Crash.
The portal rippled with violet particles, and Garrett's figure vanished from Middle-earth, arriving in the sweltering heat of the Nether.
Another Nether highway project...
"This is going to be a real grind."
To build a Nether highway connecting either one of Gondor, Dale, or Wayfort, even if he focused on nothing else, would take at least a month just to begin.
It was far, exhausting, but worth every block placed.
Wayfort, Dale, Gondor... Once the Nether highways between these three territories were all completed, he would achieve true tactical mobility.
If he established a few more territories between them and opened additional Nether portals, then no matter where in the western or northern regions of Middle-earth, he could reach any location within a single day.
Today he could be drinking with the dwarves at Erebor, tomorrow shopping in Gondor's markets, browsing in the morning, returning to his stronghold for lunch in the afternoon, and after supper, if restless in the middle of the night, he could still journey to Orthanc and ask Saruman if he was getting enough sleep.
The speed was absurd just to imagine, faster than any horse or eagle.
After sketching out a rough plan for the Nether highway routes, Garrett rubbed his temples, recorded the coordinates of this Nether portal, and didn't linger long in the hellish realm.
He didn't have many materials with him right now; he needed to return to his stronghold first before continuing with the next phase.
Through the Nether portal, he once again returned to Gondor's underground fortress.
After several days of construction, the space here had already become quite extensive. All kinds of facilities were complete, and it was even equipped with a full agricultural system, theoretically capable of serving as a long-term underground settlement, not inferior to dwarven craftsmanship.
"For now, this will do."
There was much that could be accomplished at this junction, but nothing urgent at the moment.
He placed some decorative weapon racks and armor stands, then stocked them with arms and armor that could actually be used in battle. Climbing through the passage to the surface, he once again felt the warmth of sunlight.
Today, the crossroads remained peaceful.
Just as that Uruk chieftain had promised, ever since their encounter, neither the orcs nor the wargs under his command had approached again. Any unruly orcs were persuaded to retreat by the Uruk chieftain's fists and cleavers.
Because of Garrett's presence, they were forced to scatter into the wilderness on both sides, away from Gondor's capital.
For a time, the direct confrontation between Gondor and Mordor even seemed to show signs of cooling...
At least, until Sauron personally issued clear orders, this superficial peace would continue.
---
Minas Morgul.
Inside the dark tower, the Witch-king sat motionless upon his throne, contemplating the reports brought back by his spies, showing no reaction for a long while.
Something was amiss.
The two who had fought at the crossroads likely had not fought with their full strength.
Back before that warrior had been transformed into a Nazgûl, his power had been far more terrifying than what he had just displayed, he had nearly posed a threat to even the Dark Lord himself.
But unfortunately...
After becoming a Nazgûl, everyone, even one's very soul, inevitably weakened and decayed, until it stabilized only upon becoming a true wraith.
From Man to Nazgûl came new abilities: the power to traverse shadows, immortality through endless resurrection, a natural affinity for dark sorcery, and an aura of terror.
Overall strength had indeed increased significantly, yet the strength of the soul had diminished.
Perhaps still vastly greater than that of ordinary Men and even most human kings, but certainly not as great as at the peak of his former life.
"He failed."
Just as the Witch-king sat motionless in contemplation, another Nazgûl materialized from the shadows.
This Nazgûl's spectral form was more imposing and broad-shouldered than the others, clearly once a powerful warrior in life.
"As expected," the Witch-king replied curtly.
"Do you still intend to face him yourself?"
"There is no point." The Witch-king shook his head.
"Will you truly accept this?" the towering Nazgûl pressed.
"Then will you go?" the Witch-king countered.
The great hall fell silent once more.
"We could strike together, all nine of us. He could not withstand such an assault."
"Perhaps."
All nine attacking at once, and right outside Mordor's gates—this time with no wizard's intervention, no interference from the Elves. If they fought cautiously, there might truly be a chance...
"But our Master has given no such command."
It would not be wise.
After pondering with his corrupted mind, the Witch-king chose restraint.
To act rashly would likely trigger a chain reaction, and in the end it would be Mordor and its allies who suffered most.
The Nazgûl before him fell silent, offering no response.
After a moment, he retreated into the shadows, vanishing into the darkness.
Silence once again enveloped the tower.
From beneath his fearsome helm, the Witch-king's crimson eyes glowed faintly.
The last one who had treated him like that had been the Elf-lord of Rivendell, Glorfindel, returned from Valinor.
In the year 1975 of the Third Age, the Battle of Fornost had erupted. The Witch-king led the armies of Angmar to invade the northern kingdom of Arnor.
In that war, the Witch-king himself had ridden out to challenge Eärnur, frightening away his horse and leaving him in disgrace. That defeat became a stain upon Eärnur's name, and later drove him to accept the Witch-king's challenge and ride alone to Minas Morgul, never to return.
Later generations, when speaking of the incident, remembered only that the Witch-king had scared away Eärnur's mount and shamed him, but always forgot another crucial fact.
Glorfindel had been there. He had marched with the army of Rivendell to aid Arnor.
And at his arrival, before a single blow was struck, simply by riding onto the field, he had sent the Witch-king fleeing into the shadows, never to appear again for the rest of the battle.
It was not that he would not fight; he simply could not.
This was Glorfindel, the First Age Elf-lord of Balrog-slaying renown, returned from Valinor.
Now dwelling in Rivendell under Elrond's command, his might was no less than any soul in Middle-earth.
To put it plainly, he was something like Middle-earth's greatest warrior.
In fact, if he had been stationed at the crossroads, his presence alone might have accomplished nearly the same as Garrett.
If it had been Glorfindel who came... The Witch-king allowed himself to imagine the thought, then hurriedly forced it away.
Why dwell on such grim possibilities?
That one Man here was trouble enough. If the two of them joined forces, would that not mean a full-scale assault on Mordor itself?
Fortunately, the Elf never left Rivendell without provocation, living as if he would remain there until the world's end.
Not like that so-called lord of the Free Settlements, who abandoned domains as if they were nothing, wandering about aimlessly, appearing everywhere.
And yet, when one truly needed to find him, he could never be located, seen everywhere, yet found nowhere.
The Witch-king was not alone in this impression. The Rangers at the crossroads felt much the same.
"My lord!"
As Garrett climbed to the surface, two Rangers suddenly emerged from the grass, startling him so badly he nearly drew his sword.
"We have followed your trail for many days, but could never locate you."
The moment they met, the two Rangers were unusually animated.
"Ah, yes... Gondor's Rangers. What is it you want?" Garrett took a deep breath to steady himself.
These fellows were more unnerving than Nazgûl or Balrogs when they appeared unexpectedly.
"Would you grant us your signature...?"
One Ranger tugged at his cloak and stepped forward, only to have the older one clamp a hand over his mouth, silencing him firmly.
"My lord, the Steward requests your presence in Gondor."