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Chapter 130: I’ve Already Called for Backup
🕑 Added 2026-01-10 16:00:13 +0000 UTCOne week before the expedition escaped the Orc nest.
Dumbledore’s broom skimmed beneath the cloud layer, gliding effortlessly over the Misty Mountains as the land shifted endlessly beneath him. Up ahead, Radagast the Brown’s rabbit-drawn sledge whooshed through the air; the old brown-robed wizard was having the time of his life, laughing loudly like a jolly Father Christmas.
They reached the southern border of Mirkwood. There had once been a bald hill here; in the middle of the Second Age, Elves built a fortress upon it, and after the Elves departed, the stronghold was abandoned. Now, in the Third Age, the defeated Dark Lord Sauron was hiding here, secretly gathering strength.
At the foot of Dol Guldur, Radagast grabbed Dumbledore. “Gandalf—just the two of us… it’s probably suicide. We should contact more help.”
“If things look bad, I’ll call for backup.” Dumbledore held his wand in one hand and his phone in the other.
Not long after they entered Dol Guldur, within its bleak, lightless ramparts—drowned under perpetual cloud—they encountered a raving dwarf. His hair was matted, his face filthy, his eyes wild, as if he’d endured unspeakable torment.
This mad dwarf was Thorin’s father, Thráin. Back then, he had taken a group of dwarven warriors and tried to return to the Lonely Mountain. After entering Mirkwood, he vanished on a stormy night. His men never knew the truth: Thráin had been captured by Sauron’s servants and dragged to Dol Guldur.
They wanted to force the secret entrance to the Lonely Mountain out of him—Sauron also coveted the mountain as a strategic fortress key.
If this were a story about a demon king kidnapping a beautiful maiden, the next part might be the sort of plot the masses happily consumed. Unfortunately, Thráin was the stubborn stone at the bottom of a latrine—hard, foul-mouthed, and unyielding. Under torture, he revealed nothing. In the end, he was tossed here to rot.
His friends and loyal followers all believed he was dead. In reality, he had been imprisoned in this sunless hell for nearly ten years.
The poor man’s mind had long since broken; to him, everything was an enemy.
Thráin burst from the shadows and lunged at Dumbledore.
“Petrificus Totalus.” With a single spell, the old wizard subdued the old dwarf.
Radagast recognized him at once. “Oh—no. That’s Thráin.”
“You know him? What a tragedy.” Dumbledore glanced down at the frozen dwarf. “Radagast, please take him somewhere safe.”
“And you, Gandalf?”
“I’ll keep going.”
As they spoke, the Orc forces that occupied the place revealed themselves—an army, not a scattered tribal band. They obeyed the deep shadow here, worshiping it as their master, bringing brutality to the world.
“You’re not going anywhere, old men.”
A pale Orc commander stood on a lookout platform high on the fortress wall, glaring down. Around him surged ranks of soldiers in rotten armor, bows and spears in hand, astride cruel, cunning wargs. They stared at Dumbledore and the other two like wolves watching prey.
The commander, Azog, announced with scorn that he would take them all in one net. Then he leapt from the height—his heavy, misshapen war-hammer falling with him like a meteor meant to lash the earth.
“Azog! Show ’em some color!” the Orc troops roared.
Professor Dumbledore stayed calm. He raised his wand toward the sky. “Wingardium Leviosa!”
Levitation Charm
A burst of force shot from the wand and struck the falling war-hammer dead-on. Azog didn’t have a good grip—his weapon tore free and floated upward while he himself kept dropping. His dramatic plunging strike turned into a single-knee landing, and the hand that had been gripping the hammer ended up planted neatly in front of the old wizard.
It was unbelievably awkward. Anyone who didn’t know better might have thought he was proposing.
The cheers on the wall jammed in the Orcs’ throats. The wargs let out threatening howls—only for their riders to clamp their jaws shut.
Stop howling. Can’t you see the boss is having a moment?
Azog rose in silence. Only then did Dumbledore notice the Orc had a single intact arm; the other was a bladed prosthetic.
As a battle-hardened commander, Azog’s skin was thick. He stood up as if nothing had happened—then, with absolutely no honor, launched a sneak attack, slashing at Dumbledore with the blade-arm.
The old educator smiled faintly. With a crack of Apparition, he slipped behind Azog, dodging the ambush—then snapped off a “Stupefy” to the back of Azog’s head that sent stars bursting in the Orc’s vision. Next came “Levicorpus,” hoisting him upside down, followed by “Confringo” to ignite him, and then “Depulso” to blast him away.
A lightning-fast five-spell duel combo.
The Orc commander ended up like a flaming potato, tumbling off Dol Guldur’s high wall and dropping into the lower levels.
The Orc army went berserk and surged forward.
Radagast held his wand and swung it until it whistled, battering back the onrushing Orcs so they couldn’t close in. But as a seasoned Maia, he knew when to risk his life—and when to conserve his strength.
Fighting while retreating, Radagast yelled back at Dumbledore, “Gandalf, we have to withdraw!”
Dumbledore lifted his wand and began chanting a long spell.
“You’re still casting?” Radagast was frantic. “Have you forgotten we’re not allowed to use spells like this? The Valar sent wizards to Middle-earth in mortal bodies to limit us—so we wouldn’t use power to disrupt the music of the epic!”
“But I wasn’t sent by the Valar.” Dumbledore finished swiftly and flicked his wand.
Blue fire burst from the wand tip, shaping itself into an enormous flaming lion—majestic, fierce. It charged with a roar, and wherever it passed, the Orcs left behind only charred ash.
Fiendfyre
This dangerous flame cannot be extinguished by ordinary means; only counter-spells can suppress it. It is filled with pure destructive intent, terrifyingly powerful—powerful enough to destroy Horcruxes. Only a top-tier wizard can control such a curse.
Dumbledore did not indulge in needless slaughter. If Fiendfyre spread, it would consume all of Dol Guldur. Seeing the Orcs scatter in panic, he quickly cast “Finite Incantatem,” smothering the raging blue fire bit by bit.
Radagast’s expression was complicated. “You’re not Gandalf. He would never violate the will of the Valar.”
“…,” Dumbledore had nothing to say.
The Orcs had already vanished without a trace. Against the weak, they were a dark calamity; against the strong, they were just clowns hopping on a stage.
Suddenly, thunder boomed across the sky.
At the highest watchtower of Dol Guldur, a mass of pitch-black shadow appeared.
Around it churned molten, lava-like flames. The sorcerous light it cast was enough to shake the heart.
Radagast went pale, whispering from deep in his throat, “Sauron. It really is him.”
Dumbledore faced the fallen Maia. With a single look, he felt as though he were drowning—choking, sinking, helpless.
Strong beyond measure.
Sauron’s whisper slid into his ear. “Mortal. Only one road lies before you that leads to life: submit.”
Dumbledore had dominated the wizarding world for decades. Many powerful enemies had fallen beneath his hand—not just because of his own ability, but because he taught and led for a lifetime, with students and allies everywhere.
Now, with a great enemy before him, Dumbledore’s expression did not change. He raised his phone and placed a call.
“Hello? Skyl, I’ve run into trouble. There’s a fellow called Sauron… Mm. That would be perfect. All right, then.”
He hung up. Radagast was sweating buckets. “Ganda—whatever your name is, we have to go!”
“No need to worry. I’ve already called for backup.”
“Sauron can’t be fought—unless you’ve summoned Lady Galadriel!”
A blue portal suddenly unfolded on Dol Guldur’s high wall. From it stepped a breathtaking otherworldly elf.
Lady Moonshadow, draped in twilight, lifted her gaze to the shadow. “A broken soul dares threaten Azura’s champion?”
