I Can Copy And Evolve Talents

It had become effortless for Northern to perceive the true essence of one's soul. Over time, a semblance of Chaos Eyes' ability had rubbed off on his mundane sight as well.

So, while it wasn't as clear as when he activated Chaos Eyes, he could still discern a person's intent to a reasonable extent.

He could see the truth, the lies, and the foolishness of mankind. Some of these emotions were too convoluted, tangled into a mess he couldn't quite navigate—like that of the girl he had just fought.

But others were as clear as the midday sky.

From the moment the red-haired boy spoke, Northern saw something lurking in the depths of his soul. It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't a truth either.

And the more the boy spoke, the more that thing spiraled into a strange, creeping darkness.

Then came the suggestion—to use his weakest ability. Northern watched as that darkness settled, curling into a comfortable stillness.

The boy was convinced. Through subtle manipulations, he believed he had steered Northern into making a rash decision.

Of course, there was no way he could predict Northern's exact choice of words or actions. Instead, he relied on the overwhelming confidence that someone of Northern's caliber would inevitably display.

And since Northern had coincidentally decided to lean into the persona of an overpowered character, everything seemed to unfold perfectly in the red-haired boy's favor.

At least, that's what it looked like.

The real problem—and the reason Northern pitied him—was that the so-called weakest talent he had chosen... there was no way the boy would be able to defend it.

It was a talent so absurdly cunning that even Void Force had struggled to defend against it.

But since the boy had meticulously crafted such a delicate path to victory for himself, Northern wanted to believe he had a plan—however cowardly it seemed.

So, in respect for his supposed preparedness, Northern would respond sincerely.

With his weakest attack.

He just might put his bone into it.

'I hope he entertains me a bit.'

The boy's body gleamed with radiant armor, its surface polished like a mirror. It caught the scorching afternoon light, bending and scattering it, flinging the brilliance straight into Northern's face.

But Northern wasn't bothered.

Chaos Eyes had altered his mundane sight in ways even he didn't fully comprehend. One of its lingering effects rendered him immune to light-based distractions. He could raise his gaze and stare into the heart of a blazing sun for hours, unaffected, unblinking.

The rays could be sharp, piercing, but they never obscured what he needed to see. If anything, it was as if the very particles of light parted, clearing the way for his vision to pierce through.

There was a force at play, a concept governed by Chaos Eyes—just as he could subtly influence gravity.

So, the blinding radiance of the boy's armor did not faze him in the slightest.

The boy, however, was grinning, pleased with himself as though he had already seized victory.

"My name is Tristein! Tristein Voldiburg of the Voldiburg clan."

Northern gave a nod.

'What is with their manner of introducing themselves?'

It seemed only proper to return the gesture, though he saw little point in such formalities. He opened his mouth and spoke.

"I am Rian. Of no clan."

Tristein's grin widened. He bobbed his head, exuding pure elation.

"I am ready."

Everything about him radiated confidence. He had accounted for two possible outcomes—two carefully calculated instances. Of course, both still carried the possibility of his demise, but his planning had been meticulous.

After witnessing the first battle with Ayuri Miu, Tristein had noticed something crucial. The student hadn't used a single talent. That solidified his theory.

Northern's primary abilities had to be tied to fire and ice. That was all he had displayed before. His flight? A complex interplay of those elements—heat and frost working in tandem, counterbalancing forces.

And so, Tristein reached a conclusion.

Northern's overwhelming offensive meant one thing—his defense would be lacking.

That was the nature of elemental talents. They made for devastating attacks but often fell short in fortification.

Ice could form thick walls, but in the end, it was still ice—breakable.

His laser would pierce through with ease.

The same applied to fire. A wall of flames was no different from a wall of water; his attack would carve through it like a blade through parchment.

And if Northern chose to go on the offensive instead?

Even better.

Tristein's hand brushed over his armor, its weight a comforting presence.

It had been a gift from his grandfather.

A relic of the old world.

An Ancient Armor.

A treasure so rare that even Paragons would wage wars to claim it.

His grandfather had simply given it to him.

The armor was said to be capable of deflecting even the full force of the daylight star itself.

A chuckle rumbled in his throat, barely suppressed.

'I love you, Grandad!'

This armor—this moment—was going to etch his name into the academy's history.

He could already hear the whispers of his legend forming.

Tristein Voldiburg, the first student to defeat the boy whom the academy thought they could never defeat. The one who put the strange non-combative student to his place!

His shoulders shook with barely contained laughter. Try as he might, he couldn't hold back the giddy excitement bubbling within him.

Northern prepared his attack.

Just as he had promised, it would be the weakest in his arsenal—the one talent he had never upgraded, had barely thought about, and had nearly forgotten.

Whispering Gale.

He had never liked it. The wind talent lacked the raw devastation of his other abilities. The only merit it held was its habit of slipping through defenses, striking without warning—silent, unseen, unannounced.

And now, what Northern meant by putting his bones into it was...

With the void essence of a Sage and his own improvisation thanks to DiY, he would forge a wind blade large enough to make an impression.

His eyes narrowed as he gauged the boy's height.

He trusted Tristein to defend himself—or at the very least, to withstand the attack without suffering fatal damage.

So, he crafted the blade to match the boy's size.

But the blade was not steel. It was wind itself—formless, invisible, a whisper carried by the air.

To the untrained eye, the only sign of its existence was a faint gust swirling at Northern's feet.

He didn't even need to move.

No swing. No gesture.

Just a thought—

And the wind obeyed.

It surged forward, masked in its own nature, veiled beyond perception.

The crowd held its breath.

Everyone was waiting for an attack.

Even Tristein, practically trembling with anticipation, was soaked in the sweat of expectation.

"Come on! Are you even goi—"

His words sliced apart.

A terrible gore spilled forth—from his right shoulder, across his torso down to his right waist.