Then the battle began, and neither of them held back from the first clash.
Azog closed the distance with heavy, deliberate steps, his sword swinging with enough force to crush through armor.
Thorin met him head-on, raising Goblin-cleaver just in time. Steel struck iron with a harsh crack, the impact forcing Thorin's boots to drag across the broken stone as he absorbed it.
Azog didn't give him space. He followed with another strike, then another, each blow aimed to break through rather than probe. His style was direct and brutal, relying on pressure and strength to overwhelm.
Thorin adapted instead of retreating. He shifted his footing, letting the worst of the force slide past while keeping his balance, then answered with a clean cut across Azog's side. It wasn't deep, but it landed.
Azog pushed in without hesitation, catching Thorin mid-motion and slamming him hard against the ground.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs, but Thorin drove his knee forward, forcing separation before twisting free and bringing his blade back up.
The exchange tightened after that.
Azog continued to press, but Thorin stopped meeting him with equal force. His movements became more controlled, each step placed carefully, each strike aimed to interrupt rather than overpower.
Azog's arm came low, then rose in a brutal arc. Thorin slipped under the first and caught the second on his blade, sparks breaking from the impact. The force pushed him back, but not enough to break his stance.
From a distance, Luke watched without moving, his gaze steady on the fight.
"Yeah," he muttered, watching closely. "Now it's getting interesting."
Back on the field, Thorin stepped forward, breaking Azog's rhythm. A strike to the shoulder forced Azog to turn, a second cut across the chest shifted his balance for a brief moment.
It wasn't enough to end it.
But it was enough to understand.
Azog wasn't slowing, and trading blows would only wear Thorin down first. He felt it clearly as the fight dragged on, the difference in endurance starting to show.
So he changed his approach.
He didn't rush, didn't force an opening. He waited.
Azog advanced again, sensing the shift, his attack coming faster and with full commitment. He feinted high, then drove forward, his arm-blade aimed straight for Thorin's chest.
Thorin didn't avoid it.
He stepped into it.
The blade drove through his armor and into his chest, the force stopping him in place as blood spread instantly across the steel. The pain hit hard, but he didn't falter.
Azog expected him to fall.
Instead, Thorin's hand locked onto his arm, holding it in place, not allowing him to pull back. The distance between them closed completely, Thorin's breathing heavy but controlled despite the wound.
Then he moved.
Goblin-cleaver rose and drove forward with everything he had left, the blade piercing deep into Azog's chest, straight through to the heart.
The impact locked them together for a moment.
Azog's body stiffened, the strength leaving him as quickly as it had surged moments before. His weapon slipped free as he collapsed, the weight of his body hitting the ground with a dull, final sound.
Thorin staggered back, his grip loosening as the pain caught up to him. Blood spread across his armor with each breath, his body struggling to hold itself upright.
Azog lay still at his feet.
The fight was finished, and Thorin had won, though the wound in his chest made it clear the victory had come at a cost he could not ignore.
His legs gave out and he dropped to the ground, breath rough, blood still warm against his armor. His hand pressed over the wound, but the strength wasn't there anymore. The noise of the battlefield faded as his focus slipped inward.
Gold.
All of it—Erebor, the hoard, the Arkenstone—none of it held any weight now. What he chased, what he held onto so tightly, felt distant. He could see it clearly in that moment.
He had nearly lost everything for it.
Then the pain stopped.
Not slowly. Completely.
Thorin's breath steadied as he looked down. The wound was gone. No blood, no tear in flesh—only damaged armor remained.
From a distance, Luke watched for a moment, then disappeared.
The fight there was done.
***
He appeared beside Natasha. Tauriel was already there, looking toward the battlefield.
Luke glanced around once.
"Ummm... shouldn't you be fighting the war?" he asked.
Tauriel shook her head.
"The war is over. Smaug destroyed the Orcs."
Luke gave a small nod.
Then a system notification appeared, a message from Esdeath.
[Luke you should come back there is something interesting appeared]
[Come fast otherwise I might go there myself and enjoy myself]
He stared at it for a second, already knowing how that would end if he ignored it. When Esdeath got "interested" in something, it never stayed contained—it started with a few kills and usually ended in a massacre and large-scale destruction.
"Ummm… Natasha, we should return to our world," he said. "It seems something interesting appeared."
There was a slight pause.
Tauriel looked at him, her expression shifting, confusion clear now.
"Your world?" she asked.
Luke nodded, as if it were nothing unusual.
"Yeah," he said. "We're not from here. We're from a very far world."
*****
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