[500 powerstones bonus chapter]
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The light of the Star of Eowenríel shone forth like a beacon in the dark, spreading its brilliance across the upper reaches of the Anduin Valley.
From the south along the Anduin came the sight of dozens of Elven ships, gliding swiftly upriver toward Tusgar. Upon them stood no fewer than three thousand warriors, their bodies wreathed in elemental radiance. They were mighty Noldor and Sindar fighters—reinforcements out of Lothlórien.
Their ships drew ashore in the East Quarter. With ordered grace the Elves disembarked, their host pouring across the bridges.
And upon the eastern bank of the Anduin, from mountain to vale, marched another host: five thousand Silvan warriors of the Woodland Realm, led by King Thranduil himself. Having struck down the Orcs of Dol Guldur, they had pressed on in the march to Tusgar. Entering through the eastern gates.
From the western hills of Tusgar, yet another army of five thousand appeared. This force was led by Lord Elrond, with five hundred Noldor of Rivendell, fifteen hundred Caladhîn under Yenagath, and three thousand bowmen of Eowenría. They came racing toward the walls of the West Quarter.
Thus, with the northern light shining down, Tusgar was ringed by reinforcements.
Every soul within the city, every surviving defender, lifted their voice in wild cries of joy.
"Our reinforcements! Our kin have come!"
"The light of our King!"
"We are saved!"
The Star of Eowenríel burned brighter still, fed by the ceaseless radiance pouring from the North. Its brilliance fell upon the Orcs and Trolls, searing them to anguish, scattering them amid the ruins.
After five days of ceaseless war, the Orcish horde had been hewn down to less than fifty thousand. Now, seeing armies pressing from every side, fear overcame them, their ranks faltering.
The Witch-king of Angmar and five of the Nazgûl joined their sorceries, casting forth a thick miasma that cloaked the Orcs, straining to hold back the light of the Star. The Witch-king, his gaze dark, looked up at the blazing star. He knew the truth: this war was lost.
"Retreat," he snarled, voice harsh, "retreat at once!"
Yet even as the command left him, a voice rang once more from the Tower of the King.
"Today, no darkness shall escape! You shall pay with your lives for the evils you have wrought! Warriors of Eowenría,counterattack!"
By then, every wound upon the defenders had been healed by Kaen's radiance. Their spirits surged higher than ever before. At their sovereign's command—their High King's command—hearts flamed with wrath and glory.
Andric lifted his axe high and roared:
"Follow the light of our Lord! Warriors—strike!"
"Courage and honor!"
"For Eowenría!"
From the three fortresses, more than ten thousand soldiers and commonfolk hurled themselves forward, reckless of death.
The Sindar and Noldor of Lothlórien.
The Silvan warriors of the Woodland Realm, led by Thranduil.
All together they charged, bathed in the radiance of the jewel, as though clad in armor of light.
East with brilliance, west with shadow—light poured forth to drive back the dark.
They stormed into the West Quarter, where flames and ruin lay heavy. Blackened beams, broken stone, shattered walls—all that remained of a once-fair city.
Beholding their home so ravaged by Orcs, sorrow and wrath boiled within them. They turned that fury into strength, striking with all their might, blades cutting through the foe.
Orcs were driven, broken and routed, fleeing westward out of the city, casting aside arms in terror. They fled toward the Misty Mountains, hoping for escape.
But Elrond and his host, long prepared, barred the way. Their arrows fell thick as rain, halting the Orcs, while the men and Elves of Tusgar swept forth from behind. The Orcs were trapped upon the western plain of Tusgar.
To north and south lay roads. Yet these were no paths to safety—only the roads of death.
Booming thunder came rolling from the North.
Terrified, the Orcs turned their gaze—and despair fell upon them.
horsemen thundered down, the earth trembling beneath their charge. The roar of their approach was like a flood crashing from the mountains.
At their head rode Kaen, leading the King's Guard in full plate, with nearly two thousand heavy cavalry and six thousand bowmen with him
"Kill! Kill! Kill!"
Kaen shone in silver and gold, blazing like a star as he plunged into the Orcs. His wrath was terrible.
Since the lightning assault upon Gundabad, Kaen had tried again and again to pierce through the bats that veiled the Star of Eowenríel, to see what had become of Tusgar. But all he saw was a cloud of wings. And so he had led his horsemen on relentless march, from the northernmost reaches of the Misty Mountains, down to here.
Now he beheld a city half-ruined, defenders slain almost to the last. His fury burned hotter still. Through the Star he had seen all—the siege, the slaughter, the desperate courage of his people. His heart was aflame.
Beneath him, his great steed of the Mearas shared his rage, trampling Orcs into the dust with every stride.
"Angmar!"
Kaen's voice rang out across the battlefield, wrathful and terrible. He rode straight at the six Nazgûl, his radiance more dazzling than the Star itself.
Nothing could bar his way. Nothing could halt the charge of a king enraged.
"Worm!"
The Witch-king of Angmar sneered, startled that Kaen dared face him. As one of the mightiest champions of the Shadow, he had believed no mortal king could stand against him—especially with five Nazgûl at his side.
With a sweep of his hand, he and the five Ringwraiths surged to meet Kaen.
Thus began the clash of kings: the fallen Lord of Darkness against the steadfast Lord of Light, battling upon the plain.
None dared draw near. Alone, Kaen met the Witch-king and five Nazgûl, and did not falter.
Light against shadow, golden-silver brilliance against rolling black. Their powers collided, twisting heaven and earth.
Since his system had risen to the fifth level,he could even challenge those who are considered the strongest in Arda. Now, facing the Nazgûl, he fought with ease, pouring forth his greatest strength for all to see.
The cavalry stormed southward like a torrent. Where they rode, no Orc survived. Those few that slipped their charge met swift death at the blades of Men and Elves pressing the attack.
At the heart of the field Kaen fought on, alone against six Nazgûl.
These were lords of old, kings of the Second Age who had fallen into Shadow. Against them, Kaen held the line, though he gained no clear advantage.
The Witch-king's rasping voice cut through the clash:
"Kaen Eowenríel, you astonish me! So young, yet so strong. No wonder Sauron commands me to slay you. I admit, you might overcome me—but you cannot kill me. For I am not alone!"
Kaen gave a cold smile.
"Nor am I."
Then a path was torn through the heart of the ruin. To his right stood Elrond, to his left, Thranduil. Their armor was the color of the blood they had spilled, and in their eyes was the wrath of kings.
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