I reforged the glory of the magic ring in Middle-earth

Chapter 179 The Battle of the Black Gate (Part 4)

On the thick walls of the Black Gate Fortress, the clamor of battle tore through the deathly silence of the city.

The nauseating black waves of Ocq surged and crashed against the ancient rocks, crude siege ladders slammed against the battlements, and the filthy roars nearly overturned the city walls.

Although Tanes destroyed the catapults and some of the siege towers, it was clear that the Orks would not feel safe attacking the Black Gate.

Then, they launched a fierce attack, disregarding casualties.

One ladder after another was carried on the shoulders of the Orks and charged toward the Black Gate. The rangers stationed there began to fight back using ballistae, catapults and other equipment on the city walls.

But as mentioned earlier, Zoro seems determined to regain control of the Black Gate this time. Therefore, despite the heavy casualties and corpses of the Orks attacking the city, the Orks behind him still climbed the ladders that were tightly hooked onto the city wall, stepping on the broken corpses of their comrades.

Despite the fact that Orcs were dying every second, and each Ranger had several or even dozens of Orc lives on their hands, and almost no one on their side was injured, these experienced Rangers did not show any joy at such a low casualty ratio. Instead, their expressions became increasingly solemn.

Because there were simply too many Orks, their defensive weapons were being consumed by the Orks' lives.

A veteran Dúnedan ranger leaned against the cold battlements, his movements as fast as a blur as he drew his bow. Each time he drew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, drew the bow, aimed, and released it, it was as fluid as breathing, the hum of the bowstring short and deadly.

"Pfft! Pfft!"

The arrow pierced the eye of an Orc below who was howling and trying to set up a short ladder, and then pierced the throat of an Orc behind him who was holding a rusty shield.

In just a few breaths, five Orks fell from the ladders of the wall he was guarding, landing heavily on the ground as twisted corpses.

However, his weathered face showed no trace of pride, only solemnity.

The old swordsman reached for his quiver again with his left hand, and the sensation at his fingertips made his heart sink. The once bulging quiver was now just a thin, cold arrow remaining at the bottom.

He glanced again at the bundles of spare arrows piled up not far away, which were also dwindling at a visible rate. The young ranger in charge of supplies ran over carrying the last bundle of arrows and distributed them to his companions, his face bearing the same somber expression as the old ranger.

The wandering warriors here all knew perfectly well that although the rain of arrows was dense and the number of enemies killed was large, this endless drain was gradually thinning out this deadly "rain." Every arrow fired meant that their "lifeline," on which they relied to maintain their distance advantage, was shortening by one point.

Meanwhile, on another battlefield, in the middle of the city wall, several rangers worked together to push a heavy log off the crenellation.

The log, carrying the force of wind and thunder, crashed down along the ladder, instantly smashing the seven or eight Orks clinging to it like ants, breaking their bones and causing them to fall with screams. The impact also caused the ladder to tilt and break, causing all the Orks on the ladder to fall and crash heavily onto the Orks below, causing chaos.

But these rangers couldn't even peer down to see the damage they had caused. The ranger squad leader didn't even bother wiping the blood splattered on his face; he just shouted urgently to his companions, "Quick! Over there! Another squad is coming!"

The rangers around him immediately rushed to another supply point nearby, but there were only two logs and a few stones left. More supplies were being urgently transported from other places, but the replenishment of supplies could not keep up with their consumption.

A young ranger, watching the Orks surge below like a tide, climbing over the corpses of their fallen comrades and the wreckage of rolling logs, seemingly oblivious to fear, paled, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly: "Captain... only two logs left! And not many stones! The logistics team hasn't arrived yet!" The squad leader, looking at his comrades bustling about on the city walls, then at the Orks surging below, gritted his teeth.
He had witnessed firsthand how Oak was using piles of corpses to consume their supplies, but at this moment all he could say was, "Never mind that for now, come and help smash this log down!"

Meanwhile, on another section of the city wall, some distance from the main battlefield, the rangers had exhausted their logs, stones, and arrows. Some of the Orks had already climbed the ladders and reached the top of the wall, and the battle had clearly entered a fierce melee.

A ranger had just cleanly slit the throat of a newly emerged orc with his scimitar, then with a swift motion, smashed the finger bones of another orc trying to climb onto the rampart. His movements were quick and deadly; each swing of his weapon efficiently took the life of an orc, and the pile of corpses at his feet formed a small slope.

But fine beads of sweat kept seeping from the swordsman's forehead, sliding down his blood-stained cheeks. His arm muscles began to ache and tremble uncontrollably from the long hours of high-intensity slashing and blocking. His chest heaved violently, and each breath was accompanied by a stinging, burning sensation.

He glanced around distractedly; his other fellow adventurers were also fighting fiercely.

Although the defensive line had not yet been breached and the bodies of Orks continued to fall, everyone's face bore the same weariness and heaviness. A young ranger not far from him, after forcefully piercing the chest of an Ork, even had to briefly lean on the ground with his knife to catch his breath.

Having survived their previous battles against the Orks, each of them was a seasoned veteran, knowing how to properly allocate their stamina to eliminate the Orks before them with minimal consumption and cost.

However, no matter how brave and skilled they were in battle, their physical strength and mental fortitude were not inexhaustible.

At this very moment, beneath the city walls where they were stationed, the roaring waves of the dark, surging Orc army showed no sign of abating. They treaded on charred or warm corpses, their bloodthirsty eyes fixed on the earth, and surged forward relentlessly, as if those just wiped out were merely insignificant ripples.

Further away, in a location shrouded in dark clouds, one could vaguely see catapults and siege towers moving towards this direction.

Another Oc leaping from the ladder onto the city wall brought the ranger back to his senses. Without thinking, he immediately slashed at the Oc's neck before the Oc could regain his footing.

But the broken weapon that he should have been holding tightly suddenly slipped out of his hand and fell limply onto the Oc.

The ranger reacted quickly, trying to kick the Oc to make up for his mistake, but he found his body heavier than ever before.

It’s over.

As the ranger watched the rusty machete of the Oak swing toward him, he wearily closed his eyes.

"Rodl—Forward!"

The deep battle roars sounded like thunder in his ears, causing the ranger to open his eyes. He then realized that he was not hallucinating; it was indeed a series of thunderclaps.

The next moment, golden lightning filled his vision.

(End of this chapter)