I Can Copy And Evolve Talents

Chapter 756: The Ominous Abomination

Northern struck. Flashing across the expanse with a trail of light, he became a streak of brilliance, a blade of motion cutting through the stagnant air. His figure blurred, then fractured—splitting into silhouettes of himself, each a mirage of intent, each a ghostly echo of the real. The blade in his grasp howled, vibrating with the force of his charge.

Several hands tore out of the rift guardian’s body, writhing like twisted tendrils as they shot toward him, seeking to crush him mid-air. Northern twisted, veering through their grasp with instinctive precision. Maneuvering past them was easy.

Or so he thought—until the next moment proved otherwise.

Walking, he was used to. Even running at impossible speeds, his body and mind remained in perfect sync. But flying? That was a different beast altogether. The moment he had awakened to the ability, it had felt natural, an extension of his will. Yet bending space mid-flight, adjusting his course with the same finesse he had on land, was another challenge entirely.

He was fast—too fast. His movements were sharp, but without the necessary control, he found himself overshooting, slipping past his intended trajectory by mere inches.

The hands tore through the wind, relentlessly pursuing him as he curved and twisted through the air. They lashed out, seeking to ensnare him, to drag him back into their crushing grasp.

At first, his movements were raw—sharp but imprecise, lacking the balance between speed and control. Yet with each evasion, each sudden burst of motion, he refined his technique.

It took him a moment, but he began to grasp the rhythm of his flight. He wasn’t just dodging anymore—he was maneuvering, threading himself through the storm of hands while striking back in turn.

Northern shot straight into the sky, the rift guardian’s tendrils lunging after him in a desperate attempt to seize him. The moment they closed in, he suddenly twisted—his body snapping into a rapid descent. He plummeted like a falling star, his sword a streak of silver light as he spun and unleashed a flurry of strikes.

Blades of radiance wove an intricate pattern in the sky, arcs of silver light gleaming against the clear day. His sword danced in seamless strokes, each cut carrying weight, precision, and devastating speed.

The pursuing hands were severed in droves, tumbling down in writhing pieces—like a butcher carving through meat with skill that bordered on the transcendental.

Northern landed, the force of his descent sending stones flying in every direction. For a moment, the entire space seemed to hold its breath. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone—flashing forward in a streak of light. His sword cut through the air, a silver arc of death, and in an instant, he stood before the main body of the rift guardian.

The creature reeled, its form staggering from the relentless onslaught. Its severed hands twitched on the ground, the damage severe enough to force a brief moment of withdrawal.

Before it could react, Northern struck. His blade carved an upward arc, biting deep into the creature’s flesh and tearing through it with merciless precision. A sickening spray of maroon blood erupted, gushing out in torrents, drenching both Northern and the ground beneath him.

A deafening screech split the air—thick with hatred and malice. The sound vibrated with something primal, something cursed.

Then the metal blade embedded in the creature’s eye began to tremble. It shuddered violently, the resonance growing, the very air quivering with the intensity. The sound that followed was like thunder rolling across the clouds, a low, rumbling force that sent shockwaves through the battlefield.

Northern looked up at the creature, his expression darkening.

His body grew cold as that unsettling feeling from earlier came again, plunging his entire body into a cold sea with a mighty and gigantic hand—one he couldn’t struggle against, forcing him to stay beneath and drown. That was how unsettling the feeling was.

And yet, he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He just knew something was wrong with this monster that shouldn’t be happening to a Maelstrom—a Calamitous Maelstrom at that.

Northern had fought enough of them to know that this Maelstrom monster was radiating a level of power far beyond its rank and level.

Which bred an ominous feeling—something that warned him that this was definitely not right.

He kept his eyes up, observing the vibrating piece of metal that had blinded the monster’s eyes, or perhaps served as eyes.

For all Northern could tell, the creature was not capable of perfect sight, but its hands had no trouble finding their way to him.

Which meant the monster perceived somehow.

While lost in thought, a horrific shriek tore through the air—like a colossal blade being wrenched from a sheath of ruthless stone. The sound was jagged, grating, and filled with an unnatural resonance that gnawed at the bones.

Northern shuddered. A visceral tremor ran through his limbs, his muscles locking for the briefest of moments. The air around him felt heavier, as though an unseen force was pressing down, crushing the very breath from his lungs. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs, its rhythm erratic, drumming like war drums before a massacre.

Yet his gaze never wavered. He had seen it the instant it happened.

The jagged metal spears lodged in the creature’s eye suddenly wrenched free, as though torn from flesh by an unseen hand. The force of their release sent a sickening squelch through the battlefield, followed by the grotesque gurgle of ruptured tissue.

Rivers of viscous black liquid, thick as tar and reeking of decay, erupted from the gaping wound. The inky substance cascaded down the creature’s massive, sinuous frame, steaming as it touched the ground, as though the earth itself recoiled from its corruption.

The battlefield reeked of iron and something far fouler, something ancient and defiled.

The blades hung in the air, each one an ominous monolith of sharpened steel, over ten meters long. They stood rigid, suspended by an unseen force, humming with an energy that sent a shiver rippling through Northern’s spine.

It wasn’t just power—it was something more, something intelligent. Something that made his skin crawl, as if an unseen entity were watching him from above with a gaze steeped in condescension.

Northern’s eyes shifted, tearing away from the hollow, weeping sockets of the rift guardian to the hovering weapons.

A moment passed. A moment of ferocious silence.

The wind howled through the mountains, its whisper threading through the air like a dark hymn, an omen of the violence to come. The stillness was suffocating—an eerie pause, thick with tension.

Then the blades lunged.

Northern moved. His sword flashed forward with a streak of silver defiance, colliding with the onslaught with lethal precision.

A cacophony of metallic thunder roared through the sky as the two forces met, the impact sending a shockwave rippling outward. Sparks erupted like dying stars, scattering in every direction.

Northern’s teeth clenched. A white-hot agony lanced through his arm, as if his very bones had been fractured by the sheer force of the strike.

His hand—his entire forearm—felt as if it had been shredded from the inside out, nerves screaming in protest.

For a fleeting second, he thought he could bear it. He had endured worse.

But then his fingers faltered.

His grip failed.

His sword slipped from his grasp, tumbling from his hand and clattering against the ground with a hollow, ringing echo.

Northern staggered, his breath sharp and uneven. He bent forward, his trembling hand clutching at itself, trying to suppress the involuntary spasms wracking through his arm.

’Grrhh... shit! What the hell is this?!’

The pain intensified, becoming a merciless torment that burrowed deeper, as though unseen fangs were rending his muscles apart from within.

His entire body quivered beneath the tumultuous pressure of the impact. It wasn’t just his hand—it was his whole frame, trembling as though caught in an unseen vice.

He couldn’t even straighten himself.

And the blade—cold, merciless, implacable—was already circling for another strike.