This is the capital of Gondor, the grandest city of Men, Minas Tirith, also called the City of Kings. It is the symbol of human governance; if this place falls to the Orc hordes, humanity is finished.”

Gandalf sighed, patted the head of the White Horse, and then spurred it toward the White City.

Zheng Zha followed closely behind Gandalf. A giant white horse and a skeletal steed charged toward Minas Tirith, one after the other. The city's defenders became agitated; the White Wizard commanded immense respect in the world of the Ring. Even though Saruman's fall had diminished the standing of the White Wizards, most Men still believed the White Wizard was their salvation.

Compared to the White Wizard, the skeletal warhorse was far more familiar and terrifying. It was clearly the steed ridden by the Ringwraith; that image was unmistakable. Thus, when the soldiers on the ramparts saw the White Wizard being pursued by a Nazgûl, a clamor erupted instantly, and a large contingent of archers rushed onto the walls from the encampment.

This misunderstanding wasn't cleared up for over an hour. It was only when Zheng Zha approached the skeletal steed and handed it over to the soldiers sent by Gondor that the guards finally believed the White Wizard had slain a Nazgûl (they couldn't believe martial skill or physical prowess could kill a wraith); the skeletal horse was merely spoils of war.

“Frustrating, isn't it?” Gandalf remarked with a smile. “There’s nothing to be done. The people of Gondor are terribly stubborn. They will cling to what they believe is right, for better or worse. If they fixate on a path they must walk, they will charge straight into it, no matter what.”

Zheng Zha somewhat awkwardly handled the mount he now rode—a horse given to him after the Gondorian soldiers took the skeletal steed. He wasn't worried about retrieving the undead horse; even by force, how could these common soldiers stop him? Besides, Gandalf would never permit such a thing to happen.

“Let’s go, we must see the Steward!” This section is briefly set aside, being purely narrative exposition, lest some readers accuse the author of padding. In any case, when Gandalf and the others met the Steward of Gondor, they learned from him that the men did not desire aid from Rohan. He knew that Aragorn, the heir to Gondor’s throne, was with Rohan, and he did not wish for Gondor to return to the rule of its King, as this would leave the Steward with nowhere to go. Consequently, he flatly refused Gandalf’s proposal and instead lit the beacons to call for aid from Rohan.

“Foolish! Utterly foolish! Even if this country is his now, what will he gain when Mordor tramples it into dust? Nothing! He will only die here. Why wouldn’t he return the kingdom to its King and earn eternal renown for it?” Gandalf stormed out of the Citadel. He walked to an observation platform overlooking the city, from where he could see Mordor beyond the distant mountains—a landscape drenched in blood-red light, as if something were burning in the very atmosphere.

Gandalf spoke with deep sorrow. “We have already lost. Humanity is on the brink of extinction. Sauron has returned, and the One Ring is back in his grasp. Yet, we Men are still mired in infighting, still brawling over fleeting power. How can an army, a government like this, possibly defeat the brutal sovereign of Mordor? We have lost.”

Zheng Zha clapped Gandalf on the shoulder. “Don’t give up. We have endured so much combat, so much hardship; are we truly going to lose because of one useless Steward? We still have the elite cavalry of Rohan, the Ents are on their way, and we have a host of allies. When Sauron truly rises, the Elves of this continent will certainly contribute, or else they will have no choice but to flee with their tails tucked between their legs.”

Gandalf took a deep breath. “Very well, we shall proceed with the original plan, Meriadoc.”

The hobbit Merry was intently watching the fiery red sky in the distance. The sight was both magnificent and eerie. But when he turned back, he saw the three men staring at him, rigid and unmoving. Immediately, a bad feeling, as if he were about to step onto a pirate ship, surfaced in his mind. “The beacons are lit at last,” said a dark-haired youth, who was practicing his breathing exercises atop a snowy peak. He watched as a torch was lit on the summit below him. That torch signaled another peak where men saw the light, and so another summit ignited its own flare. This signal spread from one peak to the next, gradually reaching the most distant mountaintops.

“So, the Battle of the Pelennor Fields is about to commence?” The dark-haired youth suddenly smiled. He laughed aloud several times, then muttered fiercely to himself, “Zhao Zhuikong, now you can’t say I didn't act, can you? Damn you! Once I complete my Golden Core condensation, I won’t fear you even if you unlock the fourth stage of the Gene Lock! Then I’ll make sure to kill you soundly, along with your copies, and that demon…” “Only the cultivation of Immortality is the strongest power!” Setting aside the wild behavior of this dark-haired youth, when the beacon fire reached the capital of Rohan, King Théoden remained resolute in agreeing to send troops to Gondor. As a ruler, he understood the principle of interdependence—if the lips are gone, the teeth will be cold. Even the mightiest cavalry of Rohan could not face the forces of Mordor alone; their only course of action was to unite with the armies of Gondor to withstand the Orc hordes.

“Although it is regrettable, I must inform you all,” Théoden said, his face growing heavy after listening to a scout cavalryman. “After the Battle of Helm’s Deep began, I dispatched several scouting riders to Gondor—one to request aid, and another to ascertain if Mordor’s army had begun its offensive. They have now returned, bringing news of the enemy forces. Regrettably, we face an army of one hundred thousand Orcs, Uruks, and Trolls. This force is far larger than we anticipated, even mightier than the forces of the Evil Alliance during the ancient War of the Ring. The only army Rohan can muster for this campaign is five thousand riders—nothing more.” This exchange took place within the royal palace of Rohan. Once Théoden decided to send aid, he wasted no time in arranging and gathering his forces, ensuring every soldier taken would possess the highest fighting capacity. However, the news brought by the scout—the estimate of one hundred thousand—instantaneously shattered everyone's confidence. This wasn't the real world; this was Middle-earth. Even the records of the ancient wars never mentioned such a massive concentration of evil power. This force was truly overwhelming.

“Then we must seek new military strength!” A voice suddenly sounded from outside the hall. When everyone looked, they saw a man in a cloak entering the palace. He pulled back his hood upon reaching the assembly; this man was none other than Elrond, the Elf-lord, the recipient of one of the Three Elven Rings.

Except for the three members of the Middle-earth team, everyone else bowed slightly in deference. Elrond accepted their respects without ceremony and immediately stated, “Sauron has regained the One Ring in a flash; his power is fully restored, as mighty as before. Yet, the strength of our allies has waned. The royal line of Men has only this one descendant left, and the Elven Rings are beginning to lose their power, forcing us to depart the continent soon. If Men are to survive, Aragorn, you must find new sources of troops.”

Aragorn managed a wry smile. “There are no more sources. The Ents have already set out, the Rohan cavalry is prepared to ride, and I cannot control the strength of Gondor. The Elves, deprived of the power of the Three Rings, are preparing to leave. We have no allies left.”

“No, there is still one army, waiting for ten years!” Elrond suddenly opened his cloak and drew forth a two-handed greatsword that shimmered with silver light. Even without any internal Dou Qi channeled into it, the sword continuously radiated silver luminescence, appearing like a mirror forged of polished silver.

“This sword was reforged from shards of Narsil. It is a blade only the royal line of Gondor can wield, and it can prove your lineage,” Elrond paused, speaking earnestly. “Go and recruit those men of the mountains. They have awaited this chance for a thousand years. Only this army can close the gap in numbers between us and Mordor; only this can turn the tide!”

“The mountain men?” Aragorn frowned, his face turning pale. He murmured, “The rebels? The traitors? The despicable ones? They have no faith, no one can command them…”

Elrond boomed, “You can! Only you can command them! This army is yours! It is your last recourse!” Seeing Aragorn hesitate, Gimli curiously asked Legolas beside him, “What’s wrong? It seems Aragorn is afraid of that army.”

“Not afraid, but angry,” Legolas sighed. “That army once swore allegiance to the royal line of Gondor but fled when they were most needed, abandoning the line, which is why the bloodline of Gondor nearly died out, leaving Aragorn as the sole heir. They are cursed until they fulfill their oath and receive the pardon of the royal line of Gondor; only then can they truly rest.”

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