Chapter 9 – The Three Elven Swords Emerge

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With the knights charging forward, Roland felt his blood pumping, like there was a familiar BGM kicking in. Maybe StarSky would fit the vibe perfectly right now.

"Kill!" Roland roared, slicing clean through an ogre's left calf. The hulking brute toppled forward with a crash, only to be trampled mercilessly under iron hooves.

"Sprint Shot!" A Bretonnian archer shouted. Skill activated: Sprint Shot!

Sprint Shot was one of those extremely practical skills—huge boost to accuracy while running or shooting from horseback.

Thwip! An iron arrow slammed into the ogre's eye socket. It howled, clutching at the wound, spinning in circles in pain—until two knights ran it through with their lances, hoisting it up high before tossing it aside. It rolled a few times and lay still.

"Kill!" Golden battle-aura flames erupted, bathing everything in a holy glow. Like a statue of gold come to life, Renault charged in with his lance—straight into an ogre. The battle aura exploded on impact, blasting the creature into chunks. Black blood and flesh splattered the air in a grotesque rain, but Renault still radiated that same noble, holy air as before. Behind him, Lagron's knights surged forward like a steel tide, weapons flashing as they crashed into the enemy ranks…

…

"Damn! These filthy bastards!" Roland cursed, looking down at the mess stuck to his boot. Hell, this foot was done for. The smell alone nearly killed him.

"Milord, let me wash it off for you." Caslow ran over eagerly with a waterskin.

"No! Wait—ugh!" Roland gagged as Caslow's sprint kicked up a spray of god-knows-what mixed with mud and rotting blood, splattering all over him.

"I'm gonna kill you! I swear I'm killing you!" Roland snapped.

"Purify!" A flash of golden light swept over him, washing away every trace of filth.

Whoa. Luxury much? Using Purify just to clean someone up—Renault must be loaded with holy aura to spare.

"Quest complete: Ogre Uprising! Reward—Holy Battle Aura. Paladin class unlocked. Reward issued."

Roland was about to speak when a wave of divine energy surged from deep within him, swallowing his words. Golden battle flames flared, flooding him with power he'd never felt before—even his skill set shifted.

"For Lagron's glory! Congratulations, my lord, you've awakened as a Paladin!" Renault said, practically shaking with excitement. For the first time in ages, he felt hope for the empire's revival. (The system had, of course, planted in them the memory of Lagron's fall and Renault being the last surviving Lagron lord.)

"Paladin!" Gandalf was stunned. Paladins weren't just anyone—you had to be chosen. And for every Paladin, there was their mirror: the Black Knight. How did Black Knights come to be? By a Paladin falling. The birth of a Paladin could save a land… or plant the seed for its ruin.

And now? Out of a hundred or so people, they had two Paladins. All it'd take was one bad day, one of them going dark, and boom—game over. Forget the Lonely Mountain expedition, pack up the bags, head home. Paladins were already near-unkillable—holy magic and skills for days. And Black Knights? Even worse. They could heal and drain life, mana, health—you name it.

Gandalf glanced at the two of them, discreetly wiping sweat from his brow. For the first time, he wondered if organizing this Lonely Mountain trip was a mistake. In his long, god-touched life of thousands of years, he'd seen a lot… including the Nine Ringwraiths under Sauron's command. Black Knights, all of them. Back when the Witch-king of Angmar ravaged Arnor—yeah, that was like watching paper get shredded.

"Ogres don't show up in daylight," Gandalf said, eyeing the rising sun.

"That means there's a cave nearby!" Thorin's eyes lit up.

"Find it!" Roland called from horseback.

Sure enough, a short while later someone found the ogres' lair, and the group moved in.

"Ugh, this smell could knock a guy out…" Roland clamped his nose, feeling half-enlightened from the fumes.

"Oh, look what I found!" Glóin came out holding a small chest.

"Whoa, all gold coins!" Nori exclaimed.

"There's more scattered around here—these ogres really don't know how to appreciate loot," Roland said, clicking his tongue.

"Quick, grab it all." Roland was grinning from ear to ear.

"Hmm?" Gandalf murmured, walking over to a pile of cobwebbed weapons. He nudged them with his staff.

Shing! A clear ring as a sword was drawn—silver light flashing under the torch, dazzling the eyes.

"Holy crap, the foe-hammer—Glamdring!" Roland blurted. He'd been half-hoping to find one of the Three Elven Swords. Not as good as a dragon-slayer, sure, but still worth collecting. Sadly, fate wasn't with him.

"Oh? You recognize it?" Gandalf asked.

"Of course! The blade of the King of Gondolin Forest," Roland shot back without thinking.

"Hm…" Gandalf gave him a long look and said nothing, pulling out another sword.

"…You've got to be kidding me—the goblin-cleaver, Orcrist…" Roland's face darkened. Of the three swords, these two were his favorites. The last, Sting, was Bilbo's—basically a butter knife in his hands. And somehow Gandalf still managed to dig them up exactly like in the original story.

Roland's scowl deepened. He waved his men over to haul away the rest of the weapons. Sting might be short, but it was still a handy defensive blade. As for pride? That could stay in his pocket for now.

"Dwarves, you guys want to swap out your gear? These are Noldorin elven-forged, top-quality stuff," Roland offered generously.

"No! We're leaving this filthy place!" Thorin's face twisted at the word elven and he stormed off with his company.

Gandalf just shrugged. "Thorin, that's Orcrist—the best weapon we can get right now." His voice grew pointed.

Thorin hesitated, glancing at the mithril hammers carried by Roland's knights and the fine steel and gold of their gear. He swallowed hard. In the end, the sweet smell of better weapons won out. He accepted Orcrist, and the other dwarves dove into the weapon pile like bargain-hunting aunties at the market.

"Bilbo! This is for you." Gandalf emerged from the cave and handed the hobbit a short sword.

Roland's eye twitched. Seriously? He'd emptied the place and still couldn't get the Three Elven Swords? Was he just cursed? Couldn't a Lord of the Rings nerd collect a few iconic blades? Muttering darkly, he kept thinking bad luck, bad luck.

"No, I can't. I've never even used a blade," Bilbo said quickly, hands up.

"Mr. Baggins, this is an elven-forged magic weapon. When orcs are near, the blade glows a faint blue…" Gandalf began.

"I hope you never have to use it… but if you do, remember—true courage isn't about taking a life. It's about knowing when to spare one."

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and support me you can join my pat-reo-n

patr eon.com/Aspiring_Immortal (remove the blank space)