I Can Copy And Evolve Talents

Bairan stared at the man, his face twisted with a strange expression—a cocktail of subtle surprise and raw disgust.

The soldier had surprised him not once now, but twice. He never expected any living soul, Paragon or not, to stand upright and healthy after being struck by him.

Of course, Bairan understood this probably had something to do with the guy’s talent, but Bairan lived by certain expectations about how battles unfolded—expectations that depended on him, not whatever powers his opponent might or might not possess.

It seemed he would need to take things more seriously than planned.

‘I don’t want to break him… that’s the thing.’

Bairan wasn’t truly part of this conflict; he viewed everything from a helper’s vantage point. He would remain at peace with every opponent he faced, except for his disgust that this man had touched him with those filthy hands. Nothing else prodded at the depths of how petty and tyrannical he could become.

But even so… he still wasn’t necessarily invested in the battle, so he approached nothing with the determination to win or kill.

Of course, he couldn’t lose. Even without trying, losing remained impossible.

But the annoying problem was that this ugly man disgusted him deeply. And he hated it.

Withstanding a slap from him was enough to make Bairan’s skin crawl with irritation.

Bairan clicked his tongue.

“That slap tore heads from necks back in the day…”

Even with only fragments of memory to rely on, Bairan knew what he was capable of.

Of course, he didn’t know how far back “in the day” truly was. Information about his era lay buried in a much thicker and more dangerous fog than knowledge of his capabilities.

Northern suspected Bairan came from the lost civilization—a dispensation of time no one remembered, not even history itself, it seemed.

He had only discovered this through the system’s descriptions, when Soul Taker broke and the souls it had imprisoned were finally released.

But aside from that, Bairan remained pretty much clueless about his origins. Yet he was an unfairly formidable warrior.

The bastard, with a burning furious shout, blistered forward. He brandished the bat in his hands, gripping it tightly, furiously swinging from behind as he devoured the distance between him and the white-haired man in barely a second.

His eyes flashed with bloodthirst. But Bairan couldn’t be bothered. They looked like the eyes of a wounded pup desperately trying to matter to him.

He raised his hand and smacked the soldier down on the crown of his head, causing him to crash into the ground with a sickening thud.

Then, with irritation etched across his face, Bairan kicked him away. The guy flew off like a kicked ball, powerless against the force that launched him through the air.

A second later, he crashed somewhere in the distance.

Since the Sword King had decided to be a little bit serious, he pressed further, covering a great distance by blurring forward. He materialized before the fallen man as if he’d stepped out of the wind itself.

Then he raised his sword and brought it down in a casual motion.

The ground split open from where the boy lay, the crack extending far into the reaches of the estate. Buildings trembled and sank into the fractured earth, trees splintering as countless structures lost their foundation.

A cacophony of destruction filled the air, making the guy pale with terror—his arm had missed the Sword King’s blade by barely a hair’s breadth. Sweat drenched his face as he stared at the devastation.

His chest heaved as he began to contemplate exactly what chain of decisions had brought him to this position.

***

Immediately, Bairan decided to hang back, Burning Storm marched forward alone. A grim yet somber expression settled on Raizel’s face, a single prayer repeating in his mind with each deliberate step.

Finally, he reached the main building of the estate—an enormous structure shaped like a vast letter C. Though several other buildings clustered around it, the main edifice stood so prominent and imposing that the others seemed mere fragments, support systems designed only to enhance its already blinding splendor.

Red banners draped down various sections of the walls, as if the building itself were bleeding. Each banner bore the insignia of a crown slashed apart by two swords and given wings to fly.

But Paragon Raizel’s eyes skipped over both banner and insignia; he had seen them so many times they bored him now.

Lazily perched on the rounded edge of the fountain in front of the main building sat another man.

An aura clung to him that felt utterly different from the man before. Burning Storm could instantly tell…

‘…Just what did Dante do to gain two Paragons all of a sudden!’

The man stood up and exhaled, stretching his long, slender legs by extending one and bending it at the knee. He repeated the same motion with the other leg before straightening to his full height and suddenly swinging his arm to offer the man standing before him a respectful salute.

Burning Storm couldn’t hide his surprise.

“Oh? At least this one has some manners.”

But experience had taught him it was usually the nicest ones who proved most dangerous.

The soldier’s voice boomed with undisguised pride.

“I am Major Ram! I have heard about the great deeds Burning Storm of Veiled Light accomplished. You were an indestructible pillar during your years of service!”

Paragon Raizel stared back with an impassive expression. He appeared neither impressed nor disgusted by the man’s words. If anything, wariness shadowed his features.

The soldier paused, lowering his head. His shoulders trembled slightly.

Paragon Raizel’s expression shifted to puzzlement.

‘Is he… crying?… or laughing?’

Burning Storm couldn’t tell.

But then the soldier raised his head and wiped away the tiny tear clinging to the corner of his eye.

“I’m really disappointed in you, Paragon Raizel. You who should have been the very heart of our cause now stand in opposition to it. Is this how rotten you’ve become? How far you’ve lost your way? I used to look up to you, you know.”

“…huh?”

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