I Can Copy And Evolve Talents

Chapter 1239: The Chosen One [part 1]

Northern stepped back through the doorway.

The first thing everyone noticed was the silence.

The screaming had stopped.

The churning red mist—eight hundred years of accumulated violence, of divine punishment, of constellation-blessed judgment—was simply gone. Through the massive doorway, they could see clean mist rising peacefully from the ascending waterfalls. Golden light from the setting sun filtering through. Normal sky doing normal sky things.

No crimson. No tortured souls. No eternal prison.

Nothing.

’Well. That’s going to be a problem.’

Northern walked to the nearest chair, deposited Alystren and the elf with about as much ceremony as one might drop off laundry, and sat down heavily. He looked exhausted—not physically, but in the way someone looks after having an argument with themselves and losing.

Or winning.

Hard to tell which was worse, honestly.

“So,” he said into the absolute silence, as if the last few minutes hadn’t just redefined several fundamental assumptions about reality. “About those seconds on the fish.”

Nobody moved.

Sael’s mouth was hanging open in a way that would have been comedic if his face weren’t so pale. His hands had gone to his weapons—some automatic defensive reflex—but now they just hovered there uselessly, as if he’d forgotten what they were for. Or what weapons were. Or what hands were, for that matter.

The twins, Mira and Kira, had frozen mid-movement, both reaching for their shields in perfect synchronization. Now they just stood there like matched statues, their synchronized existence temporarily short-circuited by incomprehension.

Nessa’s perpetual smile had vanished entirely. She was staring at Northern with the kind of expression usually reserved for watching mountains walk or stars fall—the sort of look that said her understanding of how the world worked had just taken significant damage.

Even Auriel—Auriel, who’d spent her entire life holding back violence, who lived on the edge of breaking her Vow every single day—looked shaken. Her gold-pupilless eyes were wide, and for once the barely-restrained rage in her face had been replaced by something that looked uncomfortably close to fear.

But it was Judgment who broke first.

“What the actual—” She caught herself, jaw clenching so hard Northern could hear her teeth grind. “What the—how did you—that’s not—”

Words failed her completely. Judgment, who never struggled for words, was reduced to stammering fragments and half-finished accusations.

She looked at Anike desperately, as if the elder could explain what they’d just witnessed. As if there was an explanation that would make sense. As if sense was still something that applied to the current situation.

Anike’s face had gone completely blank.

Not serene. Not peaceful. Blank in the way a slate goes blank when everything written on it has been erased—violently, thoroughly, and without permission.

Her small smile was gone.

For the first time since Northern had met her, she looked genuinely shocked. The unflappable elder, shaken. That was… probably not a good sign. Then again, Northern was starting to suspect he’d passed “good signs” several catastrophes ago.

“The Veil,” she whispered. Her voice, usually so gentle and controlled, cracked slightly around the edges.

“The Crimson Veil. Eight hundred years. Eight hundred years of El Fach’s blessing, of accumulated divine judgment, of constellation-woven punishment…”

She trailed off, looking at Northern like he’d just casually mentioned he’d swallowed the sun. Or stepped on a god. Or filed the cosmos under “minor inconvenience.”

“It’s gone,” Eisha said. Northern’s mother had one hand over her mouth, and there were tears streaming down her face—though whether from shock or relief or some complicated mixture of both, Northern couldn’t tell. “The long night. The eternal prison. All of it. Just… gone.”

“He walked in,” one of the Seraphae whispered from somewhere in the back, voice trembling. “He walked into the Crimson Veil. Nobody survives the Crimson Veil.”

“Nobody survives because nobody comes back out,” another voice corrected shakily. “They get trapped. Forever. That’s the entire point of the Veil.”

“He came back out,” a third voice said, sounding almost accusatory, as if Northern had cheated somehow. As if he’d violated some fundamental rule of reality and now they all had to deal with the paperwork. “He came back out carrying people. He saved them from eternal punishment.”

“He didn’t save them from eternal punishment,” Judgment finally managed, her voice hoarse and raw. She was still staring at Northern like he was a ghost. Or something worse than a ghost—something that shouldn’t exist but did anyway, just to make everyone uncomfortable. “He ended eternal punishment. Do you understand the difference? Do you understand what that means?”

’I’m starting to get a pretty good idea, actually. And I really don’t like where this is heading.’

The hall erupted into whispers. Not loud—Seraphae apparently whispered even in shock—but urgent, confused, bordering on panicked.

“The Veil was constellation-blessed—”

“…eight centuries of divine protection—”

“…supposed to be permanent—”

“…not even a Luminary could—”

“…what kind of soul rank does he have to—”

“…he’s not even Transcendent yet, I can feel his essence, he’s—”

Anike raised one trembling hand, and the hall fell silent again. The whispers died like candles in a windstorm.

She looked at Northern for a long moment. Her eyes held something Northern had never seen there before—not quite fear, not quite awe, but something uncomfortably close to both.

Then, slowly—so slowly it seemed to take forever—she lowered herself to one knee.

“Oh no,” Northern said immediately, sitting up straighter. “No, we’re not doing this.”

But it was too late.

Around the hall, every single Seraphae dropped to one knee.

The Arethamine followed. Then the servants. The scholars. Even the visitors who’d just come for dinner and gotten significantly more than they’d bargained for—a merchant in silk robes, two younger Seraphae who looked like students, an elderly couple who’d probably been hoping for pleasant conversation and maybe some wine.

All kneeling and staring at him.

’Crap.’

Northern felt his face heat. This was—this was not—he didn’t want—

’What is this?! What are they doing?! Stop it!’

The sound of fabric rustling filled the hall as hundreds of people settled into positions of reverence. Knees hitting stone. Wings folding respectfully. Heads bowing.

For him.