I Can Copy And Evolve Talents-Chapter 890: ...To Be Weak Is To Be Human

The exhaustion was bone-deep.

He flexed his fingers, feeling that residual tension. A low concern threaded his thoughts.

Would the clone still be able to draw out as much power?

He shook his head. That worry wasn't for now. No time to doubt.

With slow, deliberate steps, he entered the bathroom, turned the shower on, and lowered his head into the stream. The cold water struck his scalp and trickled down, numbing his senses.

He stood motionless beneath the spray.

It wasn't cleansing—it was grounding.

A few long minutes passed before he reached for the soap and scrub, cleaning his body with mechanical efficiency. Once done, he stepped out, dried off, and threw on a plain tracksuit.

Simple. Functional.

Just as he opened the door to leave his room, a figure jerked backward, startled.

Northern's brow furrowed.

"What are you doing?" he asked sharply.

Aster stood there, sheepish and awkward. His eyes—downturned, almost apologetic—held a subtle smile.

"We haven't talked much these days," he said, voice soft. "I was checking up on you."

Northern grimaced at the words.

Aster immediately stepped back, palms raised in defense.

"I'm sorry if I pissed you off… I was just—"

"It's not you," Northern muttered, cutting him off.

He didn't look at him. Just turned away.

"The day's long. Get proper rest."

Without another word, Northern walked down the hallway, his steps slow but steady. The corridor was dimly lit, shadows stretching across the walls as if echoing his thoughts.

A deep frown marked his face.

'Crap… I'm more affected than I thought.'

The truth hit him like a dull blade.

Aster had been at his door all along.

And Northern hadn't noticed.

His spatial awareness was usually immaculate—never absent without his consent. There were times when he deliberately withdrew it for silence, for meditation—but never had it faded without his knowledge.

This was different. This was dangerous.

He could only draw one conclusion: his body, strained to the limit, was beginning to fracture in more ways than he realized.

Spatial awareness was a function of the body and mind working in harmony. If one suffered, the other followed.

And right now, his body felt like an overstretched rubber band—thin, worn, and ready to snap.

'This is bad. Very bad.'

The Milhwa Festival's final battles were meant to be a showcase—his chance to dominate, to solidify fear and awe.

And he was entering them weakened.

He stepped outside the mansion into the freezing breath of early morning. The air wrapped around him like a ghost, and twilight cast a pale hue across the corner of his face.

His glare was cold. Ghastly.

A slow grin tugged at the corner of his lips.

He whispered to himself with a low voice.

"Well… it wouldn't be such a bad thing now, would it?"

Weakened or not, this was the perfect opportunity.

If these students—these so-called elites—were truly strong, this would show it. Let them face him like this. Let them have the advantage of vigor.

So he'd be able to gauge them.

…And break them.

Even in a broken shell, he remained Northern—the one who turned storms into silence, who bled with control, who laughed in the eye of collapse.

And he wasn't done.

Not yet.

Northern's pace picked up. He began to jog, silent steps echoing faintly along the estate's private roads. His movements were clean—measured—gliding over the sidewalk as he weaved past mansion after mansion, never entering, just cutting through their front yards like a passing breeze.

***

Eventually, he slowed, then stopped.

A small park greeted him—secluded, quiet, and untouched. He sat on a bench nestled beneath two towering trees. In warmer seasons, their wide-reaching branches would cast dappled light, offering calm shade to anyone seeking solace.

But now, in the grip of winter, those branches were bare—stripped and heavy with snow.

The cold that lingered beneath them was sharp. It sank deep, made Northern shiver uncontrollably.

That wasn't normal.

He had endured blistering volcanoes and heat of fiercest forge, trudged through frozen hellscapes. Neither heat nor cold had ever shaken him. His body, honed and hardened by void and chaos, had remained indifferent.

But now? He could feel it. Every breath stung. The chill bit through him like teeth.

'So this is what weakness feels like…'

It dragged his thoughts back to the countryside of his childhood. Nights spent wrapped in four thick blankets, shivering despite them. His mother's worried voice. The rickety walls that let the cold in like whispers.

He hadn't remembered that in years.

Since becoming a Drifter, sensations like this had faded into irrelevance. Cold and heat were numbers in a report—nothing more.

But not today.

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His body was frayed—broken—from cutting off the hand of a Leviathan. A task that even now echoed through his bones like a warning bell.

Yet, somehow, he was smiling.

He looked up at the pale, biting sun. Its light was harsh, its warmth absent, but it filled the sky all the same.

"It's good to feel human again... I guess."

His voice was quiet, nearly lost in the wind.

Then, he sensed it—another presence. A girl walking toward him. Her white hair flowed with the breeze, strands lifted like silk threads in the air. She was small in stature, but her presence weighed heavily on the space around her.

Northern instinctively wanted to stand—to leave before conversation could begin.

But then he paused.

Why?

So he stayed.

He leaned back on the bench, his head tilted toward the sky, letting the moment stretch.

She reached the shade. He shifted slightly, just enough to glance at her.

"Can I sit?" she asked, voice clear against the hush.

Northern met her eyes, then nodded.

"Of course," he said.