The One Ring, the Ruling Ring.
Sauron, either by his own hand or through others, forged a total of twenty magical rings. Of these, nine were given to the mightiest among Men, some were kings, others mighty warriors, and some renowned sorcerers.
But their exact identities are unknown. Ancient rumors say that three of them were Númenórean nobles, with the Witch-king said to be among them. Another, more clearly identified, was a ruler from the Eastern lands, now known as the Shadow of the East, Khamûl.
So far, among all the Nazgûl, the only one Garrett has never personally defeated is the Witch-king.
Of course, it doesn't matter if the Witch-king is defeated once, after all, it's just a matter of being resurrected again. Whoever defeats him makes little difference, beyond slightly denting morale. Things would go on as they always do.
But where he is defeated, that does matter.
Anywhere in Middle-earth would be acceptable, except at the very gates of Gondor. If he were to be defeated in such a historic place, Gondor would never let the matter rest.
Back to the point.
Of the nine Nazgûl, the origins of four are somewhat clear. But as for the other five, no one knows. Not even Garrett knows. It's possible that even the Elves or Istari don't know.
"You're the Witch-king?"
"No... you're not."
At the crossroads, Garrett stood up, staring at the slowly approaching Nazgûl, and shouted, "I've been waiting here for almost a day. Your leader, he's not here. Where did he go?"
The Nazgûl said nothing, only continued to approach.
The afterglow of the setting sun filtered through his dark wraith-form, leaving faint, dim halos upon the road behind him.
Before the broken statue of Gondor's king, he drew the shattered sword from his back. A blade so short it could barely serve as more than a dagger.
"You mean to fight me with that thing?"
No answer. The Nazgûl kept his silence. Step by step, calm and steady, he advanced, his gaze fixed on the man before him.
"Not speaking, then."
Of course. Unless necessary, the Nazgûl usually kept their mouths tightly shut. When they did open them, it was most often for a piercing shriek, meant only to instill terror.
They were, after all, nothing more than a host of corrupted, unredeemed wraiths. Though they retained their skills and intelligence from life, their will had long been eroded. Everything they did was for their master, Sauron.
Seeing that the approaching wraith had no intention of conversing, Garrett also drew his sword.
"So, he won't face me himself, and instead sends a subordinate to die in his place. A clever enough move, I suppose, it saves him a shred of reputation."
Had it been a nameless upstart shouting at his gates, the Witch-king would never have bothered to answer, he would not stoop so low.
But this was Garrett. His every move tugged at countless nerves, his deeds spread swiftly far and wide.
The Witch-king had to respond, in one way or another.
"But what good will it do?"
The last rays of sunlight faded from the sky.
And in the moment when the final glimmer of light vanished from the world, the Nazgûl's figure suddenly disappeared.
Clang!
Garrett spun around, his blade catching the shattered sword aimed straight for his throat.
Whoosh!
With a single swing, Garrett's sword unleashed an unstoppable force. The Nazgûl stumbled backward, struggling to keep hold of his weapon.
Blocked.
But the attempt to disarm him failed.
"Why don't you try that backstab again?"
At those words, the Nazgûl raised his head. For the first time in centuries, as he looked upon the black-armored warrior before him, he felt something long-forgotten... an oppressive weight pressing down on him, and a flicker of unease.
It was like facing a great beast, back when he had still been human, when all one could do was fight with everything, life on the line.
Garrett lunged forward. The Nazgûl's form flickered and vanished again, narrowly avoiding the blow.
Time seemed to slow, or perhaps the Nazgûl's speed had quickened. He landed atop the broken statue's crown, calmly drew his bow, and fired five arrows in a single instant, each one aimed unerringly for Garrett's head.
Boom!
Garrett's vision blurred as his runic shield flared five times, each impact draining a few points of power.
Half his shield was gone from that single volley.
The attack power was high, but it couldn't break through.
Garrett turned his head toward the archer's perch, swiftly drew his own bow, and loosed a flaming arrow in return.
The Nazgûl merely flicked his shattered sword, cleaving the arrow from the air, without so much as shifting his stance.
"Interesting."
Garrett's blood stirred, his long-dormant battle instincts surging to life once more.
From atop the ruined statue, the Nazgûl raised his bow again, ready to fire downward, but suddenly, a hook with a bobber attached snagged onto his armor.
A fishing rod?
Caught off guard, he was yanked down. He fell from the statue's crown, right where Garrett stood waiting, sword raised.
"Do you know what baseball is?"
The brutal strike was about to land when the wraith flickered once more, vanishing in midair, and reappeared behind Garrett. He lunged with his shattered sword. Garrett spun, parrying with a reverse stroke. The impact left the Nazgûl's hand trembling. In that instant, Garrett struck again, knocking the sword flying.
The clash of steel rang out.
The Nazgûl dove instinctively, hand stretching for the fallen blade with inhuman speed. But Garrett was already surging forward, sprinting with explosive force, dust rising behind him.
The moment the wraith's fingers touched his weapon, his sword was already descending.
The Ring's power flared, the wraith's movements quickened, just enough to bring up his sword in defense. Garrett pressed down, his blade forcing the wraith's broken sword closer and closer to his face.
Shriek!
At last, the wraith screamed, but the sound inspired no fear in Garrett. Still, it bolstered the wraith himself. He forced Garrett's blade aside and gained a moment of breathing room.
His form flickered out of the mortal realm and back into the wraith-world, reappearing at a distance. But when he looked back, Garrett was gone. Only violet particles lingered where he had stood.
The wraith turned his head. Suddenly, a hand seized his helm. No matter how he struggled, he could not break free. He tried to strike back, but the runic shield held firm.
And then, he was slammed mercilessly against the base of the statue.
The edge of a blade gleamed, poised to strike.
Clang!
At the last possible moment, the Nazgûl rolled away, escaping the thrust. He turned and saw the sword buried deep into the stone base, as if the stone were mere soil.
Then the sword moved.
Scrrrrk.
A hideous grinding shriek filled the air as the long blade carved through the stone, gouging a deep trench. The wraith rolled frantically along the base, narrowly avoiding the merciless, overpowering strikes.
Only after the statue's entire foundation had been riven apart did the Nazgûl at last catch a breath of respite.
"Uaaahhh!!"
A hollow, wind-leaking roar tore from the wraith's throat. In his hand materialized a short-handled war hammer, which he swung at Garrett with terrifying speed.
Thud!
The hammer struck Garrett in the chestplate. Even clad in netherite armor, he was forced back half a step.
Small though the hammer was, its explosive power rivaled that of a dwarven great hammer.
Not giving his foe a chance for a follow-up, Garrett raised his sword and met the blow head-on. The result, an even match. The force of his enchanted Knockback II sword clashed with the wraith's hammer like the charge of a wild beast.
Their weapons clashed again and again, thunderous booms reverberating across the crossroads, loud enough to send birds tumbling from nearby trees.
With each collision, their pressure grew. The wraith's hammer became ever more saturated with a malevolent energy, each strike growing heavier. Meanwhile, Garrett's attacks mounted as well, each blow stronger than the last. After more than a dozen exchanges, his strength had reached its peak.
And at that same moment, the Nazgûl too seemed to have gathered all his power, preparing a single powerful strike.
BOOM!
The colossal impact exploded between them. The wraith's hammer shattered into nothingness, and he was blasted backward, tumbling across the ground. He scrambled to his feet, quickly lifting his head to check, but it was already too late.
In the next instant, a sword pierced through his armor and into his chest, igniting his spirit.
"AAHHHH!!!"
Like the others before him, this Nazgûl screamed in torment as the flames consumed him.
He clawed at the sword with both hands, trying desperately to pull it out. But no matter how he strained, the blade would not budge.
Because Garrett had not let go.
The wraith's already thin health bar plummeted. His hands fell limp at his sides, resistance ceasing, as though he had accepted his fate.
"Sauron kept a fellow like you hidden away?"
So back in Dol Guldur, this one was holding back, was he? Or perhaps Garrett had moved too quickly for him to act? Who could say?
Through the flames engulfing the wraith's body, Garrett studied the ring upon his hand.
As expected, it was one of the Nine Rings of Men.
The Rings of Power lived up to their name. Each held strange, wondrous abilities. The dwarves' boundless wealth, for example, came from the Seven Rings, which could replicate gold itself, touching upon some fundamental law of the world.
For a moment he was tempted to take this ring and study it. But almost immediately, a sense of danger flared in him, and he abandoned the thought.
Unnecessary.
Not worth it.
"Still... for even an ordinary ring to hold such power..."
Recalling the abilities the wraith had displayed, he remarked with interest, "You don't seem like some nobody. I've never fought the Witch-king myself, but I doubt he could be much stronger. After all, he wouldn't even show up when challenged."
"In my eyes, you'd make a better leader of the Nazgûl than he does. Haven't you ever thought of overthrowing the Witch-king and taking his place?"
"Your master would be pleased to see it."
For Sauron, subordinates competing for power, sharpening themselves in the process, was a boon with no downside. No matter what, the wraiths could not truly perish. In the end, all would still serve him.
"I can help you achieve that."
Garrett offered his tempting words of "righteous persuasion."
Of course, he wasn't seriously scheming to play politics among the Nazgûl, nor planning to support one as an inside agent, that was impossible by its very nature.
His real thought was simple: "Lure him out, and cut him down."
The burning wraith gave no reply, only his silence. But his expression betrayed the agony within. To have one's spirit set aflame was far worse than flesh burning.
"I never saw this kind of power at Dol Guldur. Who exactly are you?"
"Someone like you would not go unrecorded in history. You'd at least have a name, or a title."
Garrett kept pressing, almost like a one-man performance, trying to wring something useful out of the wraith.
But the Nazgûl was mute as stone. Perhaps he truly was speechless, or perhaps Sauron's long enslavement had stripped even the ability for free speech from him.
No matter. Time was short. His health bar was about to run out.
Garrett shook his head and abandoned the questioning. He pulled his sword free, letting the wraith collapse to the ground, flames continuing to consume him. He did not look back.
"What a pity. There's nothing left."
And in that moment, as his health bar reached zero, the wraith finally spoke, for the first and only time since they had met.
Shadows swept the sky. His broken spirit was drawn back to the Dark Tower of Mordor, to await resurrection.
Garrett turned sharply, staring at the ashes, the burned cloak and empty armor left behind.
Had he really spoken? Or was it just his imagination?
Interesting. Very interesting. Each Nazgûl seemed to bring its own unexpected surprises.
"A nameless, yet mighty warrior..."
"Too bad, you still didn't force me to use my full strength."
The golden apples remained untouched, the potions unused, most items in his inventory left alone. Even his runic shield had not been broken.
His own losses had been minimal, though only thanks to preparation. This wraith had many powerful and unexpected techniques. Without the rune shield, those five arrows to the head in rapid succession might have dropped him to half health in an instant.
Half-dead in a heartbeat.
Add in the hammer that grew stronger with each blow, plus the poison shriek, and without the stacking power of his sword techniques, Garrett could indeed have been brought down.
All those little preparations and items, each one unimpressive on its own, had finally revealed their worth today. Together, they had made him what he was.
Clink.
A faint noise drew his attention.
Beside the wraith's remains lay a broken sword, corroded with rust.
Garrett paused, then picked it up.
[Broken Straight Sword: Attack Power +1]
"That's it?"
He'd fought him with this thing?
Where was the Morgul-blade that every Nazgûl was supposed to wield?
Garrett took a deep breath. For some reason, he felt oddly unsatisfied. Shaking his head, he pocketed the broken sword anyway, then returned to his territory to continue expanding the underground and building new facilities.
No more enemies came that night.
---
At sunrise, rangers stationed near the crossroads rode swiftly past Osgiliath, straight to the White City's palace.
That day, Gondor was anything but calm.
"Alas..."
In the night, Turgon suddenly sat up in bed. He glanced at the canopy above, then down at the floor, unable to close his eyes again.
Moments later, he put on his robe and stepped onto the balcony, gazing at the bright stars above, sighing once more.
The news from the crossroads had already spread through every street of the White City. People everywhere were asking when the hero who had slain a Nazgûl would return.
That man Garrett, he had avenged Gondor with devastating force.
"Why did I treat him that way in the palace that day..."
He rubbed his face, heart twisted with regret.
Someone was not going to sleep tonight.