I Can Copy And Evolve Talents - Chapter 1317 Silent Agony

Chapter 1317  Silent Agony

Duke Amene was in silent agony.

His muscles burned with an ache that felt borrowed from a twelve-hour battle, yet the reality—the humiliating, undeniable reality—was that mere seconds had passed. Seconds. The knowledge settled into his bones like cold water.

This was one of the reasons for his true agony.

His opponent had possessed enough leisure to count the time while they were battling. The young sir had been tracking seconds while Duke Amene had been drowning, scraping against death with every blocked strike, treating each dodged blade like a gift from fortune itself.

‘He was counting.’

The words echoed through him, hollow and sharp.

Northern had fought as if running from death—every sword strike the Duke blocked or dodged felt like a product of desperate luck, not skill. He had been barely scraping out of each attack, his body screaming with the effort of survival.

And Northern had been counting.

When he had smelled the happiness radiating from the young sir, Duke Amene had thought—foolishly, it seemed now—that Northern was enjoying the challenge. That they were sharing something. Even suffering as he was from merely blocking and dodging, to bring such wild passion from a man through sword alone… Duke Amene had felt a strange joy in that.

For that moment, he had believed he felt the weight of Northern’s sword. He had believed he understood it completely.

‘The burden of solitude.’

Just like himself, but on a far larger scale. A scale befitting a Paragon.

The thought had sparked something dangerous in his chest. Perhaps it was time to take a step further into soul progression. Perhaps becoming an Ascendant would allow him to comprehend what he had only glimpsed. Perhaps… perhaps he could reach this young man.

Then Northern had broken his sword sheath.

And mentioned counting the time.

A dark realization settled in Duke Amene’s throat. It had legs, that realization—legs made of broken glass that tore through him as it descended.

He had been wrong. Catastrophically, fundamentally wrong.

Northern’s sword, its weight—it was not the burden of solitude. It was simply… incomprehensible. There existed no framework in the Duke’s mind capable of containing it. No reference point. No analogy that did not collapse under examination.

If Northern, not taking their battle seriously, had driven Duke Amene to thread along the edge of imminent death—then what would happen if Northern decided to fight at full strength?

The memory surfaced unbidden: what had happened to Prince Rieran. The Duke had not been there, had only heard the whispered accounts afterward. Stripping someone of their entire moveset before they even attempted execution. Dismantling a person without moving a single finger.

‘What in the world…’

Northern was incomprehensible.

Duke Amene hated that he could not even fathom the peak of this man’s strength. He had believed he could. He had been so certain.

But he could not.

And that certainty’s collapse put him in agony. It drenched him in the agony of shame—a shame that soaked through his pride and pooled in places he had thought long-since fortified.

He was strong. He had always been strong, and he was content with that strength. Blessed with talent, intelligent despite the painful cost that talent had extracted from him in his early years. When he became a Master, the pain of his gift had begun to recede. When he became a Sage—a master of many weapons, able to wield any blade and know instantly how to handle it, his proficiency growing the longer he fought—he had finally felt whole.

He was strong in every sense of the word.

Fifteen years ago, during a monster flood from one of the deep caves, he had stood alone and protected the miners from a horde of nightmares. He had won countless battles, both against monsters and humans, and those victories had earned him the Merit of a Duke.

He had been proud of himself.

Until now.

He didn’t even know who this young sir truly was. There were no proper achievements attached to his name—nothing that couldn’t be dismissed. He killed an Origin. He killed a Tyrant. Maybe two. Achievements that the public could easily file away as fallacy, as exaggeration, as the embellished tales that surrounded any rising figure.

But when he considered it properly—how had he not seen this coming?

He knew little about Origins, but he knew much about Tyrants. They were the most twisted, wrong existence that could be structured on the essence of profanity. To kill one required a madness that no normal man could endure and remain whole.

So when Northern had claimed to kill a Tyrant, Duke Amene should have known. The very claim should have told him everything.

And now that he thought about it, he felt stupid and ashamed for neglecting such an obvious detail. The evidence had been there. He had simply refused to see it.

It was his defeat.

He knew he was the one who had declared this wasn’t about winning or losing. He had said those words himself. But this scenario slammed his palate with the baneful taste of defeat regardless. It was unmistakably what it tasted like—bitter and metallic and difficult to purge from the mouth.

But amidst it all, Duke Amene sought understanding.

He sought growth. To learn from this young sir, no matter how young he was. To become stronger.

Perhaps with Northern, he could dare to dream past becoming a Paragon.

The sound of movement reached him—Northern’s hand extending toward him, accompanied by the smell of a kind smile. It was a very misleading smile. The entire ambience surrounding the young man—the smell, the sound, the warmth that radiated from him—all of it was kind and polite.

As if this was simply Northern. Simply who he was.

Which made it all the more misleading.

The Duke sighed, the sound carrying more weight than he intended, and grasped Northern’s hand. He let the young sir pull him to his feet.

Northern’s tone was carefree, light as if they had merely been stretching rather than dancing with mortality.

“Have you been able to feel the weight you wanted to feel?”

Duke Amene wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. He looked away for a moment—gathering himself, finding the words—and then shook his head.

“What an absurd question.” A breath of something that was almost laughter escaped him. “The weight of your sword… I don’t even know the answer to that. But it does make me wonder—if the entire sky were to fall on us, just how heavy would it be?”

Northern blinked at him.

Duke Amene laughed then, genuinely, the sound surprising even himself.

“Oh goodness. Sir Northern, you’re an amazing person! Stars! Are you even a person at all?” He shook his head, still smiling despite everything. “It’s tough to say. But I am most certainly glad that you’re on our side. Imagining you to be against us is making my stomach turn.” He paused, considering. “Or am I just hungry? Did I use up all my digested food in a mere matter of seconds?”

He shook his head again, this time with a dejection that was half-performance and half-genuine, and looked at Northern one final time.

“Please, young sir… Sir Northern.” The formality felt necessary now. “Do not hesitate to instruct me every now and then. Your guidance is priceless. It kept me alive today.”

Northern was still staring blankly as the Duke walked away.

Duke Amene found himself humming a joyous tune—strange, considering everything. But perhaps not so strange. He had touched something incomprehensible and survived.

Perhaps that was its own kind of victory.