While Igris fought the Dread lord, Ciri, about fifty meters behind, crouched behind a rock, carefully aiming her Dark Elf crossbow and observing the Dark Elves in front of her. She kept her breathing slow and controlled to prevent any trembling in her grip as she aimed at a Witch Elf standing among them. The Witch Elf was cautiously peeking her head out from between two rocks, scanning the surroundings with sharp vigilance. Ciri waited without moving. The distance between them was a little over sixty meters. Although she trusted her marksmanship, it was the first time she had used this particular crossbow. Normally she was accustomed to small one-handed crossbows. She had used a standard crossbow fewer than ten times in her life, and each time her target had been within forty meters. For that reason, she did not want to take unnecessary risks.

  When the Witch Elf leaned her head out a little further to look around, Ciri murmured calmly.

  "Come on… a little more… Be a good prey and show yourself to me."

  The moment the Witch Elf exposed herself further, Ciri aimed at her chest, adjusted the crossbow while feeling the wind, and gently squeezed the sensitive trigger. The Dark Elf bolt shot forward from the crossbow. Ciri immediately withdrew behind the rock and hid. A second later she heard a scream filled with pain. As she calmly cocked the Dark Elf bow and placed an arrow onto the string, she thought to herself.

  That makes five… I'll probably expose myself on the next one…

  After calmly readying the bow, Ciri took a vial from the small pouch on her belt, sniffed it, and analyzed it. The liquid inside was a paralysis poison she had taken earlier from the corpse of one of their enemies.

  Strange mixture… Some of the components are familiar, but some are not… Later I'll analyze this poison and develop a proper antidote. Adding it to my arsenal would also be useful.

  Ciri slowly leaned to the left and began scanning the direction opposite to the Witch Elf she had just shot. To sharpen her sight, she resorted to a power she had only recently acquired and still could not fully rein in. The veins at her temples swelled like dark rivers, spreading across her face. The irises of her ruby-red eyes narrowed into the vertical slits of a cat, while the whites of her eyes darkened into deep black and the ruby glow of her pupils began to shimmer faintly.

  Her vision instantly sharpened to a telescopic clarity; every crack in the rocks and every trembling leaf became distinct. She identified several targets within seconds and then released the power. As the darkness retreated from her temples, she felt a bead of sweat forming on her forehead. She still struggled to control the ability because she was not yet accustomed to it, but the energy it consumed in this partial state was far less than her full transformation.

  She aimed at a Dark Elf corsair and began waiting. Her breathing was icy calm, her fingers as motionless as a statue on the crossbow's trigger. At that exact moment, a metallic flash flickered at the far right edge of her vision. Her reflexes moved before her thoughts could form; Ciri threw herself backward instantly.

  A second later, a heavy crossbow bolt tore through the air where she had just been standing, grazing the spot and slamming into the rock with a shower of sparks before embedding itself into the ground. The one who had fired it shouted in the Dark Elf tongue.

  "I FOUND HER! OVER THERE!"

  With a swift, agile motion, Ciri peeked her head out from behind the rock she had taken cover behind. She gripped the crossbow tightly, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The Dark Elf who had spotted her moved quickly into cover just as she fired. The bolt whistled through the air, passing just above his head and disappearing into empty space.

  Now that her position had been revealed, the Dark Elves became far more cautious. To protect themselves both from Elladan and Elrohir's arrows raining down from above and from Ciri behind them, they buried themselves deeper into their cover. Ciri was far from them, and unlike the wounded twins above, she appeared quite fresh. The Dark Elves were too experienced to recklessly charge someone holding a crossbow; besides, they assumed the mysterious archer facing them was an Elf. The remaining Dark Elf archers fired a few suppressing shots toward Ciri's direction and then waited on guard.

  Sheltered in her rocky refuge where arrows clattered and ricocheted against the stone, Ciri reloaded her crossbow while assessing the situation.

  Hide and seek ends here… I wonder what that man is doing.

  Although she was curious about Igris's situation as he struggled against the Dread Lord, the field before her was what truly demanded her attention. She tried to form a quick plan in her mind.

  Because of me, they won't be able to climb up the hill so easily anymore. Their attention has shifted to me. But I still don't know what's happening on the other side of the hill. I can't stay pinned here. I need to attack somehow and force this into close combat… but how?

  For a moment Ciri paused and looked at her hands, calloused from years of gripping swords. Ever since drinking that strange potion of Mephisto's, she could feel the change within her body.

  I can now truly be considered a Witcher. If I unleash my power completely, my reflexes, speed, and agility will increase dramatically. In this state, I can deflect incoming arrows and close the distance… but my energy will also deplete just as quickly. Afterwards, there's a risk of my body becoming paralyzed and immobile.

  Ciri let out a deep sigh and pushed those thoughts aside. She crouched and moved to the other end of the rock, then lay flat on the ground and began observing the area through a small gap beneath the stone. Holding her crossbow steady, she scanned the surroundings.

  At that moment she spotted a Dark Elf wearing a mask with a shaved head—one of Slaughterer Sisters. The masked Elf watched both the point where Ciri was hiding and the summit where the twins stood with careful attention. When she believed she had found a safe opening, she suddenly burst forward and sprinted toward another rock about seven meters away.

  At the very instant the Elf moved, Ciri felt the direction and speed of the wind and adjusted her aim. When she pulled the trigger, the bolt tore through the air toward its target. But instead of striking the masked Elf directly in the chest, it grazed her shoulder. The Elf flinched in pain and let out a sharp groan, clutching her wounded shoulder as she cast a look of hatred behind her.

  Still, she did not stop running. Yet that sudden blow had thrown off her balance, causing her to stumble for nearly a full second.

  That single second of hesitation became her end.

  The masked Elf suddenly felt a sharp pain and warmth erupt in her throat. Startled, she brought her hands to her neck; the moment she realized what had smeared onto her fingers, her eyes widened in shock and she collapsed onto her knees. From the summit, Elrohir had struck her perfectly with a flawless arrow that pierced straight through her throat.

  Seeing this, Ciri raised her eyebrows in admiration—but at the same time, she felt a deep dissatisfaction with herself. The arrow she had fired had missed its true mark, and as a hunter, that wounded her pride. A flame of stubborn determination flickered within her as she gripped the crossbow's handle tighter and thought with displeasure.

  Looks like I really need to train my marksmanship…

  At that exact moment, the hairs on the back of Ciri's neck stood on end. Acting on pure instinct, she suddenly rolled to the right and threw herself into the safe shadow of the rock. Not even a full second passed before a Dark Elf arrow tore through the air, grazing the exact spot where she had just been standing and burying itself into the earth. Ciri took a deep breath of relief; as she rose and began cocking her crossbow again, her mind worked rapidly.

  If I could get into close combat with them, things would be much easier… But Igris is right. In my current physical condition, entering a direct battle would be a bad idea.

  Ciri cast a brief glance at the sleeve of her white shirt, which had been torn by the passing arrow, and let out a calm sigh.

  I'll have to sew that later… At least the arrow didn't touch my skin.

  She didn't want to get even the slightest scratch from the Dark Elves' weapons. Witch hunters possessed extraordinary resistance to diseases and many known poisons, but she had no idea how potent the poisons of this world could be. Moreover, she hadn't yet had the chance to fully test how long her altered body could withstand it.

  After placing a new bolt into the crossbow and setting the trigger, Ciri looked thoughtfully at the weapon in her hands.

  This thing is far stronger than the crossbows in my world, and the craftsmanship is truly flawless. It's surprisingly easy to cock too; it requires very little arm strength. Maybe I should keep this weapon for myself.

  With that thought, she held the crossbow ready against her chest and cautiously peeked her head out from the edge of the rock. But the moment she realized someone was aiming at her, she pulled back instantly. Two arrows grazed the rock and shot past the exact spot where she had just exposed herself before burying themselves into the ground with force. Ciri stared at the arrows for a moment, then ignored them and once again assumed her firing position.

  At the same time, among the rocks at the summit of the hill, Elrohir was in a dire state. His complexion had grown pale, sweat poured down from his forehead into his eyes, and he was breathing deeply. Swollen black veins bulged beneath his skin, and his hands trembled slightly—but the stubborn glint in his eyes had not faded; he was resisting with all his will against the poison coursing through his veins. When he noticed the movement below, he turned to the brother behind him.

  "Elladan, things have changed on this side. I think reinforcements have arrived."

  Elladan, who was holding the other slope of the hill, replied with difficulty, struggling to gather his words.

  "G-g-good… I-I don't think I can hold out much longer. I-I've lost too much blood and the p-poison has spread everywhere… Huff… I d-don't know how much longer I can last… But n-not long… huff."

  Elladan's condition was far worse than his brother's. His entire body trembled violently, and the black veins across his skin spread like a web. His eyes were bloodshot, and the bandage wrapped around his chest—once pure white—was now completely crimson. The wound in his chest opened further with every movement, accelerating his blood loss. Although he had performed the first aid himself, his body was utterly exhausted. The poison had spread more slowly in Elrohir because he had been wounded in the leg, but Elladan's injury was dangerously close to a vital area.

  Elrohir looked at his brother with worried eyes, though he did not let that concern show on his face. Turning, he limped toward Elladan.

  "Let's switch places. Move over to this side, I'll take your position. My arms still work, and the poison hasn't spread fully through my upper body yet. Since help has arrived, my side should be easier to hold now."

  Elladan nodded and tried to stand, but the moment his body moved, the wound stabbed into him like a blade. He clenched his teeth, grabbed his chest, and groaned in pain.

  "Tch!"

  With trembling legs he took a step forward, but his balance faltered and he staggered. His brother immediately grabbed his arm and prevented him from falling. After casting a grateful look, Elladan changed positions with Elrohir's help. The moment Elrohir took the new position, he looked down; seeing the approaching Dark Elves, he placed an arrow on his bow and fired, striking one of them with perfect accuracy. His hand moved as quickly as possible as he continued to shoot arrow after arrow—but his quiver was nearly empty.

  At that same time, in the northwest of Rivendell, slightly above the Troll Forest, a massive clash was taking place. An Elven army clad in armor adorned with gold and silver ornaments, gleaming brilliantly, had engaged a unit of orcs dressed in pitch-black armor. The ground was already littered with the corpses of Elves and orcs, along with severed limbs scattered across the battlefield. The number of Elven casualties was far lower than that of the orcs. Not only did they possess numerical superiority, but their long lives had granted them immense experience and refined combat training. Yet this advantage applied only to ordinary orcs.

  The noise of the battlefield had become an endless ringing born from metal clashing against metal. One Elven warrior wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand and gripped his sword tightly. The Great Orc standing before him was far more than a simple infantry soldier. The armor forged from crude steel that covered its body was filled with deep notches left by countless battles, and its enormous frame resembled a living boulder. Creatures like these had been raised within the brutal discipline of savage tribes, knowing life only through the handle of the axe they carried.

  The Orc swung its heavy axe in a short arc through the air and stepped forward. The ground seemed to tremble slightly beneath its massive weight. The Elven warrior waited calmly—but with great caution. Acting hastily before a Great Orc was no different from committing suicide.

  The Orc suddenly lunged forward. He swung his axe in a horizontal arc; though the movement appeared crude, it was in fact calculated enough to narrow the Elf’s escape routes. The Elf leaned his body slightly backward, allowing the edge of the axe to graze the chest of his armor by mere centimeters. As the steel tore through the air, the Elf did not allow the weapon to complete the momentum of its return swing; instead, he thrust his sword toward the Orc’s exposed flank.

  But instead of the sound of flesh being cut and blood spraying, sparks burst forth as metal scraped against metal. The Orc spun around with a speed no one would expect from such a bulky body and used the thick steel guard on his arm like a shield. As the Elf’s blade scraped along the armor, leaving a long mark across it, the Orc seized the opening created by that movement. Growling like a bear, he drove his free fist into the Elf’s chest. The Elf staggered back two steps under the weight of the blow, the air forced from his lungs for a moment. The Great Orc chuckled mockingly and spoke with a deep, muffled voice.

  “You must be faster, graceful bird.”

  Regaining his balance, the Elf did not respond; he merely narrowed his eyes at his opponent. Taking his stance again, he launched into a counterattack. With swift and precise strikes, he directed his sword toward the gaps in the Orc’s armor, attacking rapidly—straight cuts, diagonal slashes, horizontal strikes—trying to overwhelm and kill the Orc. Yet each time the Orc skillfully parried the blows with the shaft of his axe or with his armored shoulders. The difference between these Orcs—trained for combat since infancy—and ordinary Orcs could be felt by the Elf down to his very bones.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  On the Elf’s sixth strike, the Orc brought his axe down from above with all his strength. The Elf held his sword horizontally, gripping the hilt with both hands. The sound of steel clashing was loud enough to deafen the ears. The Elf’s knees trembled under the pressure; the raw strength of this creature was as unstoppable as a falling tree.

  As the Orc pressed down with his axe, he simultaneously kicked hard at the Elf’s shin. The Elf clenched his teeth with a pained grunt but did not release his sword. Sliding his body to the side, he freed himself from the pressure of the axe and, as he passed beside the Orc, cut through the straps of armor around the creature’s thigh with the tip of his blade.

  The Orc staggered slightly, and black blood began to seep from his leg—but the wound only made him angrier. Turning, he swung the pointed butt of the axe’s shaft toward the Elf’s helmet. The Elf ducked at the last moment; the shaft of the axe smashed through the shoulder plate of his armor, leaving behind a shallow scrape.

  The Elf leapt back and took position, ready for battle. He breathed deeply but calmly, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. His opponent, despite the wounded leg, had not lowered his guard even by a single centimeter. This was a war of attrition, and the one who made the first mistake—or succumbed to exhaustion—would fall into eternal sleep.

  The Orc grasped his axe again with both hands. This time he did not charge with a roar but advanced in deadly silence. Elf raised his sword to the level of his face. In the center of the battlefield, the roar of the armies had faded into silence for them. Only two warriors remained—and the cold song of steel.

  Elsewhere on the battlefield, another Great Orc held a massive double-bladed war axe in one hand as if it were nothing more than a feather. In his other hand he carried a heavy mace studded with iron spikes and crudely wrapped in rawhide. Opposite him stood a Sindar Elf holding two thin, slightly curved short swords, one in each hand. Both warriors had assumed battle stances and watched each other carefully.

  With a growl rumbling from deep within his throat, the Orc lunged forward. When he brought the axe down in a vertical arc, the ground itself seemed to split. The Elf slipped beside the blow like water flowing around a stone and attempted to drive one of his blades into the Orc’s unarmored inner arm. But the Great Orc’s reflexes snapped into action like a cat’s; he used the mace in his other hand as a shield, knocking the blade aside. The sword scraped against the thick steel bracer on the Orc’s arm, producing faint sparks.

  Having deflected the Elf’s attack, the Orc did not break his momentum. Exploiting the brief opening, he swung the mace toward the Elf’s ribs. Seeing the danger, the Elf reacted instantly, crossing his swords to block the blow. When the steel blades collided with the stone-hard mace, the Elf felt the bones in his arms ache from the impact, yet he gritted his teeth and maintained his focus. Leaping backward, he created a brief gap and then launched forward again, delivering a swift kick to the Orc’s exposed kneecap. His aim was not to break the bone but to disrupt the creature’s balance.

  As the Orc staggered for a moment, the Elf surged forward, thrusting both swords toward the gap in the Orc’s neck armor. At that exact instant, a savage, bloodthirsty grin spread across the Great Orc’s face.

  Instead of avoiding the strike, the Orc chose to step directly into the attack. One of the swords pierced into his shoulder, punching through the armor. At the same time, the Orc dropped the mace in his free hand and seized the Elf’s sword-wielding wrist with his massive claw-like grip. Caught completely off guard, the Elf stared in shock as he realized he had fallen into a trap—but it was already too late.

  Grinning madly, the Orc squeezed the Elf’s wrist with all his strength. The sound of bones cracking echoed sharply. The Elf clenched his teeth in agony as his wrist broke and the sword slipped from his grasp. With brutal efficiency, the Orc drove the axe in his other hand into the Elf’s abdomen from close range, stabbing as if with a dagger. The wide blade tore through the Elf’s slender armor like paper.

  The struck Elf shuddered, his eyes widening in disbelief as fresh blood spilled from his mouth onto his silvery armor. As the light slowly faded from his eyes, the Orc yanked the axe back violently. The Elf collapsed to his knees in the mud and then slumped forward into the dirt.

  The Great Orc ripped the sword still lodged in his shoulder free with a grunt of pain and tossed it aside. Pressing a hand against his wound, he took a breath and watched his noble enemy fall. He did not behave with disrespect; he simply placed the axe back upon his shoulder and stepped over the fallen Elf, continuing toward the heart of the battle in search of his next victim.

  On the western side of the battlefield, the air had grown heavy. This time the opponents facing each other were a veteran Great Orc wielding a heavy, serrated spear and an Elven noble who carried a large two-handed sword—long and flexible, resembling a slender branch of willow.

  The Great Orc dragged the tip of his spear across the earth, carving a rough half-circle in the soil. His armor was crude yet solid, a reflection of the Orcs’ brutish nature; the bone ornaments on his shoulder plates creaked with every breath and movement. Opposite him, the Elf held his sword upright in a vertical guard, already in a battle stance, his eyes never leaving his opponent for even a single moment.

  With the impatience of one who despised waiting, the Orc suddenly thrust his spear forward. The weapon had a wide reach; its jagged tip shot toward the Elf’s ribcage like a thrown lance. The Elf tilted both his body and sword aside at the same time, sliding his blade along the shaft of the spear. The screech of steel scraping against metal was ear-piercing. The Elf lunged forward to close the distance, but the Orc swung the lower end of the spear like a club straight toward the Elf’s face.

  At the last possible moment, the Elf knocked the blow upward with the hilt of his sword. When the two weapons locked together, the Great Orc’s physical superiority immediately came into play. Using his spear like a lever, the Orc shoved the Elf backward with brutal force. As the Elf staggered across the muddy ground, the Orc tightened his grip, the muscles in his arms swelling as veins bulged across them. Grasping the spear with both hands, he spun it once above his head and brought the serrated, axe-like head crashing down vertically toward the Elf’s shoulder. The sheer force of the strike stirred the air like a gust of wind.

  Realizing that blocking such a blow would be suicide, the Elf rolled to the side in a swift tumble. The spear struck the shield that had stood where the Elf had been moments before, splitting it in two like paper. A thunderous crack echoed as dust burst into the air. At the same instant, the Elf sprang to his feet and saw the opening created by the Orc’s heavy movement. He swung his sword upward from below, aiming directly at the Orc’s forward hand gripping the spear.

  The Orc snarled and jerked his hand back, but the maneuver disrupted the defensive line of his weapon. Seizing the opportunity, the Elf thrust his sword forward like a spear. The blade’s tip slid into the narrow strip of exposed leather between the Orc’s neck guard and shoulder plate. The Orc roared in pain, releasing his right hand as he tried to seize the blade, but the Elf had already withdrawn his weapon and retaken his guard.

  Ignoring the black blood trickling down his neck, the Orc bellowed with fury. With one hand, he hurled the spear like a javelin. Though the sudden throw surprised the Elf, his reflexes answered instantly; he slapped the weapon aside in midair with the flat of his sword. But this had been the Orc’s trap. Before the spear even touched the ground, the Orc leapt forward and crashed into the Elf. Caught completely off guard, the Elf was seized by the Orc and his sword slipped from his grasp.

  The two rolled together into the mud and lay tangled for a brief second. The Elf quickly shifted into a crouched position and delivered two hard punches to the Orc beside him. After taking the blows, the Orc shook his head to clear the momentary daze. Then he drew the wide-bladed hunting knife at his belt and lunged forward, striking the Elf and knocking him to the ground. Raising the knife high, he tried to plunge it into the Elf’s throat.

  The Elf grabbed the Orc’s wrist with both hands and pushed upward with all his strength. For several seconds they struggled like that, locked in a desperate contest of force. The Orc’s breath washed over the Elf’s face, heavy with the smell of blood and rage. The Elf grimaced in faint disgust as he pushed death away from his throat with both arms. Yet the raw power of the Great Orc—whose body seemed carved entirely from muscle—began to dominate. Slowly, inexorably, the knife crept closer to the Elf’s throat.

  The blade drew nearer and nearer, almost touching the skin.

  At that exact moment, the Elf used the flexibility of his body to wrap his legs around the Orc’s waist and rolled sideways with all his weight. They tumbled across the mud several times before the Elf ended up on top. Realizing he could not reach his sword lying on the ground, he slammed his forehead brutally into the Orc’s nose.

  When the Orc loosened his grip for a moment under the blow, stunned, the Elf sprang to his feet with swift agility. In one fluid motion he snatched up his sword from the ground and spun around. Before the Orc could raise his knife again, the long blade plunged through a weak gap beneath the creature’s chest armor and burst out from his back.

  The Great Orc shuddered in shock. His eyes widened from the pain, bulging in their sockets. His green, muscular body trembled violently for a moment. With a wet, blood-choked growl escaping his mouth, he looked into the Elf’s eyes with a strange respect. There was no fear in that gaze—only the dark acceptance born of war.

  The Elf wrenched his sword free.

  The Orc collapsed to his knees and then toppled forward, falling face-down into the mud like a great fallen mass.

  The Elf’s arm trembled from the intensity of the struggle. He planted his sword into the ground for a moment and drew a deep breath. But he could not rest for long; the battle around him still raged. Stepping over the body of his fallen enemy with quiet dignity, he moved silently toward the next line of combat.

  At the fiercest point of the battlefield, amid the corpses and shattered banners, two giants faced one another. The armies around them seemed to leave the area as though an invisible barrier existed, fighting everywhere except within the circle that had formed around these two figures.

  On one side stood the Lord of Rivendell—Elrond, the embodiment of ancient wisdom and Elven grace clad in the form of a blade.

  On the other side stood the most savage and disciplined general of the Dark Great Orc:

  Khorgul the Heart-Eater.

  Khorgul possessed the towering, massive build typical of the Great Orcs, yet his movements carried the cold discipline of a seasoned master of war. The shield in his hand was forged of hammered black steel, its edges sharpened to shatter the bones of enemies. His sword was heavy and wide, a monstrous weapon that tore through the air with every swing.

  With a deep growl rumbling from his throat, Khorgul launched the first attack. Driving his shield forward like a battering ram, he charged straight at Elrond. Elrond slipped aside like a droplet of water, evading the crushing impact, and with Hadhafang he struck toward the gap in Khorgul’s armor beneath the arm.

  Despite his enormous, muscular frame, Khorgul reacted with astonishing agility. He swung his sword over the rim of his shield and intercepted Elrond’s strike. The clash of metal against metal rang out loudly enough to drown the surrounding battle. The moment their blades locked, Khorgul slammed the lower edge of his shield into Elrond’s kneecap.

  Anticipating the maneuver, Elrond leapt backward—but Khorgul did not stop. He swung his dark sword in a wide horizontal arc. Elrond raised his blade vertically and blocked the heavy strike. The sheer power of the blow made Elrond’s arms tremble and drove his boots deep into the soil.

  When their eyes met, Khorgul roared, his voice filled with the confidence of countless years of war.

  “The blood of E?rendil will water the earth today!”

  Elrond did not reply. He merely gazed calmly into his opponent’s eyes, his face bearing the composed, solemn expression shaped by centuries. Grasping Hadhafang with both hands, he attacked.

  Elrond’s movements flowed like a river, in stark contrast to Khorgul’s savage strength. With a series of rapid, precise strikes, he tested the defenses of Khorgul’s shield. His blade flashed like a streak of silver light, striking first the Orc’s shoulder plate, then glancing against his helmet.

  Rather than retreat under the assault, Khorgul raised his shield like a wall and pressed forward. The two collided and locked together. While Khorgul tried to crush Elrond with his shield, Elrond slammed the hilt of his sword against the visor of the Orc’s helmet. As Khorgul staggered back in a moment of dizziness, Elrond swung his blade upward from below toward the Orc’s shield arm.

  At the last instant Khorgul forced his shield downward and deflected the blow—but Elrond’s speed was relentless. Spinning with fluid grace, Elrond slashed toward the Orc’s neck. Khorgul lifted his sword to block the strike, but that was the opening Elrond had been waiting for. In mid-motion he altered the direction of his attack and drove his blade into the Orc’s armored thigh.

  Khorgul dropped to one knee as pitch-black blood burst from the wound.

  Yet he had not earned the title “Heart-Eater” nor the favor of Sauron without reason. The pain from the wound only made him more dangerous. Even as he knelt, he hurled his shield upward with all his strength toward Elrond’s abdomen.

  Caught unprepared, Elrond was thrown backward by the blow and crashed onto a heap of corpses.

  Khorgul groaned in pain as he forced himself back to his feet. Ignoring the blood flowing from his wounded leg, he slammed his sword against the ground.

  “Get up, Elf! Your heart will be my supper tonight!”

  Elrond rose with effortless grace, losing none of his noble bearing. With a swift motion he brushed the dust from his garments. His cloak was torn, and his chest armor was coated in grime, yet his gaze remained as sharp and unwavering as a honed blade. The two leaders once again took their guards in the midst of their armies. On one side stood the wisdom and speed of centuries; on the other, an unyielding will and barbaric strength. Then both warriors moved again, crashing into battle once more.

  In the battlefield where dust and blood mingled in the air, the struggle between Elrond and Khorgul had now transcended words, becoming a pure symphony of metal and will. Khorgul gripped his sword with both hands and began bringing it down again and again like a hammer. Rather than meeting those crushing blows head-on, Elrond used Hadhafang like a mirror, altering the direction of each strike by the slightest angles. Sparks scattered with every clash, briefly illuminating their faces with flashes of light. Each time Khorgul’s blade tore through the air, the deep whoom of its passage brushed past Elrond’s cloak.

  With a savage motion, Khorgul swung the sharpened rim of his shield toward Elrond’s face. Elrond bent backward in a graceful arc, his body curving like a bowstring; the honed edge passed within a hair’s breadth of his nose. Before he had even straightened, Elrond lashed out with his sword like a whip, cutting into the inner side of Khorgul’s shield arm. Black blood sprayed across the dusty earth, yet Khorgul did not falter. With a brutal snarl he lunged forward, slamming his armored shoulder into Elrond’s chest.

  Elrond felt the breath driven from his lungs by the raw force of the impact, but his centuries of experience prevented any trace of panic. As he was thrown backward, he thrust the tip of his sword toward Khorgul’s foot, as though trying to nail it to the ground. Khorgul roared and jerked his foot away, then with his free blade carved a lethal horizontal arc toward Elrond’s neck. Elrond blocked the attack with his own sword, locking the two blades together. The warriors stood face to face once more; Khorgul’s furious, rasping breath crashed against Elrond’s calm yet piercing gaze.

  Through the lock of their blades, Khorgul suddenly drove his knee upward. Elrond pressed the strike down with his left hand and used the motion to propel himself into a backward flip behind the Orc. While still airborne, he delivered three rapid strikes with his sword into the gaps between the armor plates on Khorgul’s back. Fragments of metal and strips of leather flew through the air.

  With a snarl of rage, Khorgul spun around and swung his blade in uncontrolled fury. This time Elrond did not evade. Holding his sword with both hands parallel above his head, he deflected the incoming strike upward and drove the full weight of his body into his counterattack, carving a deep gash across Khorgul’s chest armor. Khorgul staggered, his feet tangling with the heap of corpses beneath him.

  Elrond seized that fleeting opening and thrust Hadhafang forward with lightning speed. The sword slipped beneath Khorgul’s shield and plunged into his armored abdomen.

  With a roar of pain and fury, Khorgul reached out to seize Elrond by the throat. But Elrond had already withdrawn his blade and stepped aside. Khorgul dropped to his knees, a choking rasp escaping his throat as blood flooded his lungs.

  Elrond clearly held the advantage now. Every movement of his was more economical, every strike more lethal. Yet Khorgul the Heart-Eater planted his sword into the earth like a crutch and, trembling violently, forced himself back to his feet once more. The savage gleam in his eyes had not faded. If anything, it burned brighter—fueled for one final dance of death.

  Elrond held his sword slightly to the side and studied the opponent before him, his brows drawing together faintly. Somewhere deep within him stirred a sense of unease he could not quite name. Something felt wrong. He could sense it, yet could not define it. Without taking his eyes off Khorgul, he spoke.

  “What is your plan? We both know it is impossible to take Rivendell with an army this small. What I do not understand is what you hoped to achieve with such a futile attack.”

  Hearing these words, the wounded and rage-filled Khorgul suddenly grew calm for a moment and let out a mocking chuckle.

  “Who knows? Perhaps it has simply been too long since I last killed an elf… and I found myself craving a fresh heart.”

  Khorgul’s evasive answer only deepened Elrond’s suspicions. He now understood that this army had merely been used as bait—to draw his attention elsewhere. Yet he still could not determine what the true target was. As Elrond weighed the situation in his mind, Khorgul remembered the command given by his dark master: once the true task was completed, he was to leave this place alive.

  Drawing a deep breath, Khorgul raised two fingers to his mouth and released a sharp whistle.

  The moment Elrond heard it, he wasted no time. Surging forward with lethal speed, he sought to end Khorgul at once. At the last instant Khorgul raised his shield and managed to deflect the fierce attack. Ignoring the unbearable pressure crushing his injured leg, he focused entirely on Elrond.

  For a brief moment their weapons locked together again, steel grinding against steel.

  A vile smile crept across Khorgul’s face as he spoke.

  *“I am no longer your opponent, elf ***!”

  As Elrond frowned, trying to understand what he meant, a monstrous roar suddenly tore across the battlefield, drowning out the noise of the fighting. When he turned his gaze for the briefest moment, he saw it—

  An armored Manticore, its body and jaws drenched in blood, trampling both elf and orc soldiers alike as it charged through the chaos of battle… and then leapt directly toward him.