I Can Copy And Evolve Talents

“Woah… no kidding. He’s fierce.”

To hurl a mass of stone the size of an entire city—yeah, an Ascendant really was an Ascendant. Whether he’d become one an hour ago or ten years back didn’t matter much when that kind of power was involved.

Which made Northern a little irritated. Disappointed, even.

Ascendant Zion was of higher rank and yet still considered himself lesser than Roma’s brother?

‘He does look like a nice guy… maybe too nice. Because seriously?’

Northern frowned subtly, folding his arms as he watched the colossal stone cone slam into the Leviathan’s hand in a cataclysmic eruption of sound and force.

The air screamed.

The impact sent tremors spiraling across the sky. Shrapnel exploded outward from the cone, glowing with residual earthen energy, only to dissolve midair into nothing but ash and echoes.

A massive shockwave ripped through the clouds, bending the edges of the rift and rattling Lithia below with its aftershock.

And when the dust finally cleared—

The hand was still there.

Untouched.

No cracks. No tremors. Not even any visible shimmer of reaction—like the attack never even happened.

Ascendant Zion hovered in stunned silence, the black wings on his back twitching faintly. His confident grin faded, replaced by a grimace of disbelief.

He muttered, hollow and low:

“Nothing…? Not even a tremor?”

Northern’s eyes narrowed, studying the aftermath.

Unlike Severing Wave’s attack, which had at least been deflected, this one didn’t even trigger a visible defense. It had simply disintegrated.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

‘This is a difficult one… for real.’

He glanced sideways.

Burning Storm was idly poking the severed hand he still carried—testing its texture, pressing into the palm with mild curiosity.

“Really?”

Northern muttered.

Paragon Raizel shrugged lazily.

“What? It’s the hand of a Leviathan. A Leviathan. Maybe only Luminaries can take on that thing.”

Northern shook his head, lips twisting downward in disbelief.

“I am so disappointed in you.”

With a sigh, he looked around, already evaluating the next potential candidates.

But before that—he drifted toward Ascendant Zion, who was still hovering in quiet frustration.

“Your attack was more impactful than that of Severing Waves. And I’m not just saying that to make you feel better—look over there.”

He pointed to the hand.

Zion followed his finger, squinting toward the colossal limb.

“See the little finger,” Northern said softly.

Zion’s gaze sharpened.

And then his eyes widened.

Northern gave a small, satisfied nod.

“Yes.”

It wasn’t obvious at first glance—but the little finger among the creature’s five elongated digits was slightly out of proportion. Shifted. Off-angle in a way that broke its otherwise perfect symmetry.

A subtle detail—but meaningful.

It was either strained by the attack… or had reacted to it.

Either way, something had affected it.

Northern suspected the creature had specifically used that little finger to counter or incinerate the incoming stone—whereas when Sage Rhama attacked, the creature hadn’t even acknowledged it, all that happened was a deflection of force.

That alone said enough.

He tapped Ascendant Zion lightly on the shoulder before the black wings guided him gently down to the roof.

Northern’s eyes shifted back to the floating hand.

His gaze flicked to his summons, considering who might step forward next. Abyss Tyrant came to mind.

‘His ability rewrites concepts…that has to be useful here…’

But then Northern frowned slightly.

‘No… he probably needs to be on land for that to work.’

Abyss Tyrant’s ability functioned like a pseudo-domain. It required grounding—literally. The activation ritual involved stabbing his staff into the earth and spreading the influence outward from there.

And then there was Nebulous Lord…

‘Man, I don’t want to disturb Nebulous Lord right now… he just finished one hell of a battle.’

Northern exhaled and turned his gaze back to the hand. Then he glanced sideways—at Paragon Raizel.

Without a word, he floated toward Burning Storm.

“Hey.”

He called out, voice level.

“That Essence Manifestation thing you Paragons have going on—this might be the time to bring it to life and cut that damn hand so I can close the rift.”

Paragon Raizel said nothing.

He stood there, staring at the hand. Silent.

Seconds passed.

Then he finally spoke.

“No.”

Northern blinked. He wasn’t sure he’d heard that correctly. He leaned forward slightly, squinting at the older man.

“What do you mean by… no?”

The Paragon didn’t even bother turning all the way around—just tilted his head a little in Northern’s direction.

“Exactly what I said, Ral. No. I’ve been thinking about the timing of this rift—how impeccable it is. And I can’t help but feel like it’s here either to kill me… or force me into using Essence Manifestation.”

Northern’s frown deepened, but he followed the Paragon’s line of reasoning. He’d had similar suspicions himself.

He gave a subtle nod.

“You make sense. But why is using Essence Manifestation such a big problem? It sounds… strangely specific.”

Raizel’s expression darkened. His voice lost all its usual teasing edge.

“Because a Paragon can’t use Essence Manifestation twice in a row.”

Northern tilted his head back slightly.

“Wait, how? Don’t Paragons have massive reserves of soul essence? Isn’t that the whole reason evolution is so hard? Your reserve should be able to handle that.”

Raizel nodded, lips tightening.

“Exactly. Which should tell you how broken Essence Manifestation really is. It drains you—completely. If I use it here, it’ll exhaust every drop of soul essence I have left. And that’s not something I can afford right now.”

His voice dropped lower.

“I need to fly to Fhugal. My wife’s there—so is my unborn child. And as things stand, I’m already fighting with a missing hand… my reserves are at half what they should be. And I have to go up against someone like Dante.”

Northern’s expression turned serious.

Paragon Raizel turned and looked him directly in the eyes.

“Or…” he said slowly, “do you want to do it on my behalf?”

Northern’s lips curled into a frown.

“No. Not at all.”

Raizel nodded once, clearly expecting that answer.

“Thought so.”

He tapped his shoulder with the amputated hand—lightly, mockingly—and then looked at Northern again with a sharper glint in his eyes.

“You’re going to have to deal with this one on your own, Ral. It’s docile—not an attacking monster. All you need to do is cut the damn thing. Sever the hand, close the rift.”

He paused, then added with deliberate emphasis:

“You should be able to do that much, right? Mentee.”