I Can Copy And Evolve Talents-Chapter 903: Retaliation

Northern’s eyes narrowed into a scowl.

’...Did that bastard just grin at me?’

He did. That bastard grinned. Just like the first time Northern had laid eyes on him, the guy kept staring directly at Northern, for no discernible reason.

’Could he be someone I humiliated in the past?’

Northern wasn’t sure about a lot of things, but one fact remained constant—he hadn’t made many human enemies, not even in the Dark Continent. Monsters, on the other hand, were a different matter.

Still, something about this was off. Entirely off.

Northern studied the guy as he finally averted his gaze. Meanwhile, the fight unfolding below was reaching its climax.

The dull-eyed, seemingly lifeless boy had erupted into a devastating flurry of movement. Encasing himself in earthen armor, he charged the girl relentlessly, crashing into her over and over with brute, unforgiving force. Her bloodied vines were utterly ineffective, breaking apart on impact.

Then, with one final, thunderous bash, she was hurled into the air.

But before she could hit the ground, someone leapt up and caught her mid-air, descending in a smooth arc with the grace of the wind itself.

Northern’s gaze flicked to the boy now cradling the girl in his arms.

He had a stern look in his eyes—cold, disciplined.

Northern didn’t know the student council vice president well. In fact, he barely knew any of the council members. But from what little he’d seen, the guy had always been smiling, approachable, pleasant.

Now, though… he was anything but. freewebnøvel.com

His aura had shifted.

His heterochromia eyes shimmered faintly, one flecked with frost, the other with steel. Both carried a dangerous calm.

The dull student remained motionless in his stone shell, impassive, even as the vice president landed and gently set the girl down.

Moments later, the examiner and medics rushed in. They whisked her away, and the match was declared over.

A new one was already beginning.

The next two contestants stood at opposite ends of the stage, glaring coldly at one another. The vice president’s stare was razor-edged, frozen solid. The other student’s expression, by contrast, was blank—detached, devoid of anything human.

Ellis, who’d been watching Northern out of the corner of his eye, finally turned away.

Northern hadn’t answered the question Ellis had asked earlier. He’d been too deep in thought. Yet Ellis didn’t press. He looked distracted too.

So Northern let it go, shifting his attention to the new duel.

They moved at once.

One fighter darted forward with fluid elegance, as if wind itself carried him. The other thundered ahead, each step crashing like boulders slamming into the earth.

Just before they collided, the vice president summoned a black sword.

Dark ink bloomed along its blade—liquid in texture, but burning like fire.

With a swift upward slash, he carved it through the air.

The other student charged directly into the arcing ink trail.

The vice president slipped aside, effortlessly dodging the impact.

The moment the bulky student passed through the stained air, he stumbled. His thick stone armor now bore splashes of that burning black ink—as though a cauldron of it had been hurled at him.

The boy lost orientation for a few seconds, stumbling in disarray.

But those few seconds were more than enough.

The vice president was already in motion—efficient, surgical. Even before the boy staggered, he had pivoted sharply and hurled his blade with precision toward the boy’s exposed back.

The sword struck home. It drove into a thin seam where the stone armor hadn’t fully sealed. With a deft flick of his wrist—so sharp it could have cut silence—he twisted the blade, forcing a chunk of the armor to splinter and blast off in fragments.

In the same breath, his fist crashed into the opening like a falling hammer.

The dull-eyed boy reeled forward, nearly collapsing to his knees. But he stopped—frozen mid-fall like a marionette caught between strings—then jerked upright and spun, a blur of retaliation aimed to strike.

But the vice president was already gone.

He danced ahead of the blow, sword and footwork weaving in tandem. With a quick shift of momentum, he redirected the boy’s wild strike, throwing his arm wide to break his balance.

Given the weight that the boy carried, the tactic was genius.

As the student faltered, the vice president swept in low—his leg slicing a brutal arc. His foot smashed into the boy’s side, and stone exploded from the impact, shards flying like glass under pressure.

Still, it wasn’t without cost. The vice president landed hard, bracing himself, jaw clenched through the pain, but his momentum never broke.

He surged upright, sword slashing upward—inking the air once more. The boy stumbled into the dark haze and crashed to the ground.

Another moment of disorientation.

He remained down for several long seconds, breaths shallow, eyes vacant. Then, groaning, he rose again.

This time, he shifted strategy. The stone armor peeled back from his body, retreating into his arms alone, condensing into massive gauntlets around his spindly forearms.

He charged.

Though his torso was now bare of stone, the black ink still clung to him—like a curse that refused to fade.

The vice president watched in silence. Still. Calm.

But there was a glint in his eyes—a cold, poised wickedness.

A scabbard shimmered into existence in his hand as the boy leapt, aiming to bring all his might crashing down.

At the last possible moment, the vice president sheathed his sword.

As the blade slid into its resting place, the ink smeared across the boy’s body erupted.

A burst of dark smoke swallowed him whole, snuffing his momentum like a candle in a storm.

Already anticipating it, the vice president darted forward, vanishing into the haze.

Seconds later, both of them emerged—

The boy came tumbling out, limbs flailing. He rolled all the way to the edge of the arena, where he lay still, unconscious.

The vice president stepped out calmly as the smoke unraveled behind him, fading like a whisper.

He didn’t bask in victory. He didn’t celebrate.

He simply turned his head and fixed his gaze on the next opponent.

His eyes—cold and calculating—promised more than just a fight.