As the long night approached its end, more and more trolls grew restless. They leaped out from the jungle, continuously harassing the allied forces with javelin throws. As time passed, the increasingly agitated trolls launched frenzied assaults against the defensive lines of the encampment. Their massive, oppressive bodies slammed against the steel fortifications, but all they earned in return were wails of pain and retreating cries of agony.
"These damned black-skinned beasts really hold grudges! And their territorial instincts are ridiculously strong..." Omsk flicked his sharp longsword, blood dripping from its edge. No fewer than ten trolls had already fallen under his blade. While a knight's sword lacked the reach of a lance, it was undeniably more agile and practical in close combat. Of course, if a formation of dismounted knights lined up in a shield wall and leveled their lances for a coordinated push… well, certain heavy infantry units that had been utterly crushed in past battles could attest to just how relentless and unyielding those long, hard lances could be!
However, given Rynar's current resources, he couldn't afford the luxury of throwing his knights into a meat grinder-style battle. Employing knights in dismounted combat was a costly endeavor—satisfying in the moment, but a financial catastrophe in the long run. Only the most extravagant warlords in strategy games, or the high lords of the Zaltarion Empire, could afford such an indulgence.
Despite the intensity of the battle, Omsk wasn't fighting at full strength. After all, a Tier Six hero charging in would be no different from a dragon rampaging through a village—it would be an absolute slaughter. He wasn't about to commit such an overkill. Instead, he casually cut down a few trolls who had leaped over the defenses and attempted to break through. The rest he left for the Dunwenian Heavy Swordsmen and the City Guards to practice on. Not that he'd admit it, but maybe he was just feeling lazy.
On the other hand, Caslow was far more dutiful. While he hadn't displayed the absolute dominance of a true Dragon Knight, he still fought diligently alongside the Royal Guards—unlike a certain knight who was just going through the motions.
Even without summoning his dragon, Caldor, Caslow still emanated a terrifying draconic aura. Though the trolls fearlessly threw themselves at the defensive line, they instinctively avoided his position. The sheer pressure exuding from his presence made even these simple-minded creatures realize that this human was not to be trifled with!
"Damn it! It seems I've really regressed... I've grown rusty even in ground combat!" Caslow muttered in frustration, displeased that his sword had failed to cleave a troll clean in half with a single stroke. However, this was largely due to his shift in combat style. Unlike the maneuverability and hit-and-run tactics of Wyvern Knights, Dragon Knights specialized in precision strikes to break enemy formations. Imagine a battle-qi-infused dragon lance, extending dozens of meters, plunging from thousands of meters above, crashing into enemy lines with immense force. The sheer impact of dragon energy and battle-qi could tear apart anything foolish enough to stand in its way. As a result, Dragon Knights rarely mastered slashing techniques—their combat style had always been about diving attacks from the sky!
Before long, only a handful of trolls remained in front of Caslow, barely a threat. Seeing this, he sheathed his sword, losing interest, and turned back toward the encampment.
"Clean up the stragglers. I don't want any loose ends! And remember to finish off the wounded!" With a dismissive wave, Caslow strode off to "apologize" to King Rynar.
"Aha!" Baring let out a mighty roar as he smashed his forehead against that of a fallen troll, an intimate, bone-crushing meeting. The sickening crunch of the troll's skull and its now concave face turned what might have been a warm moment into something far more gruesome.
"That was exhilarating! Boys, we did it! The sons of Durin are invincible! These black-skinned bastards have just learned that lesson the hard way! Stay on high alert, and make sure to put down any of these writhing wretches still breathing!" Baring adjusted his belt, slung his bloodied twin-bladed axe over his back, and stomped toward the command tent—he needed to check on the others.
"Good evening, my dearest Sir Caslow!" Rynar sat on a simple wooden chair, heavily emphasizing the word "dearest."
"Oh, by the Dragon Gods! No need for that, Your Highness. If you say that, Grand Duke Nyx will have my head when I return. I don't wish to be your 'dearest'—I prefer fair-skinned, well-proportioned ladies!" Starving and parched, Caslow grabbed a piece of roast meat from the table and stuffed it into his mouth, downing a cup of water in quick succession.
"...Hah! You've got some nerve. You dared to have me put under house arrest?!" Rynar cracked his knuckles loudly, completely unmoved by Caslow's jest.
"I didn't want to, but what choice did I have? A great king nearly got skewered by a stray spear today. To prevent further negligence on my part, I had to take extreme measures—you understand, don't you?" Caslow spoke between bites, wrestling with a golden-brown leg of lamb.
"Unbelievable! We were out there fighting for our lives, and you were here feasting on roasted meat?!" Before Rynar could continue, Omsk pushed aside the tent flap and stepped in, immediately spotting Caslow enjoying his meal. He then glanced at Rynar's dark expression and quickly straightened himself.
"Your Highness, the battle is nearly over," Omsk reported, offering a respectful bow.
"Sit. Eat. You've been at it all night," Rynar gestured toward the seats.
"Thank you, Your Highness."
"The enemy has been completely annihilated. I returned to confirm it." Caslow spoke casually, giving Omsk a sidelong glance.
"Any casualty reports?" Rynar inquired.
"Not yet. It's too dark to risk sending soldiers into the woods for body counts. There's still a chance that some enemies may be lurking in hiding," Caslow wiped the grease from his mouth with his sleeve.
"Same here. The City Guards and returning Rangers shot down many enemies in the dark. We can't get an accurate count," Omsk added, shrugging as he poured himself a cup of water.
"By my beard! Baring! Have these fools lost their minds? Charging heavy dwarf formations with mere flesh and bone?! Durin's beard! How can such stupid creatures even exist?! The fact that they haven't gone extinct is a miracle!"
"Hahaha! I killed twenty-six! Have to admit, they're tall bastards! Some of them even overturned parts of our shield wall! Poor lads went flying, flailing their arms and legs in the air before crashing down in a heap!"
At the entrance, Baring returned with members of the Lonely Mountain Expedition. Judging by their expressions, it was clear that Ori and Óin had no issues either. As for Baring... Rynar couldn't imagine anything on this battlefield posing a real threat to him. His charisma and combat prowess placed him at the pinnacle of dwarven warriors! He carried the bloodline of dwarven kings. He had the presence and spirit of a ruler!
"He will be a king. And he will be a great one. He possesses all the qualities a king should have. The revival of Moria's dwarves is inevitable!" Omsk murmured to Caslow as he watched Baring stride into the tent.
"Welcome back victorious, Lord (or Prince) Baring!" Rynar greeted, his mind contemplating the wise old warrior before him—the last light of Moria in the Third Age. But the future had already changed. If nothing unexpected occurred, Baring would ascend the throne of Moria. The Balrog would no longer haunt that city. After all, offending the dragon race… and slaying a silver dragon at that… Rynar could only shed a tear for that poor Balrog. Rest in peace… though, come to think of it, Balrog remains were worth quite a fortune. The thought brought a gleam to Rynar's eyes.