—Third-Person POV—
—Dwarves' Perspective—
"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"
The dwarves were plummeting through the dimensional channel at full speed, with Kargan and Zoltan falling close together. While Zoltan was swearing like a madman, Kargan had one hand clutched tightly over his stomach.
"Zoltan... my stomach feels weird... I think I'm going to puke!"
"****! TURN TO THE OTHER SIDE AND GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU IDIOT! DON'T YOU DARE THROW UP ON ME! WHERE WAS I? AH! ******!"
Because of Mephisto's mischief, the dwarves had been falling endlessly for twelve whole minutes. At last, they spotted the ground below. They fell silent for a brief moment—only to start screaming again, some of them even clinging to each other in panic.
"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"
Just before crashing into the earth, they slowed down and were gently lowered to the ground. But some still kept screaming.
Once they realized they were safe, they straightened themselves, brushed off the dust, and took in their surroundings. They were in a mountainous region. One dwarf asked:
"Where are we?"
Zoltan and Kargan scanned the area carefully, tightening their grip on their newly acquired axes. Zoltan spoke calmly:
"This place feels familiar."
Kargan nodded in agreement. At that moment, rams appeared beside them—massive, muscular, armored, and saddled. The dwarves froze in shock.
"Are we supposed to ride these?"
"Probably."
"But I can ride a horse… I've never ridden one of these things!"
Zoltan and Kargan exchanged a frown. Then Kargan stepped forward and mounted one of the rams. He looked surprisingly natural—like he'd been trained for this.
He blinked, startled, and looked at Zoltan. Zoltan stared back just as baffled.
"Kargan… since when can you ride rams?"
Kargan squinted.
"I'm asking myself the same thing… Try it."
"What do you mean?"
"Just try it. You'll understand."
Zoltan nodded hesitantly, picked a ram, and climbed onto it. The movement was smooth and natural—effortless. The realization hit him hard: there were things in his mind he didn't remember learning. He had never ridden a ram before, yet now he felt trained.
"So that's what you meant…"
The other dwarves watched the pair with curiosity. One asked:
"What are you talking about?"
Zoltan answered, pointing at the ram:
"Try riding one. You'll see."
The dwarves exchanged a look. A few approached the rams and mounted them. Instantly, they moved as if they'd been trained for years.
"...Wait. Is riding a ram supposed to be this easy?"
"I've never touched a ram in my life! How does this feel so natural!?"
One dwarf controlled the ram with one hand while holding his axe in the other.
"It's not just riding—fighting while riding feels natural too."
The remaining dwarves stared in disbelief before approaching the rams themselves. They all experienced the same thing. Some even maneuvered their rams at high speeds, leaping across rocks and ledges without losing balance for even a second.
"What's happening?"
"Since when have I been this good at mounted combat?"
"Could it be… that riding rams is a natural talent for dwarves?"
Zoltan sighed.
"No. That Mephisto bastard did something to us."
Kargan nodded.
"Yeah. I can feel knowledge in my mind that doesn't belong to me. Think carefully."
The dwarves paused, concentrating. One by one, their eyes widened.
"Since when do I know the Dwarvish tongue of Middle-earth and the Common Speech?"
"So this is how Durin's line forged their steel! Fascinating!"
"Erebor's military axe style? This is incredible. It fills in my weaknesses perfectly."
"I have the sword styles of Khazad-dûm and Erebor…"
"Erebor's healing knowledge isn't half bad either."
Zoltan checked his own mind. He'd gained knowledge about dwarven history, traditions, forging, axe and sword styles—he even learned dwarven brewing techniques. And that was just the surface.
"What a deep-rooted people… We're like them, yet completely different. In this world, no one could ever look down on the dwarves—because the dwarves simply wouldn't allow it."
Zoltan delved further and found an entirely separate set of information, equal to what he'd learned adventuring with Geralt and studying monsters. At first, he shrugged it off—Mephisto always exaggerated. But as he dug deeper, he discovered far more terrifying creatures.
'Balrog? So that fire monster's name was a Balrog… What kind of abomination is that!? Hydra—two kinds of them!? One serpent-like, one dragon-like!? Imoogi? What kind of serpent is THAT!? Basilisks!? Their gaze can turn people to stone!? Or kill them outright!? WHAT KIND OF SNAKE IS THAT!? Leviathan!? The king of the seas!? HOW BIG CAN A CREATURE EVEN BE!? Phoenixes!? Malevolent dragons!? Giant demonic bats!? Manticores!? Chimeras!?'
Zoltan grew pale as he skimmed through the monstrous catalog.
'A kingdom full of vampires!? Walking dead!? Dark Elves!? Orcs!? Eastern Barbarians!? Ents!? Shape-shifters!? Black Circle Sorcerers!?'
The headache hit him like a hammer. Kargan had gone through similar knowledge—though not as detailed, it was still enough to tense him up. Zoltan regretted bringing Ciri along even more. This world was far more dangerous than he'd imagined.
'The War of Light and Darkness… No wonder the dwarves aren't underestimated here. They're a respected race. The side of Light barely has any forces, and the ones they have are few. Strong alliances are essential. And dwarves always fought at the frontline…'
Zoltan sighed again and looked around.
"Kargan, where are we? It looks familiar, but somehow foreign at the same time."
"I'm not sure, Zoltan…"
The dwarves gathered and started discussing what they should do—until the deep sound of a horn froze them.
Voooooommmm.
"What was that?"
"It sounded like a horn."
The pebbles on the ground began to tremble, and heavy rumbling sounds echoed from the distance. At that moment, a booming voice rang out.
"HAHAHAHA! WE ARRIVED JUST IN TIME!"
The dwarves flinched and looked around in alarm.
"That's that annoying bastard's voice!"
"Where is he? I can't see him!"
Zoltan and Kargan lifted their heads, and the other dwarves followed their gaze. Mephisto was sitting excitedly on a floating armchair. He wore 3D glasses, and in front of him on a little table were various snacks and drinks. Draped over the back of the chair was a banner that read: "❤MY HEART IS WITH YOU, DWARVES!❤" Meanwhile, Ciri was covering her face with her hand in embarrassment.
Seeing Ciri made Zoltan exhale in relief before he fixed his glare on Mephisto.
"What the hell is happening here, you ****** bastard!"
Mephisto took an energetic sip from his drink, then began speaking with explosive enthusiasm.
"MY DEAR DWARVES! PREPARE YOURSELVES! YOU ARE ABOUT TO JOIN THE MORIA CAMPAIGN! YOUR DUTY: FIGHT IN THE BATTLE! IF EVEN ONE OF YOU SURVIVES, THE DWARVEN ARMOR AND WEAPONS YOU'RE WEARING WILL BE YOUR REWARD! THEY'LL BE EXTREMELY USEFUL IN THE EREBOR CAMPAIGN! HAHAHAHA! NOW, THE ARMY IS APPROACHING—GET READY! AND REMEMBER, EVEN IF THIS IS AN ILLUSION, IT IS EXTREMELY REALISTIC. HAHAHA!"
The dwarves exchanged bewildered looks. Ciri turned to Zoltan.
"Be careful."
Zoltan chuckled.
"Don't worry. I've been to more battles than the number of years you've lived."
Zoltan glanced at Kargan. Kargan nodded. The rumbling sounds grew louder, and then atop the hill behind them, several Dwarven Riders appeared. Zoltan realized the riders had already noticed him and his group.
The ram-riders rushed down the slope toward them and stopped right in front of Zoltan's group. The rams beneath them snorted heavy streams of hot breath. The leader of the seven arriving dwarves spoke.
"Greetings, cousins! My name is Zordo Lightning-Hoof! Have you also come to join the campaign?"
Zoltan and his group exchanged glances. Several dwarves looked to Zoltan—they had done a few missions with him before and trusted his leadership the most. Zoltan sighed, urged his ram forward, and spoke.
"My name is Zoltan Chivay. A pleasure to meet you, Zordo. We heard the news from a distant town and came. We wish to join King Thror's army for the Khazad-dûm campaign."
Zordo laughed joyously and greeted them with tremendous excitement. As he spoke, he removed his helmet. His short brown hair and thick beard came into view, his chestnut-colored eyes sharp and steady. His face had striking features and several battle scars.
"HAHAHAHA! Welcome! We always welcome any support we can get!"
Zordo extended his hand. Zoltan grasped it firmly. Zordo spoke again.
"Follow me, Zoltan. I'll take you to the King. The army is behind us—we are scouting ahead to ensure the area is safe."
Zoltan nodded. Truthfully, the word "our army" made his heart beat a little faster—and he wasn't the only one. The other dwarves felt a similar thrill. Mephisto had shown them a few scenes, sure… but those were just scenes. Nothing compared to this reality.
Zoltan, Kargan, and the forty-three dwarves began following Zordo. Zordo turned to his men and issued an order.
"Ulfo! Take command of the others and continue scouting."
A hulking dwarf, clad from head to toe in heavy armor with his face hidden behind a helmet, grunted and nodded.
Zoltan and his group followed Zordo slowly. Zoltan asked curiously:
"Why do they call you Lightning-Hoof?"
Zordo chuckled and gently stroked the neck of his ram.
"Because of this friend here. His name is Lightning, and he's one of the fastest and most agile rams in all of Middle-earth—at least, I've never seen a faster one. I owe my title to him."
Then he looked at Zoltan.
"So why do they call you Chivay, cousin?"
Zoltan paused for a moment. The dwarf constantly calling them "cousin" felt strange to him. He started to think dwarves here were very warm toward each other—but he didn't mind it. He smiled.
"It doesn't have a particular meaning. It's a family name."
Zordo looked surprised.
"Dwarves using a family name? Usually hobbits and some human cultures use surnames. This is my first time seeing a dwarf with one."
Zoltan blinked.
"Why don't dwarves use family names?"
Zordo spoke with pride.
"Because a surname makes a man forget his past! When we introduce ourselves, we use our father's or grandfather's name. That way, we honor our ancestors and never forget who we are."
Zoltan fell into deep thought. He had never considered it from that perspective before—and saw the truth in it. But before he could think further, he heard the awestruck murmurs of the dwarves around him. Even Kargan was impressed. He mumbled softly:
"By Falka's silky hair…"
Zoltan looked ahead in curiosity. They had reached the hilltop—and the dwarf army stretched before them. Even Zoltan was stunned. He muttered under his breath:
"By a thousand dwarven beards…"
Thousands of dwarves in heavy armor marched in disciplined, systematic ranks. On both the right and left flanks were dwarven cavalry—most mounted on rams, though a few rode horses. In the center was the main infantry force, the core of the army.
In the front ranks marched the shield-and-spear dwarves, with throwing axes at their belts and a sword each. Behind them, the second line consisted of two battalions—one of swordsmen and one of axemen. Some wielded massive greatswords or great-axes, while others used standard-sized weapons with shields. At the very rear marched the dwarven crossbowmen, carrying heavy, dwarf-forged crossbows.
As they advanced, the ground trembled under their marching feet. The clinking of their armor created a low, steady metallic hum across the valley. In their stance, in their stride, in their eyes—there was an unbreakable determination.
Zoltan whispered excitedly:
"How many dwarven warriors are here?"
Zordo answered proudly:
"Approximately six thousand."
Zoltan and his group felt their breath hitch. Such a thing was impossible in their own world. Yes, they could fight—but gathering an army like this? Never. Dwarves cherished their lives too much, and human kingdoms would never allow such a force to assemble.Now, they were beginning to understand why Igris had never considered them "true dwarves." And this was only the beginning. One day, when they came to Arda and began living here, they would feel profound gratitude toward Igris.
Zordo smiled.
"Come! I'll take you to the King. He will assign you to your positions."
Zoltan and his group nodded and followed Zordo.
At the very front of the army, three figures advanced in a triangular formation. Leading them was Thror, with his heirs behind him—Thrain on his left, and his grandson Thorin on his right.
Thror was a proud yet wise king. He valued his people and his honor deeply. But a curse had slowly driven him mad—a sickness people later called "dragon sickness," though in truth, it was a curse woven by Sauron's sorcerers. It slowly turned its victim selfish and mad. A simple curse on the surface—but for a king, deadly. Not deadly to his body, but to his kingdom. For a selfish, power-addicted ruler becomes isolated, and through his decisions, his people suffer the same fate.
Because of this curse, Thror had caused his people to lose their home. Their mountain had been taken by a dragon descended from the servants of Morgoth. Everything unfolded exactly as Sauron had planned.
Though Thror eventually realized his mistake, it was already too late. Leaving the mountain reduced the curse's influence, but after being under it for so long, he had never fully healed. Wanting to restore his lost pride and give his people a home again, Thror turned his eyes toward Khazad-dûm—their former capital.
But as the people of Igris often said, "Every evil carries a seed of good," and by leaving the mountain—and with the Arkenstone remaining behind—Thrain and Thorin were spared from the curse. It was a hereditary curse passed to the closest blood relative after the victim's death. That's why, in the original tale, neither Thrain nor Thorin suffered its effects until Thror died. Smaug himself once explained the stone's effect.
Thror was an old dwarf. Gray streaks ran through his hair and beard. His skin was wrinkled, his features aged. His eyes—blue, calm, deep—held a faint glimmer of obsession. Gold rings adorned his fingers, golden jewels braided into his beard. His obsession with gold was not as strong as before, but it still lingered. In his left hand, he carried a gold-colored shield, and at his left hip hung the gold-hilted, jewel-inlaid sword he wielded with his dominant hand.
Thror frowned as he noticed the dwarf riders approaching. Thrain and Thorin also turned their attention toward them. Thrain spoke:
"That is Zordo Lightning-Hoof from the scouting party. Has something happened?"
Thorin narrowed his eyes at the figures beside him.
"I've never seen the dwarves accompanying him."
Thorin's memory was exceptionally sharp. Once he saw a face, he almost never forgot it—especially not among those who joined a campaign and willingly faced death. Thorin believed this campaign was a mistake… but with his father and grandfather present, it wasn't his place to speak out. There was still time before he would inherit the throne—or so he thought.
Zordo brought Zoltan and his group before King Thror and spoke.
"My King, these dwarf riders wish to join our campaign. I brought them so that you may assign them to appropriate positions."
Thorin and Thrain smiled. Thrain spoke gently:
"Welcome. Our doors are always open to good warriors. It gladdens me to see that there are still dwarves willing to join our cause."
Thorin nodded, showing that he agreed with his father. Seeing that there were still those who wished to support the people of Erebor warmed him inside, yet deep down he didn't want them to join this expedition, because this time things were far too dangerous. They would not only be fighting Orcs, but also a Balrog dwelling within Moria.
Thorin looked at his father. Thain felt his son's gaze on him, turned to meet it, and with a quiet sigh understood at least a portion of the thoughts running through his son's mind. His son kept telling him at every opportunity that this expedition needed to be stopped—but Thain could not convince his own father. And truthfully, he didn't want to overstep his father's authority.
Thror examined the approaching warriors carefully. Inwardly, he was pleased—forty-five dwarven cavalry would be extremely valuable in battle. And the fact that there were still dwarves who wished to follow him made him genuinely happy, though he could not reveal this openly. As a king, he had to maintain a stern, dignified presence. He looked at Zoltan and spoke.
"Where do you come from? To which of the Seven Fathers are you bound?"
Zoltan paused for a moment, letting several thoughts take shape in his mind.
"We are dwarves bound to Durin. After the fall of Moria, our ancestors settled in a distant valley. Some became farmers, others blacksmiths, and many of us worked as mercenaries. All of us here are mercenaries—we have battle experience. But we grew tired of life in the valleys, and when we heard of the Khazad-dûm expedition, we wanted to come and join you, hoping we might one day live again in the glorious ancient dwarven capital."
The dwarves behind Zoltan voiced their agreement. Thror nodded with satisfaction, then turned to his grandson Thorin.
"Thorin, assign them their posts. I need to speak with your father."
Thorin nodded, then looked toward Zoltan.
"Follow me. Zordo, you return to your post as well. Your work is crucial for the army."
Zordo nodded, steered his ram around, and departed to rejoin his team. Zoltan and his group began following Thorin. Once they walked far enough to make sure his grandfather and father could no longer hear them, Thorin finally spoke.
"You shouldn't have come."
Zoltan stared at him, bewildered.
"What do you mean?"
Thorin sighed.
"Don't misunderstand—I am grateful you came. But the chances of success in this expedition are very low. Moria does not only hold Orcs. A far more ancient creature roams those halls, and that creature is stronger than a young dragon."
He spoke the last part with a tone filled with resentment. Zoltan and Kargan exchanged glances. They understood that the young dwarven prince was against this expedition, though as he was not yet the heir, his influence was limited. They had seen similar situations in their own world—but usually in reverse. Typically, kings cared about profit while their sons or grandsons sought war to prove themselves and expand their realm. Thorin, however, was the opposite—he believed this expedition was a mistake, yet he could not stop it.
Zoltan chuckled softly.
"Don't worry, Thorin. We're aware of the danger—at least partially—and we came knowing that."
The other dwarves nodded. To them, this was almost like a dream; even if they died, they wouldn't truly die. If this were the real world, none of them would ever join such a doomed expedition. After all, who willingly walks into a hopeless mission? Even Zoltan would have had to think four times before agreeing—unless there was a real reason. But now? What did it matter? After all, this was an illusion.
Thorin studied the dwarves he had just met. He sighed, thinking they were brave warriors indeed.
"I hope all of you survive. Come—I'll introduce you to Balin. He's one of my teachers and commander of the cavalry. Do not disrespect him, or you'll get to meet his brother Dwalin. And believe me, even I wouldn't want to get on his bad side."
Zoltan nodded in understanding. The group began heading toward the right flank. Meanwhile, far above them, Mephisto and Ciri sat comfortably on a couch, watching Zoltan and his group…
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