— Third-Person Point of View —
Mephisto continued lecturing the dwarves as if he were an old storyteller. The dwarves listened and watched with rigid focus. On the panel, the pale orc attacked Thror relentlessly with his mace; Thror tried to resist but eventually fell in defeat. The dwarves exhaled heavily, feeling bruised and disappointed. The pale orc was strong—his victory made sense. Most of the dwarves looked away from the screen.
One dwarf suddenly stood up in fury.
"WHAT IS THAT PALE BASTARD DOING!"
All the dwarves flinched and snapped their attention back to the panel—blood boiling in their veins. The pale orc was cutting the head off Thror's lifeless body with a knife.
Even though Witcher dwarves did not believe in kings, and although they did not know the dwarf on the panel personally, seeing a dwarf—someone of their own race—being dishonored like that enraged them. Thror had made mistakes, yes, but he had fought for his people.
Zoltan slammed his hand on the table and began cursing.
"THAT FILTHY BASTARD IS DOING IT TO BREAK THE DWARVEN ARMY'S SPIRIT!"
Kargan only nodded. He remained silent. He had been abandoned in his own tragedy and felt deeply disappointed in his own kind—but he was not unreasonable.
The dwarves of Arda were proud; they rarely abandoned one of their own. Their kings—especially the line of Durin—always did whatever they could for their people. Did they have ambitions? Yes. Did they have flaws? Certainly. But did they fight for their kin? For the vast majority of them—yes.
Thror had made mistakes, and his mind had faltered toward the end, but he still fought on the front lines where danger was greatest. He had taken the hardest decisions. He could have avoided all of it—but he chose to fight, to reclaim the pride of the dwarves, and died for that cause.
And seeing him treated like this now filled Kargan with both sorrow and anger.
Ciri watched the screen silently. The battle was already brutal. Even if the dwarves seemed to be holding their ground, the orcs outnumbered them greatly; numerical advantage was on the orcs' side. The dwarves had been fighting for a long time—they were growing exhausted. Now their king had died, and his head was severed before their very eyes. Unless the prince took command, defeat for the dwarves was inevitable.
Ciri had been raised by her grandmother, the Lioness of Cintra, Queen Calanthe Fiona Riannon. Her childhood had been shaped by military strategy and understanding enemy psychology. While other children played with dolls, she learned battlefield tactics.
Mephisto continued.
"When Thorin saw his grandfather dead—humiliated like that—he wanted to kill the pale orc, Azog, with his own hands. But his father stopped him. He didn't want to lose another family member in this war—especially not his son."
The panel shifted, showing scene after scene. The young dwarven prince charged toward Azog with his men. The Witcher dwarves grew excited, but Mephisto crushed their momentum with his overly dramatic tone.
"This was the last time Thráin was ever seen. What happened to him afterwards is unknown. Some said he ran. Others said he died. Some claimed he went mad. And then the dwarven army began to suffer a one-sided slaughter."
On the panel, the dwarves fell into despair. They fought everywhere, resisting desperately, but they had been left leaderless—their formations broken, their will shattered. The orcs massacred them mercilessly.
The dwarves watching the panel mourned for their kin. Some couldn't even bear to look. It had already happened; nothing could change it now.
Ciri sighed. She had lived through enough tragedy that she no longer reacted with strong emotion—but she truly pitied the dwarves.
And then, in this hopeless moment, Mephisto changed his tone again—this time to one of rising excitement. Even the background music shifted.
"BUT! IN THE DWARVES' DARKEST MOMENT, A YOUNG DWARVEN PRINCE MADE HIS MOVE!"
Everyone flinched and turned to the panel. Thorin stepped forward with unwavering resolve and confronted Azog. The two clashed fiercely. During the fight, Thorin's foot snagged on a corpse, causing him to stumble. Azog seized the moment, striking him with the mace—Thorin's shield flew from his hand. The next blow forced him to block with his sword, but even that weapon was knocked away. Azog kicked Thorin hard, sending him crashing to the ground.
The dwarves watching held their breath.
Ciri sighed; she had expected it. Thorin could not defeat Azog. The difference in experience was simply too great.
On the panel, Azog grinned, lifting his mace. He was certain of his victory. Many dwarves turned away, unable to watch the killing blow. Some wondered whether coming to this world had been a mistake.
Zoltan and Kargan remained silent—eyes fixed on the screen, unblinking.
Mephisto continued the drama.
"The young dwarven prince's armor was shattered. His weapons were gone. All he had left… was a piece of oak he had picked up—using it as a shield."
Azog's mace slammed downward—but no blood followed. The pale orc froze.
Thorin had blocked the blow with the thick oak branch.
Ciri and the dwarves stared in disbelief.
Azog struck again and again, but the oak did not break—though Thorin slid backward with every hit. The pale orc grew impatient and furious, attacking wildly.
"The young prince defied death with a mere oak branch—standing only a heartbeat away from the cold or burning hand of death."
On the panel, Thorin noticed his sword lying nearby. He lunged for it, snatched it up, and timed Azog's next rage-fueled strike perfectly—rolling away and swinging with all his strength. He sliced through Azog's mace-wielding hand, and Azog cried out in pain, stunned.
"AAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGG!"
Azog's agonized roar echoed across the battlefield. Ciri and the dwarves were stunned into awe.
On the battlefield, both dwarves and orcs turned toward the source of the scream. Thorin had fallen to one knee but was already surging forward to finish the shocked Azog. However, Azog staggered backward at the last second. Thorin's blade slashed down his chest from top to bottom—blood pouring from the wound.
Azog snarled with hatred, refusing to look away from Thorin even for an instant.
As Thorin prepared to strike again, the orcs intervened. Thorin fought them fiercely, but a group of uruks dragged the wounded Azog away. The pale orc retreated, clutching his bleeding chest—never taking his hateful eyes off Thorin.
Ciri and the dwarves didn't know what to feel.
Zoltan burst out laughing.
"HAHAHAHA! THAT'S A REAL DWARF!"
Kargan chuckled as well, though he never took his eyes off Thorin. Something indescribable stirred inside him.
Ciri remained quiet, lost in thought—memories from her past flickering at the edges of her mind.
On the panel, the dwarves saw Thorin standing alone. Exhaustion forgotten, a bald dwarf shouted in fury.
"Protect the king!"
The dwarves surged forward, carving through the orcs blocking their path until they reached Thorin. Thorin and the dwarves counterattacked with renewed ferocity. The entire tide of battle had shifted because of one young dwarf. Thorin roared, rallying his kin with a voice full of wrath and fire.
"FIGHT, CHILDREN OF DURIN! FOR VENGEANCE! FOR YOUR HONOR! FOR YOUR PEOPLE! FIGHT! CUT DOWN EVERY ****** WHO STANDS IN YOUR WAY!"
The orcs attempted to resist, but the dwarves had become berserkers. Whenever exhaustion crept in, whenever they stumbled or bled, they looked to Thorin—saw him fighting in the most dangerous corner of the battlefield, wounded and weaponless, yet refusing to yield—and they cursed through their teeth and continued slaughtering enemies. Thorin had reignited the dwarves' hope.
The dwarves of the Witcher world stared at the panel without blinking. They felt a whirlwind of emotions. They could not help wondering what their own world might have looked like if they had a leader like this.
Zoltan grabbed the ale in front of him and downed it in a single gulp. He didn't know what to think. Kargan leaned toward him and whispered:
"Do you think this Thorin—this so-called king—would accept other races into his kingdom?"
Zoltan turned to him in surprise. He lowered his voice.
"We're not even sure any of this is real. Why should we believe something we haven't seen with our own eyes?"
Kargan shrugged. Now that he had a chance to see his wife again, his old hopelessness had lessened.
"They have no reason to lie to us. That charlatan could kill us with a snap of his fingers. He doesn't need this many words."
Zoltan opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Ciri spoke first, quietly.
"Kargan is right, Zoltan. That clown calling himself Mephisto is incredibly powerful. With a single snap of his fingers he suppressed the power inside me—effortlessly. No one has ever done that before. I couldn't feel even a drop of my own strength."
Zoltan stared at Ciri in shock, then at Kargan. He wanted to argue, but couldn't find a single point to stand on.
Mephisto continued his narration in his dramatic tone.
"That day, the dwarves accomplished the impossible—they reversed the battle and emerged victorious. The orcs retreated. But the dwarves did not sing that day. They did not celebrate. They did not march on Moria. They had lost far too many."
On the panel, the surviving dwarves were silent. Some wept. Others bowed their heads in mourning. Their losses were immense; few remained alive to gather the bodies of their kin.
The Witcher dwarves mourned in silence as well, saying nothing.
Mephisto went on.
"After that day, Thorin became known across Middle-earth as Thorin Oakenshield. He earned the respect of all dwarves. In the Blue Mountains, he built a refuge for his people. Yet his heart always remained in Erebor. But reclaiming it from the Dragon was impossible—or so it seemed. Still, he never abandoned hope."
A series of images passed across the panel and eventually settled on Thorin's unyielding, fire-filled gaze. Mephisto raised his voice with enthusiasm.
"AND THEN, THE OPPORTUNITY CAME TO HIM!"
On the panel, a grey-robed man in a pointed hat met Thorin in an inn, giving him a key and a map. Thorin's hope surged. Mephisto smiled as he continued.
"And on this journey, he was joined by an unexpected companion."
On the panel, at Bilbo's door, a ranger in a green cloak and a tall, imposing warrior in black armor were waiting. When they entered the hobbit's home, the armored figure removed his helmet. They saw a man with black hair, sharp and hardened features—a charismatic presence. The man introduced himself.
"My name is Igris."
The panel froze. Mephisto spread his arms in excitement and laughed, startling the dwarves.
"HAHAHAHAHAH! AND THUS, THE UNEXPECTED ADVENTURE BEGAN!"
Zoltan leapt to his feet, speaking in a cold, furious tone.
"Are these stories you're showing and telling us just a joke to you, you ***** bastard?"
The other dwarves were disturbed as well. Ciri simply stared at Mephisto in silence.Mephisto replied with a calm smile.
"Yes and no."
Zoltan and the others were baffled. Zoltan was about to shout again, but Mephisto spoke first.
"I am around 350,000 years old, dwarf."
Everyone froze. Zoltan choked on his own spit. Mephisto continued.
"And in that time, I have witnessed destructions, collapses, and despair beyond anything your minds could ever grasp. After so many years, one becomes numb… Are the things these dwarves suffered terrible? Yes. What you suffered? Yes. But compared to what I have seen, these pains are only appetizers. Snacks."
The atmosphere dropped to freezing.Mephisto was smiling—but beneath that smile was an ancient, devastating sorrow. For a brief moment, the dwarves were speechless. Zoltan wanted to speak, but no words came.
After several seconds of heavy silence, Mephisto clapped his hands, scattering the gloom like dust.
"Yes, now for the next step."
Mephisto snapped his fingers, and a bottle appeared in front of everyone.
"These will strengthen your physique and your lineage, bringing you up to the level of Arda's dwarves. You are shorter than they are, and your muscles are much weaker."
The dwarves eyed the potion with suspicion, but Kargan drank without hesitation. While everyone stared in shock, Kargan smacked his lips and spoke.
"Sweet…"
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, seconds later, Kargan's body swelled, his muscles bulged, and in an instant he became a slightly taller dwarf—just like the ones in the panel. But there was more. Zoltan gasped.
"Kargan! You got younger!"
The dwarves stared at Kargan, then at the bottle in their hands. Kargan himself blinked in surprise and looked down at his own hands. He felt stronger than usual; his body felt more solid. Mephisto snapped his fingers and a full-length mirror appeared beside him. Kargan leaned in, studying himself. His beard was slightly shorter, but still thick; not a single wrinkle remained on his skin. His slightly sunken, weakened body was now brimming with energy and strength, his muscles swollen as if they might burst.
Kargan suddenly noticed something and looked at his leg. His old injury, which used to ache every day, no longer hurt. He moved it lightly—it worked normally. He gave a small hop and felt no pain. He chuckled with genuine joy; even the old scars on his body were gone.
"Looks like Falka is going to meet the real handsome version of me."
When he had met Falka, he'd already been in the late stages of middle age, his hair beginning to gray. Now he looked younger and far stronger. Zoltan stared at the changes in disbelief. Part of him was happy for his friend, but another part wondered what exactly was inside that bottle.
Ciri examined Kargan carefully. She had seen a thousand strange things in her life; this was nothing new. But precisely because of that experience, she knew potions and enchantments like these almost always came with a price. Yet Kargan looked perfectly fine. That fact made Ciri think—and nudge Mephisto's level of threat a few degrees higher in her mind.
At that moment, another dwarf cursed and downed his bottle.
"*******!"
Nothing happened at first. Then, just like Kargan, he grew slightly taller, younger, and stronger. He stared at himself, shocked, feeling no ill effects. Seeing this, the other dwarves gained courage and began drinking their potions as well. One after another, the transformation took effect.
All forty-four dwarves had emptied their bottles. Only Zoltan remained. He frowned down at the bottle in his hand while Mephisto impatiently checked his watch.
"Come on, we're waiting for you! We've got a lot to do!"
Zoltan looked at Mephisto for a brief moment, then focused on the bottle. All the others had drunk theirs and nothing bad had happened—but still, he couldn't quite trust it.
Mephisto spoke in a mocking tone.
"What's wrong? Scared?"
Zoltan's eyebrows furrowed even further as he glared at him. Seeing his friend's expression, Kargan sighed.
"Zoltan, go back. You don't have to come with me. You've got a life and friends there. I have a goal. This is my adventure."
Zoltan looked at Kargan for a heartbeat. He heard the words, but his mind was already made up. He cursed under his breath and opened the bottle. Ciri watched him with a hint of concern.
"Are you sure?"
Mephisto rolled his eyes.
"Hello? I actually have better things to do than trick you."
Then something seemed to occur to him, and he suddenly spoke with great seriousness.
"But still, never trust anyone who calls himself 'Mephisto.' They're truly devils and masters of deception. They use sweet words to get into your head and manipulate you!"
The dwarves stared blankly at this Mephisto. Feeling their stares, Mephisto looked back at them, clearly confused, tilting his head as he asked with genuine curiosity,
"Did I say something wrong?"
Zoltan didn't respond. He simply drank the bottle in one gulp. His body went through the same transformation. Drawing a deep breath, he tested his strength—powerful, energetic, resilient. He looked into the mirror and cursed.
"********! I'm still handsome."
Ciri lowered her head in embarrassment and finally asked,
"How do you feel?"
Zoltan paused before answering.
"… I feel good. Actually… I feel really good."
Ciri let out a relieved sigh. Mephisto popped confetti into the air and cheered.
"FINALLY! NOW, CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL OF YOU FOR BEING PROMOTED TO DWARFHOOD OF MIDDLE-EARTH!"
Mephisto snapped his fingers, and armor identical to the ones worn by the dwarves in the panel materialized on the dwarves standing before him. They touched the new armor in stunned silence, running their fingers over the craftsmanship, evaluating the work. It was authentic dwarven equipment. The weapons were the same—each piece high-quality, solid, and expertly forged.
Mephisto spoke again, his voice now echoing through a megaphone.
"ATTENTION ALL DWARVES! I REPEAT! ATTENTION ALL DWARVES!"
When the dwarves and Ciri turned to look at him, their jaws dropped. Mephisto was dressed entirely differently—he had somehow become a flight attendant. He continued speaking with excited theatricality.
"THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING MEPHISTO INTERDIMENSIONAL TRANSPORTATION, TRAVEL, AND TOURISM! PLEASE FASTEN YOUR NON-EXISTENT SEATBELTS, KEEP YOUR ARMS CLOSE TO YOUR BODY, AND TRY NOT TO FALL HEADFIRST! COUNTDOWN FROM THREE COMMENCING! PREPAAAAARE FOR DESCEEEEEEENT!"
He raised three fingers, then folded one down.
"Three!"
The dwarves and Ciri were bewildered. Zoltan asked,
"Descent? What are you talking about?"
"Two!"
The dwarves tensed. Kargan muttered,
"Zoltan… I have a bad feeling about this…"
"One! HAVE A NICE TRIP! HAHAHAHAHA!"
With a snap of Mephisto's fingers, portals opened beneath the dwarves' feet. Zoltan and Kargan stared blankly into the hole below them, then looked at each other and cursed in perfect unison.
"********!" ×2
And just like that, all the dwarves began to fall.
"WHAAAAAAAT THE—!"
"!!!!!???????"
"**********!"
"AHHHHHHHH!"
Zoltan's voice echoed from inside the dimensional rift as he plummeted.
"DAMN YOU, MEPHISTOOOOOO!"
Ciri, shocked, moved instantly to leap in after him, but Mephisto snapped his fingers again and a barrier appeared, stopping her mid-dash. Mephisto spoke calmly.
"Do not worry, they're safe. Igris asked something of us. They need to enter an illusion."
Ciri frowned, ready to argue, but Mephisto lifted a hand to silence her and stepped toward the dimensional gate, calling out in a teasing, singsong voice:
"PLEEEEASE DON'T FORGET TO GIVE OUR COMPANY FIVE STARS~"
With that, the gateways closed. Mephisto turned back to Ciri.
"Well, little bunny? What was it you wanted to say?"
Ciri remained silent for a moment.
"You've lost your mind."
Mephisto accepted this proudly.
"Absolutely! Now then, the real fun is about to begin!"
He snapped his fingers again and a white tuxedo materialized on him. One hand slipped behind his back as he extended the other toward Ciri.
"My lovely white rabbit. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to watch the show?"
Ciri studied him carefully.
"Where did you send them? And what did that man named Igris ask of you?"
Mephisto chuckled.
"He wanted them to experience, firsthand, the battle where the Oak Shield was born. Right now, the dwarves are fighting inside an illusion—an exceeedingly realistic illusion."
Ciri's brows furrowed.
"Why would he want that?"
Mephisto shrugged.
"He wants to throw them right at Thorin's feet. And he wants these dwarves to spend some time with real dwarves—to learn what they're actually like."
Ciri raised an eyebrow, speaking with dry sarcasm.
"So in his opinion, these dwarves aren't real dwarves?"
Mephisto answered with absolute seriousness.
"Correct."
Ciri fell silent for a moment. Mephisto, meanwhile, was growing impatient.
"HURRY UP, GIRL! THE BATTLE IS ABOUT TO START! I WANT TO WATCH IT! AND MY ARM AND BACK ARE CRAMPING!"
Ciri flinched, realizing Mephisto was still extending that absurdly theatrical invitation. With a weary sigh, she spoke.
"You're not actually giving me a choice, are you?"
Mephisto flashed a mischievous grin.
"No! I am giving you a choice. You can come with me and watch the battle, or you can go to a private viewing chamber and watch Igris's life. Entirely your decision."
Ciri blinked at him, stunned.
"Does that man even know you're showing his life to other people?"
Mephisto shrugged casually.
"Yes, and he doesn't care. He doesn't have many 'private' moments anyway. Only nudity is forbidden, and we are not allowed to show the personal moments involving certain friends or their secrets. Aside from that, we mostly present his daily life. Now, if you understand—"
Mephisto exploded.
"MAKE A DECISION ALREADY, GIRL! I'M GOING TO MISS THE BATTLE!"
Ciri paused and thought. She did not fully trust this place, but the fact that a being as powerful as Mephisto called someone else "boss" made it clear this was no ordinary realm. If they wanted to harm her or the dwarves, it would be child's play for Mephisto and his crew. She weighed her options carefully.
"I want to see Zoltan first. After that, I want to take a look at this man called Igris's life."
In a flash, Mephisto seized her hand. Ciri jolted in surprise as Mephisto babbled excitedly and opened a portal beneath their feet.
"FINALLY! THERE'S A FIGHT WE NEED TO CATCH! HAHAHAHA!"
He sprinted forward and dove into the dimensional gate, yanking Ciri along with him. Ciri protested in shock.
"I can walk by myself!"
Suspended mid-air, Mephisto twisted around to grin at her.
"BUT THAT WOULDN'T BE ANY FUN! HAHAHAHAHA!"
They plummeted into the portal, which closed behind them in a puff of swirling smoke.
And just like that, Ciri's new adventure began…
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