I Can Copy And Evolve Talents

Chapter 1314: The Sweet Smell of Serotonin

There was something Northern completely loved about Chrysler’s talent as he tested it out. In fact, from the moment he’d laid eyes on it, he had been smitten.

Love at first sight. He’d suspected as much, and this battle only confirmed it.

Knight Chrysler’s talent worked like a freaking battle art.

The first ability regulated his blades—both weapons moved in perfect synchronization without any prior training in dual-wielding. No matter what footwork he employed, no matter how shabby his steps might be, the synchronization between the two swords couldn’t be disrupted.

And Northern’s steps were anything but shabby.

He destroyed the Gentleman’s movements with a whirlwind of strikes that trailed dark wind in their wake. Sparks sprayed through the air as the Duke blocked on sheer instinct, but each parry cost him—he couldn’t maintain his defense without sacrificing any hope of counterattack.

That was the entire point of blocking, of course. But Duke Amene was fast. Fast enough that against most opponents, he could defend and counter in the same breath.

Against Northern, that confidence shattered.

In one devastating spray of steel, both the Duke’s arms flew wide. By the time he registered the opening, Northern was already unwinding from a twirl, one blade sweeping from behind to cleave him in half.

Duke Amene’s instincts kicked in—and he remembered Northern’s advice.

Ironically.

He drove his foot into the sand, strength bolstering through his legs, and sand sprayed into the air. Not enough to disturb Northern’s incoming blade. The sword simply cut through the sand itself, particles splitting around the edge.

But stopping the sword had never been the point. The Duke wasn’t blocking—he was dodging. He used the ground as a springboard, pushing himself backward while activating two abilities simultaneously. The sand was merely a side effect.

He landed hard, huffing and puffing. Sweat rolled down his face. He didn’t know when that had started.

Meanwhile, Northern was spitting sand out of his mouth, eyes squeezed shut against the grit.

"Damn it, I think I ate sand. What crap was that? That’s unfair!"

He glanced up, trying to imagine the state of his hair. From his angle, he could see it was tangled with sand, sticking out at angles that would make his mother weep.

"Do you even know how much effort my mum put into styling this hair?" Northern brushed at it, scowling. "It’s all a mess now!"

Duke Amene couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. He wasn’t sure how many hours they’d been fighting—hours where he’d been clawing for survival with every exchange—and this young sir was upset about his hair?

Northern looked at him, the irritation vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

"I was messing around to analyze your talent, but I’m done now. No point keeping up this charade."

He placed both swords casually across his shoulder.

"You have a talent that strengthens you over time. Speed, strength, even your swordsmanship—or rather, the efficiency of whatever weapon you’re holding. You could pick up a dinner plate and fight effectively with it."

’It works somewhat like Tempest Cadence, but better. EX class for you, I suppose.’

"It’s a shame, though." Northern tilted his head. "You’re too careful. You’re already blind—what worse could happen?"

Duke Amene’s expression darkened. "That’s an insensitive thing to say."

"It’s the truth, though." Northern smiled, just slightly. "Okay then. Let’s checkmate this hassle."

"Check...mate?"

Duke Amene was still processing the word when Northern simply appeared in front of him.

He staggered backward in a frenzy, sword and sheath flying out to meet the attack. Northern’s black longsword descended, and they entered a dance of sound and sparks that arced through the air—a devastating rhythm too fast for the naked eye to follow.

Duke Amene stopped thinking. Stopped trying to be careful. He followed sound for movement, trusted his talent, let recklessness guide him exactly as Northern had suggested.

For a moment—just a moment—he matched the dance of Northern’s blade.

Incomplete arcs of black and silver spilled into the air, backed by the rapid percussion of clashing steel.

Northern noticed.

’This man... is he stealing my advice? Perhaps I too should try taking my own advice sometime.’

[First Blood Rhythm] stacked attack buffs with each hit—his attack speed climbing by ten percent per connection. The Duke’s hands accelerated to match, his sleeve becoming a white blur. His scabbard and sword worked in strange but perfect tandem.

The sheath couldn’t block directly, so it snuck beneath the flat of Northern’s blade to disrupt its momentum, buying just enough time for the main sword to deflect the follow-up. Northern learned the pattern and closed the gap—but the Duke’s talent learned too, teaching him new ways to slip past Northern’s timing.

Not that the Duke could land a hit. He knew that. He prioritized the attempts anyway, because even a second of hesitation from Northern meant everything.

They moved across the sand at a steady pace, but their swords were anything but steady. Sand kicked up around them. The wind fled, afraid of becoming collateral.

Northern’s expression as they exchanged lethal blows was disturbing.

He was smiling.

Duke Amene was struggling. His arms ached. His ears couldn’t keep pace with the sounds anymore. He’d entered a flow state—he recognized it—a state where he couldn’t afford to focus on anything except the rhythm of battle. His talent was being utilized in ways he’d never experienced in his entire life.

He’d never known he could fight this well.

But it was agony. He couldn’t sustain this. He was burning through his soul essence like a spoiled young master spending his inheritance.

And yet his opponent wore a disturbing smile. A look of pure joy.

If only the blind man could see the expression on Northern’s face.

That expression would destroy him before the sword ever did.

The Gentleman of Ash and Flame couldn’t see Northern’s expression. But he could hear and smell it.

The quickened rhythm of Northern’s breath. The sweet scent of serotonin bleeding off him.

It made no sense.

’Is he... happy?’