I Can Copy And Evolve Talents

Chapter 1311: War Meeting [part 2]

The nobles in the room murmured amongst themselves—some watching Northern with darkened expressions, others whispering about the audacity of his claim.

General Sethran said nothing. His face remained carefully blank, as unreadable as fresh parchment.

He was no stranger to who Northern was, nor was he oblivious to the young man’s acclaimed achievements. The King had personally discussed this with him and the Gentleman of Ash and Storm before the meeting began. Other nobles knew as well—the Queen herself stood as proof of this young man’s resourcefulness.

The claims about defeating a Tyrant and an Origin were, realistically, vague. Yes, the Kingdom had faced a strange invasion of monsters, but that alone was not certain proof of the disaster in Stelia.

In a world where people lied about all manner of achievements to gain fame and affluence, it would be naive to simply believe such things.

But that was the thing.

There might not have been hard evidence, but the young man had proven himself before the General’s very eyes. Duke Sethran himself had watched Northern do to Prince Rieran what he could only call a... dismantling.

It was as if he’d looked at the prince as a childish toy and disassembled him before the toy could so much as twitch.

Duke Sethran might remain skeptical about claims of defeating a Tyrant and an Origin—or two, or however many the case may be. But he had witnessed true power. Power he was miserably helpless against.

And he had no choice but to respect that.

So he respected this man.

But at the same time... at the end of the day, Northern was human. Bound to carry human flaws. Pride. Overconfidence. The tendency to underestimate enemies and exaggerate victories.

General Sethran had watched men without power carry entire battles on their backs. He had watched strong men fall despite the overwhelming power they possessed. He had seen trivial, insignificant things make fools of titans.

The world was not all about power. And when he looked at Northern, all he saw was a very inexperienced young man.

Still... he found him interesting.

What other choice did he have? He knew this young man was dreadfully stronger than he was.

Amidst the rising murmurs, the General’s voice cut through:

"What do you mean... you?"

Northern acknowledged the question with a calm smile and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"It’s as simple as it sounds..." He turned to the King. "I’m asking to be given the authority to command your armies. You don’t need to bestow me a noble status or a title—this is only temporary, after all. However, I will need the purport of the office itself."

"Insolence!"

The gold-haired Marquis shot to his feet, his face flushed with indignation. "The King is the only one who has that authority! What you’re asking for is treason!" He turned and bowed stiffly toward the throne. "Your Majesty, this is too rash... given this individual’s capabilities, allowing such a thing would be dangerous beyond measure."

King Ruger smiled. It was a pleasant expression—the kind that preceded something unpleasant.

"Lord Rothgar. You know, I’ve always admired your bravery. You’re a man who doesn’t fear opposition and will voice his stance regardless of the enemy standing before him." The smile didn’t waver. "It’s a bit disappointing how you’re so frightened of the Empire as well, but that’s not the point."

The King’s gaze sharpened.

"Given your careful choice of words, I presume you’re very aware of what this... individual is, and how powerful he is." He let the word hang. "If someone like him decided our Kingdom was not worthy of existence—frankly, I don’t know if we would survive. I am certain, however, that resisting annihilation would come at a terrible cost. Yes. He is someone of that caliber."

The King spread his hands.

"And you stood up. Opened your mouth. Blabbered whatever nonsense crossed your mind... before him." He gestured toward Northern, who sat motionless, watching the Marquis with the same mild interest one might give an insect. "And yet there he is. Still sitting. Still looking at you with that same indifference. Tell me, Lord Rothgar—how many powerful people do you know who are capable of such restraint?"

Lord Rothgar’s gaze dropped to the floor. His hands, hanging at his sides, trembled visibly.

"None... Your Majesty."

The King nodded, his expression unchanging. "Good. So you accept that any other person as strong as this man would have sliced you in two—without moving from his seat—simply to prove a point and dominate this war room. Correct?"

The Marquis’s head bobbed, the motion jerky with fear.

"Y-yes, Your Majesty."

The King exhaled and leaned back into his chair, rubbing his temple.

"If that, Lord Rothgar, isn’t a display of this man’s integrity and trustworthiness, then I don’t know what else could possibly qualify." His voice took on a weary edge. "The fact that he sits at this table with lily-livered raggamuffins playing dress-up, and manages to endure an hour of your desperate posturing and pitiful speeches without incident... I believe that speaks to his willingness to help."

He closed his eyes and pressed two fingers against his brow.

"Gracious stars. Not a single day do I choose to grace this court without leaving with a vicious headache."

Northern found himself silently grateful to the King. He had never been good at reinforcing his own status—had never even seen the need to. If not for wanting to walk the path of a monarch himself, he wouldn’t feel any necessity to demand respect simply because he was strong.

He regarded King Ruger with fresh eyes.

’Perhaps I could learn a thing or two about being a King from him...’

The King turned to face him. "Lord Northern, I have heard your demands." He let his gaze sweep across the court. "Before I make my final decision—is there anyone who has something to say?"

His attention settled first on his childhood friend.

Duke Sethran shook his head.

"I trust your judgment, Your Majesty."

The King turned to Duke Amene.

The blind man had been utterly still throughout the proceedings, arms wrapped around his sword like a lover. Now, finally, he shifted.

Northern, seated beside him, felt his pulse quicken—but not from wariness. Not exactly.

It was greed.

He wanted to see how the man’s EX class talent worked. He wanted to watch it unfold, study it, and then decide whether to copy it for himself. His mouth nearly watered at the prospect, even as the atmosphere around them plunged into cold dread at the Blind Duke’s slightest movement.

Duke Amene raised his head. His eyes were closed, a vertical scar carved across both lids like a brand. For a moment he seemed to stare at the King—impossible, yet unmistakable—before turning that eyeless attention toward Northern.

When he spoke, his voice carried a cool, soft edge. Very gentle.

"I’m curious... about the weight of your blade."