.
A will forged before the fall of the Lamps of Arda, before the Ages of Men, before the very word end had meaning.
The shadow slowly rose.
His lightless gaze settled upon the ruins of Uzugakure… and upon the restless spirits haunting them.
They were countless.
Souls bound to the land by anger, pain, and injustice. Men, women, children—entire generations—wandering among the remnants of their former home like ghosts unable to comprehend why death had struck them down so brutally. Some drifted in silence, frozen in their final memories. Others screamed, wailed, endlessly repeating the same words, the same accusations.
Being a spirit himself, Sauron perceived them with perfect clarity. He could hear their voices, feel their regrets, touch their memories. He saw submerged houses, broken seals, abandoned bodies. With them, he relived the fall of an ancient clan—once feared, once respected.
Many cried out for justice and vengeance against the great ninja villages that had annihilated them. But their bitterest hatred was reserved for Konoha—their supposed greatest ally. The one who, at the decisive moment, had chosen inaction.
At the dawn of the Second Great Ninja War, the Third Hokage had refused to intervene. Not out of ignorance, but calculation. He feared simultaneous war against the four other great villages, and deemed the sacrifice of Uzugakure… acceptable.
A rational choice.
But unforgivable to the Uzumaki.
Sauron listened to their laments in silence. He neither sought to soothe nor to manipulate them—not yet. He understood that fury too well.
One day, the Dark Lord would grant their wish.
They would walk once more among the living.
But not yet.
To restore an entire clan from the realm of the dead was a titanic undertaking. His mastery of necromancy was vast, but resurrecting a servant bound by pact or oath was one thing. Calling back free souls, with no direct bond to him, was another entirely.
The forbidden technique of the Second Hokage—the Edo Tensei—would be an excellent subject of study to realize such a plan.
The shadow drifted slowly along the path leading to the center of the submerged village. This place would become his temporary refuge, his sanctuary, until he recovered enough power to bring Mordor into this dimension once more.
The irony was not lost on his ancient mind.
The land of Uzugakure almost perfectly overlapped the location of what had once been known as Isengard. The pits once dug for industry and war were now the source of the constant whirlpools surrounding the ruins of the sunken city.
The black tower of Orthanc was the only structure still standing.
Sauron stopped before it.
He contemplated it for a long time, letting memories rise: his first clash with Saruman. The White Council. Their arrogance. Their certainty of righteousness. What madness had driven them to allow one of their own to challenge him… and what greater madness to believe they had won.
He now possessed all the knowledge of the White Wizard—secrets of forging, transmutation, flesh and spirit. He knew how to create his perfect soldiers: the Uruk-hai—strong, disciplined, unafraid of light, and above all… replaceable.
And his power was returning.
Slowly.
Through the rings scattered across the worlds, siphoning energy from their bearers and transmitting it to him. Every fragment stolen, every spark torn away, fed his rebirth.
But that power remained fragile—dangerously weak.
And Celebrimbor, meanwhile, had grown stronger through his Ring of Power.
The Ring he bore had transformed him. He was no longer merely a spirit bound to an artifact… he was becoming a rival.
Sauron entered the ancient dwelling of the Istari and stepped into the old observation chamber. Time had left deep scars upon it, but its heart remained intact. At its center stood an ancient pedestal, upon which rested an opaque black crystal.
The last Palantír.
He pressed his will into the stone, and the vision opened.
His gaze first turned toward the continent he had just left.
After news of his disappearance and the death of General Najenda, the rebel forces had ceased all offensives against the imperial capital in order to reorganize and prepare their final assault. Esdeath had been recalled to the capital to replace him, much to the relief of the imperial army.
Sauron felt no concern at the thought of the Ice Queen failing. He had personally witnessed her monstrous strength, and the indoctrination he had imposed upon her had turned her into a devoted, loyal soldier.
Then his vision shifted to Earthland.
Within the Empire of Alvarez, Emperor Spriggan was assembling a colossal invasion force—an army so vast it seemed capable of swallowing entire continents. He awaited only a single order to unleash what he called Ragnarök.
The Balam Alliance had been annihilated. Only a few members had escaped death; the survivors of Tartaros would join him, having no other master left to serve.
Yet the Alliance had fulfilled its purpose.
Chaos had spread. Two of the Magic Council's greatest weapons had been destroyed.
However, the continent's main guilds had grown stronger in response to these events. These mages would inevitably oppose the reign of the Dark Lord… but Sauron fully intended to use them to eliminate another thorn in his side.
Finally, his gaze turned toward a sub-dimension.
The Underworld.
The vision was distant, blurred, yet he discerned a lone female figure moving through desolate lands—Akeno Himejima, a hybrid born of a fallen angel and a demon.
For many years, Sauron had influenced the young woman, guiding her toward freeing the seals that bound him. Yahweh had placed additional protection upon the seal—a powerful ritual preventing all but himself or angels from approaching it—making her one of the only beings capable of breaking it. She now headed toward the Valley of Morningstar, where the seal capable of releasing his greatest generals lay.
But the quest would not be easy. Though his actions remained limited, he would have to grant her an advantage if she were to succeed.
His armies would soon be ready—but if the Valar intervened, that would not be enough.
Destroying the cage containing a major fragment of his soul was now an absolute priority. War was approaching, but he would not be the one to strike first. The clash would begin between the Lord of Light and the White Council.
On the Shores of the Land of Waves
The morning mists slowly parted as the silhouette of a white ship emerged on the horizon.
Its immaculate hull glided across the waves with unreal grace, as though the sea itself refused to disturb its passage. No sailors' songs, no cries came from its deck. The silence that accompanied it was not empty, but laden with ancient solemnity—almost sacred.
This ship had not sailed the seas since the Third Age.
When it finally docked, the wood of the pier groaned softly beneath its weight. The inhabitants of the Land of Waves—fishermen and early travelers—froze mid-motion. Without knowing why, they felt their hearts tighten, as if in the presence of something far greater than themselves.
The first to disembark were two figures whose very presence seemed to illuminate the shore.
Galadriel stepped onto the damp earth with supernatural grace.The Lady of Light wore a robe of immaculate white, its fabrics floating behind her without ever being stained, despite the mud and sea salt. Her golden hair flowed freely in the ocean breeze, catching the newborn light of dawn like living gold. A delicate crown, engraved with ancient vegetal motifs, rested upon her brow.
On her right hand shimmered Nenya, her Ring of Power, whose subtle radiance emanated a serenity almost painful to behold. Where she walked, the air itself seemed lighter—purified.
At her side advanced Elrond, Lord of Rivendell.
He wore armor few living beings had ever seen. The brown steel of its plates was threaded with silver reflections, etched with ancient elven runes recounting forgotten battles and eternal oaths. This armor was not merely art—it breathed the power and experience of countless wars.
At his hip rested a flawless elven blade, and like Galadriel, a crown adorned his head—not a symbol of dominion, but of responsibility. Upon his finger shone Vilya, his Ring of Power, invisible to mortal eyes, yet perceptible to those who could see beyond appearances.
The two elven lords paused, surveying the jagged coast, the modest houses, the traces of hurried repairs after storms and recent conflicts.
Then a third figure stepped off the ship.
Eltariel, the last Blade of Galadriel.
Lean, swift, silent, she contrasted sharply with the overwhelming majesty of the two lords. Her pale skin bore the marks of long exile and unglorified battles. Her piercing blue gaze swept the surroundings with constant vigilance. Her blond hair was mostly hidden beneath a dark hood, and her fully equipped armor—moderately reinforced—was adorned with eagle motifs, symbols of vigilance and freedom.
A cloak flowed to her legs, blending with shadow as she moved. The sheaths of her twin blades rested side by side on her back, ready to be drawn in an instant. Nothing in her gear hindered her movements—every piece had been designed to kill… and survive.
At last, the final passenger set foot upon the pier.
Gandalf.
The old man was clad entirely in white robes, complemented by a matching cloak that drifted gently behind him. He leaned upon a white wooden staff—ancient, worn, yet imbued with a power few could comprehend. His immaculate hair and beard framed a face marked by wisdom, weariness… and deep sorrow.
Some called him Mithrandir, the White Rider. Others—far fewer—remembered his true role among the Ainur.
He gazed long at the horizon, the distant hills, the human roads scarred by marching armies.
Elrond broke the silence.
"Middle-earth has changed greatly since our time."
His voice was calm, yet heavy with painful realization. Gandalf nodded slowly.
"Indeed, my old friend… for better and for worse."
A fleeting smile crossed his lips, immediately darkened by melancholy.
Galadriel then turned her gaze toward the lands of Men, and for a brief moment, her radiance seemed to waver.
"War has ravaged their realms for long ages since our departure," she said softly.Then, after a pause, "And if we fail in the mission that brought us here, this entire continent… and then our own… will be reduced to ashes."
The wind rose gently, snapping the ship's sails behind them.
They had returned.
Not to rule.Not to conquer.
But to face—one final time—the shadow they had believed defeated.