"It's him, it's definitely him!"
That warrior!
"We've been deceived again!"
The orc sub-chieftain was furious. He immediately raised the scimitar in his hand and shouted in Garrett's direction: "We—"
Behind him, a large crowd of wargs and orcs wore fierce expressions, just awaiting the command to charge back and tear that human to pieces.
"We retreat!"
The sub-chieftain spun around and began fleeing, but the surrounding orcs were stunned. When they finally reacted, their eyes were full of defiance.
Just one human, and we're retreating?
We have over a hundred warriors!
"You're not worthy of being our leader, coward!"
A particularly powerful orc immediately stepped forward to voice his opposition.
"Shut your mouth, maggot! If you want to die, I'll grant your wish!"
The sub-chieftain seized the opposing orc with one hand, effortlessly lifting him into the air. With a single hand clamped tightly around his throat, he choked him so severely the orc couldn't breathe or break free. He struggled violently, on the verge of suffocation.
Thud.
In the end, the sub-chieftain didn't kill him. He hurled the orc onto the ground, where he lay gasping desperately for air. With that example made, the other orcs immediately fell silent. At least outwardly, no one opposed him anymore.
"You have no idea how terrifying he is. Go get reinforcements, we need more warriors to deal with him!"
Though many remained resentful, the orc horde nonetheless withdrew.
---
On the other side, the firelight reflected off the worn, haggard faces of the captives.
Looking at the black-armored warrior who seemed to have descended from legend, the refugees were momentarily uncertain if they were dreaming or awake. Likewise, they couldn't tell whether this fierce warrior was friend or foe.
There weren't many orcs left guarding the captives, only a few dozen, and poorly equipped at that. Garrett quickly eliminated them. Some were slain, others fled, and not a single one remained.
"My lord..."
An elderly farmer trembled as he stepped forward, forcing himself to address Garrett. Drawing upon all the manners he'd observed from nobility in his life, he gave a stiff bow.
Garrett removed his helmet and gently helped the old man rise.
Seeing that this formidable warrior didn't appear hostile, in fact, he seemed rather kindly, the refugees all breathed a collective sigh of relief.
"Are you the local residents here?"
"Yes, my lord, our families have lived here for generations," the old man replied.
Garrett kicked at a couple of orc corpses on the ground and said, "This doesn't seem like a place suitable for long-term living anymore."
The old man was momentarily speechless. In truth, he had no understanding of what had really happened. He only knew that life had been peaceful before, until suddenly a horde of orcs destroyed everything. Some were killed, others were devoured alive, and the rest were captured and held here.
"Don't remain here any longer," Garrett shook his head.
"This place will become extremely dangerous very soon."
"But my lord... our homes have been destroyed. We have nothing left, nowhere to journey. What's here is all we have."
Garrett looked at the group of refugees before him and fell silent for a moment.
"Go south. Follow the Anduin southward, you'll eventually reach Rohan. South of Rohan lies Gondor, both are human kingdoms where you'll be safe. If you don't want to go south, you can also go east, beyond Mirkwood, to the Vales of Anduin. You may find a place to live there as well."
After brief hesitation, he added, "If you're really left with no other option, you can also choose to head west, over the mountains and across the wilderness. There lies a stronghold."
"We shall remember that, my lord."
There wasn't much further conversation. After requesting Garrett's name and solemnly expressing their gratitude, the refugees began preparing for their long journey.
However, Garrett observed the group, dust-covered and empty-handed, and shook his head, calling out to halt them.
"Take these. They'll make your journey easier."
He distributed a large bundle of provisions and even forged several iron swords on the spot, giving them to the younger refugees who appeared strong and trustworthy. Though he wasn't certain how much assistance they'd provide, at the very least, the food would keep them from going hungry, and the swords meant they wouldn't be completely defenseless against in the face of danger.
To him, these supplies were trivial, but to the refugees, they were precious beyond measure.
After the refugees departed, his reputation system displayed a notification.
As these refugees found new homes, his reputation would continue spreading among related factions and regions.
The more people he rescued, the more renown he gained.
"A nice unexpected reward," he murmured.
---
Elsewhere, in a settlement not yet touched by the march of destruction, a grey-cloaked figure was engaged in heated argument with several people.
"But we've always lived here! We've never heard anything about an orc army!"
"That's because they were driven back by the Dwarves previously. But now they've returned, and they're nearby. If you don't wish to forfeit your lives, gather your people, collect your belongings, and depart immediately. There's still time!"
As some of the villagers began to waver, a disheveled man with unkempt beard pushed through the crowd and harshly rebuked the grey figure.
"No, we're not leaving! You're merely a wizard spreading tales and lies! You must have some hidden motive!"
"I bet you've had your eye on our village for a long time, just waiting for a chance to drive us out so you can—"
Thud!
Gandalf frowned and promptly struck the loudmouth with his staff, rendering him unconscious.
"I'll say this once more. Depart this place now, or it shall be too late!"
His voice resonated with power that felt almost mystical, and the villagers found themselves believing him despite their doubts.
"But... the land that sustains us lies right beneath our feet. If we abandon it, where do we go?"
Even so, someone still voiced a hesitant question.
"This is not the only place where people can live," Gandalf replied, his eyes sweeping over the villagers. He indicated a direction.
"Go north. Not far beyond the river, there are larger settlements where many more folk live. You share common heritage with them. If you unite together, you'll be stronger."
Compared to Garrett, Gandalf clearly possessed deeper understanding of the local terrain and history. He knew there were settlements of Men north of the Vales, not as distant as Rohan or Dale, where the people maintained some degree of defense and were capable of resisting attacks.
Although the number of free folk dwelling in this region was limited, if they could unite and form a cohesive community, they could become a significant force against the orcish threat. In this way, they wouldn't need to depend on outsiders or wander without purpose, they could continue to live in their own lands, self-sufficient and resilient.
Before long, the villagers began gathering their possessions and discussing which route to take.
Gandalf stood aside, lighting his pipe and taking several slow draws.
Of course, it wasn't merely the pipe being kindled, it was also a spark of hope igniting in the hearts of the people.
To discover, guide, and unite, that has always been the duty of the Istari.