I Can Copy And Evolve Talents

Chapter 945: The Sweet Taste Of Defeat

Black swords materialized in the air, flying at a terrifying speed—they weren’t just a blur of darkness, but something too swift to even be called a blur.

Bairan remained casual, a smooth smile playing on his lips as he nonchalantly swatted the blades away with his bare hands.

The simple motion of his hands, the flick of his wrist, carried such astonishing force that each black blade shattered upon contact.

The Black Prophet spread his arms wide, conjuring hundreds of thousands of black swords. The air trembled and death’s cold grip held the world in pause for a moment.

Thunder rumbled in the distance—not from their battle, but the nature of it seemed to add to the foreboding clash between Bairan and the Prophet.

Bairan lifted his gaze to the endless array of black swords hovering above, a sweet smile dancing across his face.

The prospect of so many swords raining down upon him felt soothing, the challenge of blocking each one making his heart race with excitement.

Yet his smile faltered moments later as he regarded the Prophet.

”Is it possible to increase their durability? How about you just use real swords instead of these measly extensions of your ability. Can you do that?”

Bairan’s voice remained sincere despite the storm of devastation hovering above him.

His question twisted the Prophet’s face with darkness and damnation.

Then he roared.

”DIEEEEEE!!”

Bairan clicked his tongue.

”Seriously.”

He placed his hand on the Dark Mortal and became a blur. Yet this blur never left its original position before solidifying back into Bairan, who relaxed his pose and sighed.

He folded his arms and wore a pleased smile while gazing upward.

Silver lights shot into the air, matching the dark swords in number—a terrifying yet mesmerizing sight as hundreds of thousands of black streaks met hundreds of thousands of white streaks. An explosion of force radiated across the entire landscape, tearing through debris with violent shockwaves.

Heaps of destroyed buildings vanished into clear ground, as pristine as if nothing had ever existed in this place before.

The Prophet stood frozen as all his swords were struck down by—not counter-swords but mere sword strikes.

He knew what they were. Yet questioned with all sanity how this could be possible.

The power of the old age remained a myth even to beings like him. They had existed in a time before records, and even then for only a short era.

The Prophet—Koll—knew of a legend that spoke of a war, a conflict that ended the age and birthed the rift. It marked the beginning of the new era and the dawn of Ul.

No one had ever known what they looked like, but there existed ways to vaguely tell.

The only clue was the ambience of the man who stood before him. While the essence of his soul appeared similar to humans of this era, it was also different—more vast, more terrifying, more original.

But Koll had never imagined they would wield such terrifying power that he would be made to shiver in this manner.

His face contorted with irritation, frustration, and rage.

”Every... time... Every TIME! I get closer to my goal and something! Someone! shows up!!”

It was as if the universe itself had conspired to destroy everything he had built each and every single time he was close to the end.

Koll was fed up, exhausted from failing. This plan needed to succeed—he was desperate, and this was his last chance!

He narrowed his eyes, studying the man carefully.

”But why can I detect a faint whiff of void from him?”

His brows furrowed as the question burrowed deeper into his mind. Bairan stood too far away to hear. Meanwhile, the Sword King had begun to move.

Koll undoubtedly had numerous tricks hidden away. He hadn’t journeyed all this point without amassing a sufficient arsenal. Yet he refused to waste everything fighting a variable he’d never accounted for.

So he breathed, exhaling softly. Then he cast Bairan one final glance.

”You and I... will definitely meet again.”

Bairan already gripped the Dark Mortal in his hands.

Just as Koll prepared to retreat, his gaze fixed on the sword, recognition flashing across his face. A slight smile curled his lips.

”At least luck favors me today.”

He opened his hand and thrust it forward. His palm split open, revealing an eye of absolute darkness.

Then Koll’s voice thundered across the landscape.

”Awaken! Blood of Retribution!”

Bairan had already drawn back the sword, poised to unleash a strike that would likely devastate Koll alongside the surrounding terrain.

As he prepared to deliver the sword strike, he suddenly frowned and halted, dropping the weapon.

Barely a fraction of a second later, a fountain of blood erupted from his shoulder, spraying violently into the air.

Bairan’s face drained of color as he staggered sideways. His vision got blurry and his head felt dizzy. Blood washed down the right side of his body, splattered across his face too.

He spared another glance at the sword and watched as white cracks spread across its surface. A heartbeat later, the blade had vanished entirely.

And so had Koll.

And he was gravely wounded.

Bairan smiled contentedly, then slumped to the ground, gazing up at the dark sky.

”Ah... so refreshing. I certainly haven’t felt such exquisite pain and raw anger in ages. Refreshing indeed.”

He slowly lowered his back to the ground, resting in his own pool of blood while staring skyward with eyes that sparkled like distant stars.

After savoring the strange sweetness of pain and defeat for several moments—even though his enemy had somehow tricked him and escaped—he raised two fingers and traced an intricate pattern across his arm.

As he slowly rose to his feet, his wounded arm, complexion, and blood-soaked clothes began to glow with gentle white light, reverting to pristine condition as if the terrifying cleave had never occurred. Though he seemed to overlook the crimson droplets that still clung to the side of his jaw and neck.