Chapter 7: Servitude Begins
The training yard was a cavernous scar carved into Mirkwood's heart, its towering stone walls etched with vine-like carvings that twisted upward, their delicate spirals catching the faint, silvery glow of a skylight high above, like moonlight trapped in stone. The flagstones beneath Mark Baratheon's boots were worn, gouged by countless blades and boots, each scratch a silent testament to battles fought and forgotten. The air was crisp, sharp with the scent of pine and the acrid tang of sweat, a stark relief from the dungeon's damp mildew that still clung to his memory. His tunic was heavy, soaked with sweat, chafing his shoulders, the fabric rough against his skin. His wrists throbbed, raw from old chains, and he rubbed them absently, the sting a sharp anchor to reality. Dust gritted his teeth, tasting of earth and effort, coating his dry throat with every ragged breath. His chest heaved, each inhale sharp, cold, biting. "Smaug's out there," he thought, his modern lilt a jarring intrusion in this ancient place. "I'm not ready. Gotta push harder."
Tauriel stood a dozen paces away, a storm of barely restrained fury, her red hair blazing like a wildfire in the dim light, strands catching the glow like embers on the wind. Her green eyes burned, fierce and unyielding, a predator's gaze locked on him. Her leather armor creaked with every tense shift, the lavender scent clinging to her sharp, angry, cutting through the yard's earthy musk like a blade through silk. Her twin daggers rested at her hips, their worn hilts glinting faintly, polished by years of relentless use. Vaelor, the training elf, stood nearby, his blonde hair tied back tightly, scarred hands steady, his armor clanking softly with each deliberate step. His sweat carried the tang of effort, a contrast to Tauriel's forest air, his presence grounding, like a weathered oak. Faelar, the hostile guard, lingered at the yard's edge, his pine-scented armor glinting under the torchlight, his sneer a constant prod, his boots scuffing the stone with deliberate menace, the sound grating against Mark's nerves.
"Again," Mark said, voice tight, hoarse from exertion. Sweat stung his eyes. He wiped it away, the burn sharp, grounding. "C'mon, Tauriel. Hit me. Hard."
Her lips curled, contempt flashing. "I won't waste my blades," she said, voice a low, melodic snarl, her fingers twitching on her dagger hilts, the leather creaking softly. "You're a fool, human."
Mark's smirk flared, reckless, an emotional override drowning his caution. He wanted her to strike, needed it to test his power, the thrill outweighing the risk of her scorn. "What, scared you'll miss?" he taunted, his modern edge sharp, cutting. "Captain of the guard, dodging a human? Show me Mirkwood's best, or are you all talk?"
Her eyes flared, green fire igniting, a raw, animalistic fury that sent a shiver down his spine. She lunged, a blur of lethal grace, her dagger slashing toward his temple, the steel a cold streak in his peripheral vision. The air whistled, sharp and deadly, the blade's edge singing with intent. Mark's heart surged, adrenaline flooding his veins, his pulse a war drum pounding in his ears. "Now or never," he thought, focusing on the buzzing core within him, the Untouchable System's power humming like a storm trapped in his chest, its runes flickering in his mind like a glitchy screen. The dagger was inches away when he unleashed Push Repulsion, a ripple of force bursting outward, the air shimmering with a low, concussive whump. Tauriel's blade stopped dead, her body flung back, sliding across the flagstones, her armor scraping, dust swirling in a chaotic cloud. Her eyes widened, shock mingling with a grudging spark of respect, her breath catching as she steadied herself.
[Push Repulsion Lv. 3 unlocked. Target drained. She's not amused.]
[Push Repulsion Lv. 3: +15% force. Keep poking the bear.]
Mark panted, chest heaving, muscles trembling. The system's snarky jab cut through, a glitchy pop-up in his mind. Sweat stung his eyes, dust coating his throat, gritty and bitter. A faded carving on the wall—a stag, its antlers chipped and worn—caught his eye, whispering of a hunt long past, its elegance marred by time. A memory flashed, unbidden: his sister, sparring in their backyard, her laughter sharp as she dodged his clumsy swings, her hair catching the sunlight like gold. The ache of it tightened his throat, raw and heavy, a ghost from a world he'd never see again. He shoved it down, rubbing his wrist, the sting sharp, grounding him in the moment.
Tauriel rose, hair disheveled, strands clinging to her sweat-damp brow. Her dagger twirled in her hand, a nervous tic, the leather creaking with her grip. "You enjoy this, don't you?" she said, voice tight, laced with suppressed anger, her eyes narrowing as she brushed dust from her armor.
"Only when you glare like that," Mark said, a tired grin tugging his lips, his modern lilt softening the edge. "It's… intense, y'know. Kinda suits you."
Her eyes flickered, intrigue dancing beneath the fury, her fingers pausing on her dagger, the blade still as she met his gaze. The pine-scented air cooled his skin, a sharp contrast to the heat in his chest, his heart still racing from the thrill of her attack. A spark of connection ignited, fragile, like a truce in a walker-infested camp. "She's not just an enemy anymore," he thought, the system's mocking silence a rare reprieve.
[Tauriel Trust +2%. Progress, sort of.]
Tauriel turned, boots clicking sharply on the stone, storming toward the yard's edge, her lavender scent lingering like a challenge. Mark's gaze followed her, his heart pounding, the thrill of her reaction a dangerous spark he couldn't ignore. His wrist stung as he rubbed it, the raw skin a reminder of his limits, his fragility in this world of elves and dragons. Faelar's sneer from the sidelines was a distant sting, his pine scent sharp, his armor glinting with malice. Vaelor approached, his scarred hands adjusting a wooden target, its surface splintered, a faint burn mark hinting at a fiery mishap long ago, a story etched in the wood's grain.
"Control it," Vaelor said, voice a gruff rumble, his armor clanking as he moved, steady and deliberate. "Your power's wild, human. Tame it, or it'll break you."
Mark nodded, wiping sweat from his brow, the sting sharp, grounding his spinning thoughts. Vaelor set up a row of targets, their wood weathered, one bearing a crude arrow scratched into its base—a prisoner's mark, perhaps, a desperate plea for freedom. Mark summoned the system's runes, their hum a low buzz in his mind, like a distant elven song warped by static. He focused on Phasing, his body dissolving into mist, gliding through the first target, the wood's rough grain a ghost against his senses. The second followed, then the third, each pass smoother, less jarring, his confidence soaring like a spark in dry grass. "I'm getting it," he thought, triumph surging, his pulse pounding like a war drum.
On the fourth target, his focus held, the sensation of phasing smoother, his body a whisper in the air, the wood's grain barely a ripple against him. He pushed for a fifth, driven by ambition, but a memory intruded—his sister, her voice calling him to climb higher in their old oak tree, the bark rough under his palms, her laughter bright in the summer heat. His focus wavered, the system lurching, his body snapping back to solidity with a sickening jolt. He stumbled, knees hitting the stone, the cold biting through his pants, his head throbbing with a dull, relentless ache. Dust gritted his teeth, his throat dry, his vision swimming as he braced against the flagstones, their scars rough under his trembling hands.
[Phasing Lv. 2: MP 50/100. Rest, or you'll crash.]
Vaelor knelt beside him, his scarred hands steady, his voice softer, almost kind. "You're good, human. But you're flesh, not fire. Rest."
Mark nodded, too drained to speak, his breath ragged, tasting of dust and defeat. The system's runes pulsed faintly, a mocking glow in his mind, their snarky tone absent but their presence heavy. Faelar's sneer from the yard's edge was a distant sting, his pine scent sharp, his armor glinting with hostility. The stag carving watched silently, its chipped antlers a reminder of the battles ahead, its faded lines whispering of lost hunts and forgotten warriors. Mark rubbed his wrist, the sting sharp, his resolve hardening despite the ache. "Smaug's waiting. I can't be weak," he thought, the dust settling around him, the yard's shadows deepening as the torchlight flickered.
In a quiet moment, Mark leaned against the wall, the stone cold against his back, his fingers tracing the stag's chipped outline, its rough edges grounding him. The yard was silent, save for the distant clank of Vaelor's armor as he adjusted targets, the sound echoing like a heartbeat.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
Love [ The Hobbit I m Untouchable ]? Unlock More Chapters and Support the Story!
Dive deeper into the world of [ The Hobbit I m Untouchable ] with exclusive access to 35+ chapters on my Patreon, plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $5/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [Grimm, Teen Wolf ,blacklist,Game Of Throne ,MCU and Arrowverse].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!