I Can Copy And Evolve Talents-Chapter 914: Old Enemy

'What now?'

Northern couldn't help but glance back just as another pillar of lightning tore down from the sky.

He pivoted sharply, a stern light flickering deep within the blue of his eyes. Everyone else also turned their attention toward the source—but in that same breath, something ripped free from the rift, shattering whatever focus they might have gathered.

More people were flooding into the center of the arena now—families, clans that had been present from the start—though none among them were noteworthy enough to steady the fear and dissonance surging through the crowd like a rising tide.

Not that it was necessary.

The presence of the five Citadel representatives managed to stitch some semblance of control over the disaster, with Silent Tenebris standing at the center, her commands slicing sharply through the chaos.

Already, three figures had launched themselves toward the origin of the lightning behind the rift—one an instructor, the other two from scattered clans.

They didn't last long.

Their bodies came hurtling back, crumpling across the ground—mangled and broken like discarded dolls, blood crudely splattered over what remained of their frames.

One corpse, the instructor's, skidded across the dust and rolled to a stop near Northern's feet.

He stared down at it with cold, detached eyes, though a small grimace began to pull at his brow.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze, tracing the trajectory of their broken bodies back to the source—toward the yawning, rending mouth of the rift.

The rift itself was splintering further now, massive scaled hands tearing through the thinning membrane of reality. The first creature emerged—a grotesque, elongated head reminiscent of a dragon's, but its skin gleamed unnaturally, as if hammered from molten metal, each plate overlapping like the glistening scales of a deep-sea monstrosity.

Northern didn't afford it more than a glance. His mind was already leaping ahead.

The people were charging toward the rift in droves, drawn either by duty or fear-driven madness, while Selis darted with sharp precision toward the rear of the rift, disappearing into the shadows beyond.

Northern frowned darkly the moment she moved—and then he flashed forward, becoming a blur so swift no one even saw him go.

As he crossed the rift, Selis' body reeled in the air like a lifeless doll, but he caught her, staggering two steps backward under the weight. He held her as she leaned against him, her breath ragged and weak.

It hadn't even been two seconds. He had shot toward her the instant he saw her dart to the back of the rift.

'What in the world happened?'

Northern's gaze swept sharply toward the lone figure standing amidst the wreckage. At the man's feet lay a puppet, one arm missing, discarded like a broken toy.

A dark light ignited deep within Northern's eyes.

'I see... so, he is a puppeteer after all.'

The man, framed by a cold white gleam in his eyes, stood tall—not with dominance, but with an eerie stillness, like one detached from the laws of presence and power altogether.

His frame was slender yet honed, sharp like a blade sheathed in silk, giving him the silhouette of a noble phantom.

But it was his eyes that unsettled Northern most. Narrow, intense, they burned with a stark white light—eyes that didn't seem to blink, didn't seem to live. They resembled suns glimpsed through the ruins of a dying world, and somehow, they harmonized unsettlingly with his long, dark hair that fell past his shoulders with ceremonial neatness.

Northern knew then. Instinctively. All the feelings that had only been vague suspicions now snapped sharply into place.

He stood on edge, tightening his hold around Selis, who was bleeding furiously from one arm.

After a slow, creeping second, Northern's hoarse voice broke the silence.

"Who are you?"

A smile curled the man's lips. It didn't suit him. It was twisted, sinister—an expression that felt utterly out of place on a frame carved for silence and stillness.

He casually dipped his hands into his pockets, leaning on one leg. A brown trench coat draped over his shoulder, flaring subtly in the furious winds swirling from the rift, perfectly framing the deep charcoal three-piece suit he wore beneath.

Their surroundings were drowned in a furious clash of roars and chaos.

Yet amidst it all, his voice carried through with unsettling clarity and neatness.

"I am rather disappointed that you could not recognize me at a glance, considering how many times our paths have crossed."

Northern's brows tightened even further.

He said, his voice edged with cold certainty.

"I have never crossed paths with anyone like you."

The man smiled from the corner of his mouth—a smirk that barely masked his disdain.

"Oh, my little main character. You've met me quite a number of times. Not just in this incarnation. Here, in this part of the world, they call me the Prophet. And I must thank you—for defeating every version of myself and helping me strive closer to completion, just as I foresaw."

Northern's expression paled. From the moment the man began speaking of 'this part of the world,' color had begun to drain from his face.

There were only two beings who had ever left him with that kind of soul-deep trauma. Two—but he feared one far more than the other.

Northern slowly parted his lips, the name surfacing against the weight of disbelief. He had thought—prayed—that he would never have to utter it again.

"That... that is i-impossible... Koll?"

At last, a grin unfurled across the man's face, a grin that made his stark white eyes glint with almost boyish delight.

He breathed.

"Yes, Son of Void, you beckon unto me."

After those words, he threw back his head and unleashed a violent, grotesque, terrible laughter—one that shook his frame as he staggered and moved about, clutching his belly as if the revelation was the grandest joke of all.

Northern stood rooted, a puzzled and deathly pale look carved onto his face.

'How... how is this even possible?!'

It made no sense. There were supposed to be three essential parts to Koll, and he had defeated all three. He had seen them fall. He had watched them end.

So who—what—was this Prophet who claimed to wear Koll's name once more?

Northern gritted his teeth hard enough to taste blood.

'And here I thought I was done with that bastard.'

He exhaled, a long, slow breath, and steadily forced the tremor out of his chest. Calmness—cold and cutting—began to pour back into his veins.

The Prophet noticed the shift. His grotesque laughter slowly died, giving way to a blank, slightly irritated expression.

"That other look suited your face more."

He muttered.

"I liked the shock of realization."

Northern raised the corner of his lips into a slow, glacial smile, one that radiated a pristine, savage beauty. Then he said with a soft and deadly voice.

"Welcome back, Koll. I guess I'll be sending you to your grave again."