The Demon King's army is on the march. Like an unstoppable wildfire, it spreads westward from the fiery heart of Mount Doom, devouring everything in its path.
Day one: Ironhold Fortress falls.
Day two: Sailcastle spots the Mordor Legion, but can only watch helplessly as Dolan Keep is breached. The spider-mutants cast webs, dragging away warriors whose screams chill the soul.
Day three: It’s Sailcastle’s turn. Despite every effort, the overwhelming army crashes over them like a tidal wave. Watching the mountain giants approach—each step shaking the city—and the endless horde of spider-mutants at their heels, while terrified farmers huddle together in despair, the soldiers know: now is not the time to fight. The only option is to run.
They scrambled to gather every boat they could, ferrying people from the east bank to the west as quickly as possible. The boats ranged from sturdy to downright decrepit. The Bernard River surged with dangerous currents, and some of those rickety vessels might sink before reaching the other side. But at this moment, no one was picky.
Just look at that giant—towering over the castle walls, looming above everyone even from a distance. Each step from the mountain giant sends tremors through the city. Everyone crowded on the docks shares the same thought: Grab a boat, get away fast, and leave everything else behind!
But reality is cruel—even this small hope isn’t fully realized.
"Let the women and children go first! All men should take up arms and protect them to the end!"
"Let the strong and able go first! If all the men die here, who will defend Gondor, who will strike back at Mordor?"
"Cowards who run and can’t even protect their own families—how will they ever have the guts to fight Mordor? Run once, and you’ll just keep running, hiding in a cellar and screaming in fear, never daring to stand up like a real man again!"
"Don’t give me that bull***! Look over there—those half-human, half-spider freaks, they can lay eggs inside you! The strong don’t just die in battle, they get turned into hosts—new monsters hatch from them! You want to make Mordor’s army even bigger, you idiot?"
Arguments like this echoed everywhere. Nobody could convince anyone else, and neither side would back down—because in these chaotic times, there’s no such thing as absolutely right.
Amid the shouting, everything happened in chaos and panic. Whether rich or poor, farmer or noble, everyone squeezed onto any boat they could find. Sails unfurled, oars thrashed, but in the confusion some boats smashed together right in the harbor, making things even messier.
Thud. The mountain giant took another step, looming even larger. Cries, curses, screams—they filled the air.
"Go! You have to go! Sailcastle can’t hold—only your magic can stand against Mordor!" A Gondor soldier grabbed the Chosen Ones, urgently dragging them toward the docks.
"No way! I’m not going! What kind of man would I be if I ran?" The burly guy struggled. "Just keep me away from that big brute—I’ll wipe out those lousy spiders myself…"
Wham! A heavy chop landed on the back of his neck—the burly guy’s eyes rolled up and he collapsed. When he woke up, he was in a boat cabin, surrounded by other Chosen Ones and Paladins. He scrambled up and rushed out, only to see Sailcastle far in the distance.
On the castle’s spire, the Gondor battle flag still flew, flapping in the wind. Soldiers still fought on the walls—their battle cries faint in the distance, but he knew they were fierce. As the sun set and the sky burned red, Sailcastle stood tall—a picture of tragic heroism.
But in the next instant, a massive boulder crashed down from the sky—smashed into the castle. It was the mountain giant! Still kilometers away, but when it hurled a rock, it was scarier than any catapult. The castle crumbled like a pile of blocks—the battle flag was instantly crushed, the spire toppled in the blink of an eye.
Screams carried on the wind—faint, but he knew they were cries of utter despair.
On every deck and along every rail, people stood packed together, staring at the distant destruction. Their hearts buzzed with a strange numbness—was it grief? Empathy? Relief at surviving? Nobody knew. They just hoped their loved ones were on one of those boats.
"Look! Up in the sky!"
A cry went up, and everyone looked skyward. In the blood-red sunset, monstrous shapes flapped their wings from the east. Black as midnight, with knife-like fangs and hulking bodies—they were terrifying. The thunder of their wings drowned out the sky, and with it, the survivors’ last hope.
"Grab your weapons! Wyverns—wyverns are attacking!"
"How the hell are there so many? Where did Sauron get all these wyverns?"
The burly guy’s fists clenched, hatred blazing in his eyes. He roared, drawing a strange sword. Energy was limited—his ultimate move couldn’t last long. But right now, he didn’t care. He just wanted to slice these little monsters to pieces.
"Come on, Dragon Knight!"
——Two days later, White City——
At the city gates, countless refugees crowded together, crying and pounding on the doors. The Regent of Gondor had just ordered the gates shut, forbidding entry. The gates jammed with desperate people—their pleas echoed through every street, all the way to the palace. The generals felt pity and pleaded with the Regent, but he refused to change his mind.
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The Regent of Gondor sat on his throne, face dark and voice barely alive: "How many escaped from the east bank?"
"A rough count says maybe half got out alive. The other tens of thousands—all dead." The officer pleaded, "Sir, the Mordor Legion breeds by parasitism—the more people they kill, the stronger they get! The Bernard River won’t hold them for long. We have to do something for the refugees. Move them to the rear, or let them inside the city—don’t let them fall into Mordor’s hands! If their army grows any bigger, we’ll never be able to resist!"
"Resist?" The Regent snorted. "So you think if Mordor’s army stops growing, we can actually resist them?"
The officer was stunned—he hadn’t expected the commander to think this way. He stammered, "But, sir, we’ve beaten Sauron before. If we all stand together, we can—"
"Enough! We can't resist. We never could!" The Regent slammed the armrest, shrieking hysterically. "That Demon King can’t be killed! Beat him once, twice—he’ll always come back! Fight an immortal enemy? Ha! Don’t be naïve. Those rabble at the gate? Let them die. We’ll all die. Drop your weapons, accept your fate—you’re doomed, I’m doomed, we’re all doomed! Ha ha ha ha!"
The Regent’s crazed shouts echoed through the hall, leaving the officers pale and shaking. If the commander’s lost all hope, who’s left to lead the people?
Just then—bang! The main doors slammed open. Blinding light poured in, flooding the cold, dark hall. The Regent grunted, shielding his eyes. Through the brilliance strode a tall, armored figure, bloodied but majestic, radiating unstoppable kingly power.
He held a sword—and at the sight of it, the Regent’s eyes widened in shock: "The Sword of Kings?! You—you’re—no, you’re not!"
As the glare faded, it wasn’t Aragorn—it was Jasper Xiao.
"Ha! Of course not—Aragorn’s fate is unknown, why would he show up here?" The Regent sneered. "So, what now, you low-born fool? Storming my palace with that broken blade—charging into my kingdom, trying to steal my throne? You’re looking for trouble…"
Bang!!
To the officers’ shock, Jasper Xiao swung his iron fist, jaw clenched and rage blazing, and smashed it square into the Regent’s face.
The old Regent’s body flew across the hall, crashed into the far wall, and landed with a thud. He spat out blood and a dozen broken teeth—his face caved in, unrecognizable.
"What—?!" The guards froze, then drew their swords. But Jasper Xiao didn’t flinch—he strode to the throne, raised the Sword of Kings, and roared: "Stand down! This Sword of Kings is the true symbol of Gondor’s royal authority! Aragorn gave it to me, along with the throne itself. I am the rightful heir—the true king! Who dares defy me?"
He stood tall, regal and proud—the true king had finally returned.