I Can Copy And Evolve Talents

Chapter 638: Two Chances

Northern smiled peacefully as he watched Oland struggle to his feet.

He was incredibly patient with the officer, waiting without complaint until he had finished materializing a long, clean silver blade with cross guards that stood out because of their length.

The blade looked like a claymore but did not have the same length. Northern would fit it into something like a longsword at best.

Although he worried for Oland, a couple of minutes ago, the officer was summoning with his right hand, which had now been lost. As a result, the summoning was a failure.

Now, he had to fight with his left and only remaining hand.

Northern worried if he’d be able to give his best in such a state.

’Should I not have gone for the left instead?’

Oland held his sword to the front of his face, observing the spark in Northern’s eyes, his voice cautiously approaching.

”Please... I will do anything...”

”I have been dying to fight someone from the Central Plains.”

Northern interrupted, without a care in the world for what the officer wanted to pitch to him.

”I have had to grow my skill in the harshness of battles. It has always left me wondering how I will fare with someone that is well taught and has the basics right. Although now, I too have an outstanding teacher.”

Northern was looking at the Stainless as he spoke. With his last word, he raised his head and looked Oland in the eye.

”Although, you won’t measure up... besides being just a Nomad, you have a D-class talent. That is beyond disappointing; you are a failure.”

Northern’s words were laced with so much toxicity that Oland couldn’t suppress the boiling rage that rose in his chest.

A child was calling him a failure? What did this one know about failures?

Did he even know how hard it was to get access to a rift? Some say joining a citadel would provide a solution. But citadels are incredibly picky; nobody wants a D-class talent.

And even if he should join a public citadel, it is the same thing. The same routine of drifters are chosen over and over to challenge rifts; the best people like him served as cleanup.

That was why he quit his job to come work as a gateman and have a better shot at success.

He had trained all his life to become stronger, to defy the fate that got dictated and imposed upon him the day he got awakened.

And he had improved. If only people would actually give him a chance to prove that to them, if only they would give him a chance to display his skills and experience.

He had done so much work, sacrificed so much to get to this stage of his life where he was earning enough to take care of his family and slowly rising to a position where he would finally be recognized for what he can do.

And here comes a child, saying he is a failure? The gutter act of it made Oland’s soul ignite with a ferocious flame, temporarily forgetting his state.

Of course, he did not dare forget the difference in power; this was why he only could have thought all these and not speak it.

But a look of defiance was slowly rising on his face. It made Northern interestingly raise a corner of his lips.

”Oh? I like the look on your face. Want to prove me wrong? Be my guest.”

Northern removed Stainless from his shoulders, skillfully twirling the sword with one hand before extending it horizontally.

The past few weeks have only been the beginning of so much that Northern had to learn under Bairan. But that beginning had yielded such mountainous results that Northern didn’t mind throwing a swing or two.

He was almost exhilarated even. But controlled himself not to be; this was the death of a person. He felt he shouldn’t be grinning at the thought of slashing a man. This, at least, could help him convince himself he was not insane, not yet.

”So? Mr. D-class talent, since I attacked first before, I’ll give you two open chances to attack. I won’t even fend off your attacks. Hit me with the best you’ve got... so that will make us even.”

Northern smiled angelically... actually faintly devilishly. It was hard and easy to tell somehow.

”Since you’ve lost a limb, it is only right that I am fair. Right?”

Oland could not understand who this maniacal boy was. Now that he thought about it, all the people that came back from the Dark continent and had assaulted him seemed to have one or two screws loose in their head.

But this? This boy was insane. He had gone totally mad!

How can anyone be so chilly about slicing off an academy worker’s arm, knowing very well that the academy will catch wind of it, inspect this matter, and it was only a matter of time before they found out.

”Are you not going to come at me? Or do you want to lose your second hand?”

The hall resounded with a stern tone.

Oland gritted his teeth. His heart raced, but it wasn’t fear that drove it—it was rage.

Rage at the system that had failed him, at the talent that had shackled him, and now, at this boy who dared mock his life’s struggles.

Two chances.

Two.

That was all the boy had granted him. Not out of fairness or mercy, but as a taunt. A final humiliation before he delivered the killing blow.

The silver blade trembled in his left hand. Whether from exhaustion or fury, Oland couldn’t tell anymore.

He adjusted his stance, drawing on every ounce of training, every memory of drills and failures, and every bitter moment he’d swallowed through the years.

His foot shifted slightly, and the weight of his body transferred, his sword arm following with precision.

The first strike came like lightning.

A clean horizontal slash aimed at Northern’s neck—direct, ruthless, efficient.

Oland’s muscles coiled and released with the ferocity of someone who had nothing left to lose.

Northern didn’t flinch.

With an almost dismissive look, Northern stopped the lightning-fast strike with two fingers—which Oland didn’t see move at all.

His eyes never left Oland. A flicker of something almost like disappointment passed through them.

”Too slow.”

The words stabbed deeper than the blade ever could.

Oland didn’t wait. He pivoted instantly, his stance shifting into a fluid arc as he redirected the momentum of the swing into an upward strike aimed at Northern’s ribs.

This time, Oland was sure it was a hit, only to see his sword stop barely a dot away from Northern’s side. No matter the force he applied to push it further, the sword penetrated no further, stopped by an invisible wall.

”Is that really all?” Northern asked, his voice soft but cutting. He still hadn’t raised his sword, hadn’t even considered defending himself.

Oland stumbled back, his chest heaving. The fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by the creeping shadow of despair. Two chances—gone.

Northern slowly moved his sword.

”I guess it’s my turn, eh?”