Chapter 11: Leveling the Field
The training yard was a battle-scarred arena, its flagstones gouged by blades and boots, each mark a silent story of warriors past, their struggles etched into the stone. The walls loomed, their vine-like carvings twisting upward, catching the skylight's silvery glow like veins of moonlight. The air was sharp, heavy with the scent of sweat and polished metal, a tang that bit at Mark's lungs with every ragged breath. His tunic was soaked, clinging to his skin, chafing his shoulders, the fabric heavy with exertion. His wrists throbbed, raw from old chains, and he rubbed them, the sting a sharp anchor to reality. Sweat stung his eyes, his throat dry, the taste of dust gritty on his tongue. "Gotta push harder," he thought, his modern lilt a defiance in this ancient place. "Smaug's coming. I need more."
Tauriel was a blur of lethal grace, her red hair blazing like a torch in the dim light, her green eyes fierce, unyielding, a predator's gaze locked on him. Her leather armor creaked with every move, the lavender scent clinging to her sharp, cutting through the yard's musk like a blade. Her bowstring hummed, taut with potential, her arrows a constant threat. Vaelor, the training elf, stood nearby, his blonde hair tied back, scarred hands steady, his armor clanking softly, his sweat carrying the tang of effort. Caelin, the haughty guard, lingered at the yard's edge, his armor glinting, his sneer a grating prod, his pine-scented presence a constant irritation.
"Come on," Mark panted, dodging a low sweep of Tauriel's dagger, the steel whistling past his thigh. "That all you got?"
She didn't answer, her eyes narrowing, a flash of green fire. An arrow flew, whistling past his ear, the breeze sharp, chilling his sweat-soaked skin. His heart surged, adrenaline flooding his veins, his pulse a war drum in his chest. "Need to be everywhere," he thought, focusing on the system's runes, their hum a buzzing storm in his mind. He pictured his body as echoes, a shimmering wave of energy, an army of one. He poured his will into the system, a white-hot jolt surging through him, his head spinning, vision blurring. A half-transparent duplicate shimmered beside him, a ghostly echo of his form, its movements fluid, uncanny, like watching himself through a warped mirror.
[Phase Echo Lv. 1 unlocked. MP -20. Don't get dizzy.]
[Phase Echo Lv. 1: MP 30/100. Cooldown: 50s.]
Tauriel paused, her bowstring humming, her eyes wide with shock and awe, her breath catching as she studied the duplicate. Mark's heart raced, triumph sparking, but his head spun, the yard tilting, the flagstones blurring beneath his feet. The duplicate dodged an invisible blow, its movements fluid, a ghostly dance that thrilled and disoriented him.
Tauriel adapted, her mind razor-sharp, her eyes piercing the illusion. She feigned a shot at the duplicate, her bowstring snapping, then twisted, her dagger lunging, the steel a blur. The blade grazed his ear, a cold sting that snapped him back to reality, his breath catching, sweat stinging his eyes. "She's too good," he thought, admiration and frustration warring in his chest.
"You're predictable, human," she taunted, a sly smirk on her lips, her breathing even, her movements precise despite the intensity.
"Keep dreaming," Mark retorted, voice strained, panting as he blinked to clear his vision, the sweat sharp, burning.
[Tauriel Trust +5%. She's learning you.]
The system's jab was a spark in his mind, but the respect in Tauriel's eyes was real, a fragile bond forged in combat, like allies sparring in a walker-infested camp. A faded carving on the wall—a cracked shield, its edges worn—caught his eye, whispering of a warrior's last stand, its story silent but heavy. Caelin's voice cut through, sharp and grating, his armor glinting as he sneered from the sidelines.
"Pathetic sorcery," Caelin said, arms crossed, his voice dripping with scorn. "Hiding behind tricks, human. You're no warrior—just a coward with magic."
Mark's jaw tightened, irritation flaring, but he ignored the jab, focusing on Tauriel, her bowstring still humming, her gaze steady. "Not worth my time," he thought, rubbing his wrist, the sting sharp, grounding his anger. The yard's scars pulsed, the air heavy with sweat and metal, the system's runes humming faintly, their snarky tone a constant prod.
[Resolve +0.1. Ignore the haters.]
Mark steadied his breath, the dust gritty on his tongue, his resolve hardening. He had to get stronger, faster, smarter. The dwarves were coming, and he needed to be ready. In a quiet moment, he leaned against the wall, his fingers tracing the cracked shield's worn edges, the stone rough under his touch.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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