Two Days Later - Road to NargothrondTeam: Marco, Glorfindel, 4 elven warriors
Marco had been riding for three hours and already regretted every decision that had led him to this moment.
"Why does EVERYTHING hurt?" he groaned, adjusting himself in the chair for the thousandth time.
"Because riding a horse for hours uses muscles you rarely exercise," Glorfindel explained with infinite patience. "Although with your recent training, you should be handling it better."
"My training was for FIGHTING, not to become a professional jockey."
"Survival skills include equestrian endurance."
"Nobody told me."
[I told you. Three times. You didn't listen.]
"Shut up, TARS."
The other four elves on the team—Elladan, Elrohir (Elrond's twin sons), Galdor, and Lindir—watched the interaction with barely concealed amusement.
"Do humans always talk to themselves?" Elladan asked.
"Constantly," Glorfindel confirmed. "But it's effective in combat, which makes up for the eccentricity."
"I'm right here!"
"We know," the twins said in unison.
Marco sighed. Working with elves was like being in a constant inside joke where he was the only one who didn't get it.
"How much longer?" he asked.
"Two more days," Galdor replied. "Nargothrond is on the River Narog, west of here. It's a long journey."
"And what exactly will we find there?"
Glorfindel became serious.
"Nargothrond was one of the great elven fortresses of the First Age. Built by Finrod Felagund. Beautiful. Mighty. Impregnable."
"AND?"
"And it fell. Glaurung the Golden—Father of Dragons—destroyed it. He slew Túrin Turambar, though Túrin managed to kill the dragon with Gurthang before he died." Glorfindel gazed toward the horizon. "But Glaurung's death did not lift the curse. Nargothrond remained corrupted. Haunted. Now it is a tomb."
"What kind of creatures live there?"
"Restless spirits. Occasional orcs using the ruins as a lair. Wights—undead who serve the darkness." Elrohir touched the hilt of his sword. "And possibly worse."
"Great. Elven zombies. Exactly what I needed."
"They're not zombies," Elladan corrected. "They're far more dangerous. They retain intelligence. Hatred. And a thirst for revenge against the living."
"That's literally worse than zombies."
"That's why we brought six warriors instead of two," said Glorfindel. "And that's why we charged 100,000 elven gold."
Marco couldn't argue with that logic.
That Night - Camp
They had set up camp in a clearing by the river. The elves, in their supernatural efficiency, had set everything up in minutes.
Marco tried to help but was basically politely brushed aside.
"Mortals need warmth and sleep," Lindir explained. "We need much less. Let us handle the night watch."
"Don't elves sleep?"
"We meditate. It's different. We rest but remain aware of our surroundings."
"That's cheating."
"It's biology."
Marco sat by the fire, warming his hands. The night was cold—colder than he had expected.
Glorfindel sat down next to him.
"Highly strung?"
"Terrified," Marco admitted. "This is my first real expedition to an ancient ruin. Everything else has been either inside Rivendell or combat that appeared without warning."
"Fear is healthy. It keeps you alert." Glorfindel looked at the flames. "But I trust your training. You've made more progress in weeks than most people do in months."
Is that a compliment coming from you?
"It's an observation. I don't give compliments I don't deserve."
"And the brothers?" Marco glanced over at Elladan and Elrohir, who were practicing sword forms. They moved with perfect synchronization, as if they shared a single mind. "Are they any good?"
"They are sons of Elrond. Trained from childhood. They have hunted orcs for decades. If there is anyone you can trust in battle, it is them." Glorfindel stood. "Rest. Tomorrow will be a long day."
Next Day - AfternoonFirst View of Nargothrond
Marco sensed the place before he saw it.
His sense of danger began to hum softly. Not immediately threatening, but constant. Like background static.
"You feel it, don't you?" Elladan asked, riding alongside him.
"Evil. Corruption. Whatever."
"It's an echo of suffering. Thousands died here. That kind of pain leaves its mark on the land itself."
Finally, the ruins appeared.
Nargothrond had once been magnificent. Marco could see that even in its ruined state. Fallen towers. Cracked walls. Massive gates hanging from broken hinges.
And above all, a feeling of EMPTINESS. As if something vital had been ripped from the place.
"The main entrance is sealed," Galdor observed. "We'll have to find another way."
"There's a cave entrance on the north side," said Glorfindel. "A service door the guards used. It should be less guarded."
"Less guarded by evil spirits?" Marco laughed nervously. "Great."
They dismounted and left the horses in a safe clearing with supplies. If they didn't return... well, at least the horses would survive.
Comforting thought.
The group ventured into the ruins.
Inside Nargothrond - Tunnels
The service entrance was exactly as creepy as Marco had imagined.
Narrow stone tunnel. Almost absolute darkness beyond its elven torches (which glowed with a cold, magical light). And that damned buzzing of danger intensifying.
"TARS, can you scan the area?"
[Scanning functionality is limited here. Too much residual magical interference. But I detect multiple hostile presences further on. At least twenty entities.]
"Twenty. Fantastic."
"Is your assistant detecting anything?" asked Glorfindel.
"Twenty hostiles ahead."
The elves immediately drew their weapons.
"Defensive formation," Glorfindel ordered. "Marco in the center. Twins in front. Galdor and Lindir in the rear. I'm floating."
They moved as a perfectly coordinated unit. Marco suddenly felt very human and very inadequate.
But he activated Ten, his aura enveloping him like invisible armor. Then he drew his elven sword—which glowed with a soft blue light.
"Your sword senses evil," Elrohir observed. "Useful in a place like this."
"As long as it doesn't shine SO brightly that it alerts everything hostile to our presence," Marco murmured.
As if the universe were listening, something HOWLED in the darkness ahead.
"Contact," Elladan said calmly.
Creatures emerged from the shadows that made Marco's stomach churn.
They were humanoids. They were once elves, probably. But now they were... something else.
Rotting gray skin. Eyes glowing with a sickly green light. Corroded armor fused with flesh. And that PRESENCE—like a chill that penetrated to the bone.
"Wights," Galdor identified. "Thirty, at least."
"I thought TARS said twenty—"
"More are rising up," Lindir interrupted. "They're responding to intruders."
"Of course."
The wights CHARGED.
They didn't run. They charged—an unnatural movement, too fast, joints bending at incorrect angles.
"NOW!" shouted Glorfindel.
The elves moved.
Elladan and Elrohir were a whirlwind. Their blades sliced through wights with perfect precision. Every strike was instant death—or re-death, technically.
Galdor and Lindir defended the rear, arrows flying so fast that Marco could barely follow them.
Glorfindel was in a completely different league. He moved like lightning, his sword leaving trails of light. Three wights fell in seconds.
And Marco...
Marco blocked the wight's attack with his sword. The impact resonated in his arms. The creature was STRONG—much stronger than he had expected.
He counterattacked with a diagonal cut that he had practiced a thousand times with Glorfindel.
It connected. The elven blade sliced through the corrupted armor and dead flesh. The wight collapsed.
"One down!" he shouted, surprised to be alive.
"TWENTY-NINE MORE!" Elrohir replied.
"WHY IS THERE ALWAYS MORE?"
Another wight attacked him. Marco activated Ren, his aura exploding outward. The pressure made the wight hesitate for a split second.
Enough.
Marco plunged his sword into the creature's chest. It dissolved into black smoke.
"TWO!"
[Marco, back ! ]
Marco turned around just in time to see massive wight—easily two meters tall—swinging axe towards his head.
There was no time to block.
Zetsu activated, his presence disappearing.
The wight hesitated, confused by the sudden absence of aura.
Marco rolled under the swing and severed tendons in the wight's legs. The creature fell.
Elladan appeared out of nowhere and decapitated the fallen wight.
"Good move."
"Thank you! How many are left?"
"TOO MANY!"
The battle continued. Marco lost count of how many wights he killed. Five. Maybe seven.
The elves were in a completely different league. Glorfindel alone had eliminated at least fifteen.
Finally, the last wight fell.
Silence.
Marco was panting, covered in sweat and splashes of... whatever it was the wights had instead of blood.
"Is everyone alright?" asked Glorfindel.
The elves confirmed. They weren't even breathing heavily.
"Frame?"
"I'm alive. Sore. Possibly traumatized. But alive."
"Enough." Glorfindel wiped his sword. "That was just the beginning. It's going to get worse."
"HOW CAN IT GET WORSE?"
In response, a ROAR resounded from the depths of Nargothrond.
Not human. Not animal. Something... ancient.
"That answered your question," Lindir murmured.
Deep Cameras - One Hour Later
They had descended deeper into the ruins. The tunnels gave way to massive chambers—halls that were once beautiful, now corrupted and decayed.
Marco used his Merchant's Eye constantly, scanning for threats.
They found more wights. A group of orcs (easy to kill compared to undead). And something Glorfindel called "shadow"—a formless creature that absorbed light.
That one had been particularly terrifying.
But finally, they arrived.
The Treasury Chamber.
It was exactly what you'd expect from an elven fortress treasure. Gold. Jewels. Artifacts gleaming with power.
And in the center, nailed to a stone altar, was Gurthang.
The sword was terribly beautiful. A black blade that seemed to absorb light. A hilt wrapped in dark leather. And it emanated power that made the air vibrate.
"There it is," Marco whispered.
"Don't touch it yet," Glorfindel warned. "The curses on that sword are legendary. We need—"
The roar sounded again. Closer this time.
And the camera began to SHAKE.
"What is that?" Marco felt panic rising.
"Something that shouldn't be here," Elladan said, tensing up.
From the shadows at the back of the chamber emerged a creature that made everything else seem insignificant.
It was a dragon.
No Glaurung—he had died centuries ago.
But a lesser dragon. "Only" five meters long. Black scales. Red eyes. And breath that smelled of sulfur and death.
"CORRECTION," Galdor shouted. "THAT'S HOW IT GETS WORSE!"
The dragon roared and breathed fire.
The elves scattered. Marco rolled behind a stone pillar, feeling intense heat.
"TARS, YOU DIDN'T MENTION DRAGON!"
[He wasn't here before! He must have come in recently!]
"USEFUL INFORMATION FIVE MINUTES AGO!"
Galdor and Lindir's arrows bounced off the dragon's scales. The twins' swords cut superficially but did no real damage.
Only Glorfindel—with his legendary sword and First Age elven power—was making progress. But even he was clearly at a disadvantage.
Marco activated his Merchant's Eye, desperately scanning the dragon.
Lesser Dragon: Scatha the YoungPower Level: HIGH (but not legendary)Weakness: Lower neck - thinner armorVulnerability: Magical weapons
"ITS NECK!" Marco shouted. "Lower part! The scales are thinner there!"
Elladan listened. He pointed to his brother. Without words, they coordinated.
Elrohir threw a dagger that struck the dragon's eye. It did not penetrate but distracted it.
Elladan JUMPED—impossibly high—and plunged his sword into the lower part of the dragon's neck.
The dragon HOWLED.
Glorfindel seized the opening. His sword flashed with white light and cut deep at the same spot.
The dragon staggered. Black blood gushed out.
Marco saw his opportunity.
He ran—faster than he had ever run in his life—towards Gurthang.
"MARCO, NO!" shouted Glorfindel.
Too late.
Marco gripped Gurthang's hilt.
And the world EXPLODED in pain.
Vision - Kingdom of the Curse
Marco was somewhere else.
Absolute darkness. But not empty. There was PRESENCE.
"Mortal," a voice echoed. Ancient. Powerful. Filled with hatred. "Who dares touch Gurthang, Death of Glaurung, Blade of Black Fate?"
"I," said Marco, his voice sounding small. "Marco Antonio Durán. I've come to claim this sword."
"CLAIM? No one CLAIMS Gurthang. Gurthang claims bearers. It consumes destinies. It destroys hopes." The presence drew closer. "Are you willing to pay the price?"
"What price?"
"Pain. Loss. Everything you love will eventually be taken away. That is the curse of Gurthang."
Marco took a deep breath.
"I don't plan to wield you. I just plan to sell you. To someone who understands the price."
Silence.
Then... laughter?
"Merchant. Not a warrior. Interesting." The presence retreated. "Very well. If you promise to sell me to someone WORTHY—someone willing to pay the price—then I will not curse you."
"I promise."
"Then take me. But remember: Gurthang does not forget. If you break your word, the curse will find you."
Treasury Chamber - Reality
Marco opened his eyes.
Only a second had passed.
Gurthang was in his hand. Heavy. Powerful. But not painful.
The dragon, badly wounded, was retreating into the shadows.
"Let him go!" ordered Glorfindel. "We already have what we came for."
Marco lifted Gurthang. The sword glowed with black light—not real light, but an absence of light that was somehow visible.
"We got it."
"And you almost died in the process," Elladan said, helping him to his feet. "Never, EVER touch a cursed artifact without preparation."
"Noted for next time."
Glorfindel approached, studying Marco carefully.
"Did the curse touch you?"
"No. I made a deal with her."
"Of course you did." Glorfindel sighed. "You're a merchant even in the spirit realm. Come. Let's get out of here before the dragon returns with reinforcements."
Departure from Nargothrond - Sunset
They emerged from the ruins exhausted, wounded but victorious .
Marco carried Gurthang wrapped in special cloth that Glorfindel had brought specifically for cursed artifacts.
"Mission accomplished," he said, collapsing onto the grass.
"And you survived," Elrohir added. "Impressive for a human."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Coming from us, yes."
[Congratulations, Marco. You have Gurthang. Estimated value: 800,000 MC.]
"OH REALLY?"
[It's a legendary sword that slew a legendary dragon. Collectors would pay a fortune. Although finding a suitable buyer will take time.]
"I have time. Debt is a priority."
Glorfindel sat down next to him.
"100,000 elven gold, as you promised. Divided between the five of us?"
"As we agreed."
"Then it was a successful expedition." Glorfindel extended his hand. "You worked well down there. Your training shows."
Marco shook hands.
"Thank you. For everything. For training me. For protecting me. For not letting me die stupidly."
"It's my job. Besides," Glorfindel smiled—rarely for him—"...you're an entertaining customer. I never know what to expect."
"It's my personal brand."
And as the group began their journey back to Rivendell—with a cursed legendary sword, multiple wounds, and a sense of accomplishment—Marco couldn't help but think:
I did it. I really did it.
Now all I needed to do was sell it.
To the appropriate person.
That he understood the price.
No pressure.
[END OF CHAPTER 16]