[Marvel's Magic Master] Chapter 255: The Dark Army Strikes

By the time the three of them returned to town, the sky had already begun to darken. Drawing from Aivin’s memories, George skillfully greeted the townsfolk he recognized.

After a simple meal at the tavern, where he sampled this world’s unique wine, he waved goodbye to Al and Apa before returning to his small house.

"Fortunately, this body has no living relatives. Otherwise, dealing with them would be quite troublesome."

Pushing the door open, George stepped inside and cast a cleansing spell to rid the house of dust. Once done, he sat on the bed and began meditating.

Aivin’s father had been a hunter. However, when Aivin was twelve, his father attempted to hunt an Aravu Wild Bull and was killed on the spot.

The Aravu Wild Bull was said to be a descendant of the great hunting god Oromë’s sacred beast. It possessed massive white horns, and a horn crafted from them was worth a fortune.

If Aivin’s father had succeeded in the hunt, he would have been honored as a warrior of the human tribes, elevating his status significantly.

Unfortunately, he failed.

Stricken with grief, Aivin’s mother passed away within two years, leaving Aivin to fend for himself.

Who would have thought that Aivin would also perish while hunting, allowing George to take over his body? It only reinforced one truth—ordinary people had a low survival rate in such a perilous world.

"The efficiency of meditation here is truly remarkable!"

In just an hour, George felt as if he had meditated for nearly three hours in other worlds.

As night fell, the moon—formed from the fruit of the sacred tree—slowly rose.

Yet tonight, its glow was dim, as if shrouded by a veil of black smoke.

To the north of High Sonian City stretched the vast Adagalan Plains. At the plains’ far end lay the strongholds of the Noldor, their fortifications extending all the way to the foothills of Thangorodrim.

Beyond them was Angband, Morgoth’s lair, which had lain dormant for centuries. Hidden deep within the Iron Mountains, it was perpetually wreathed in poisonous mists and black smoke, obscuring all within.

To the city’s left rose the towering Ered Wethrin, under the dominion of the Second Prince, Fingolfin. He was the current High King of the Noldor, ruling over the Light Elves of Middle-earth.

The First Prince, Fëanor, had perished shortly after arriving in Middle-earth, while the Third Prince had turned back before even setting foot on these lands. That left only Fingolfin, the last of the three, still standing.

To the right of High Sonian City lay the Himring Hills, guarded by Fëanor’s seven sons.

Together, these three factions formed a containment strategy, effectively trapping Morgoth within Angband.

If Morgoth sought to dominate Middle-earth, he first had to break through their combined defenses.

And tonight, as the black smoke obscured the moon, a massive, malevolent golden dragon led an army of Balrogs and thousands of Orcs—creatures Morgoth had bred for over four centuries—launching a three-pronged assault on their defensive line.

"That’s the sound of a war horn!"

George was startled out of his meditation by the deep, resonant call of a horn.

This was no ordinary horn—it was the battle horn of the House of Bëor.

Stepping outside, he saw torches being lit in rapid succession. Chief Bregolas, built like a bear, stood clad in Elven-crafted heavy armor, his spear raised high as he roared:

"The Elven city is under attack! The Bëor clan has long received the elves’ kindness—now is the time to repay them!"

"All warriors, follow me to aid the elves! The rest, pack your belongings. If the situation turns dire, all men will hold the rear while women and children evacuate south!"

After swiftly organizing his people, Bregolas led all 800 warriors of the town, mounted on steeds, charging toward the distant elven city, where smoke had already begun to rise.

"The people of this era… truly are different."

Watching the 800 human warriors charge forth without a trace of fear, their battle cries echoing into the night, George felt a sense of awe.

The terror of Morgoth was well-known among humans. Bregolas and his warriors understood they were marching toward certain death—yet they still chose to fight.

They had even made arrangements for their people’s survival beforehand.

In the future, who could say if such courage would still exist? Perhaps they would choose to flee with their entire tribe instead.

After all, with so few numbers, their presence on the battlefield would make little difference. If they followed the elves' lead and evacuated south, they might escape the war and find a safer place to live.

"Well, this is a perfect opportunity!"

George didn’t see the attack on the elven city as bad luck. On the contrary, he saw it as the perfect chance to forge ties with the elves.

If he could help the elves hold the central defensive line, he would become a great benefactor to the faction of the Third Prince. His plans to learn magic and enchantment from them would practically be set in stone.

Besides, Morgoth feared being caught off guard by the gods again. He would not leave Angband himself. And if things truly took a turn for the worse, George could always save a few key figures and retreat.

"Aivin! Aivin! Old Jim is calling us to the northern defenses!"

Just then, Al and Apa came running toward him.

They were hunters, not warriors, so they were not required to join the battle at the elven city. Instead, they were tasked with defending the town.

If the elven city fell, they and the remaining men would have to hold back Morgoth’s dark army, buying time for the women and children to escape. For now, they were to head north and set up traps and fortifications.

"Tell Old Jim I’m heading to the elven city instead."

George smiled, spreading his pure white wings. He waved to Al and Apa before soaring after Bregolas and his men.

"A-A-Aivin… He has wings?!"

Al, Apa, and everyone else busy fortifying the town froze in shock, staring blankly as George disappeared into the sky.

George’s flying speed was impressive, and he soon caught up with the army ahead.

Bregolas and the 800 warriors, seeing someone suddenly appear above them, nearly loosed their bows in alarm. Fortunately, they recognized him in time.

"Isn’t that Aivin the hunter? Since when did he grow wings?"

Under the astonished gazes of the warriors, George descended to Bregolas’s side.

"Chief, I’ve learned some magic. I want to help defend the elven city."

"Magic? I didn’t know you knew magic, boy! Good! You do the House of Bëor proud—fight with us!"

Bregolas burst into laughter, brandishing his spear.

As a chief who had frequently visited the elven city, he had seen the Light Elves’ magic firsthand. Some elves could even transform into birds, so growing wings to fly didn’t seem too strange.

What surprised him most was that a human from his clan had actually learned magic.

Riding at full gallop, they finally reached the elven city after twenty minutes.

By then, its gates had been breached, and the city walls bore deep, jagged cracks.