My Talent's Name Is Generator

My head throbbed from the last hit, a deep pulsing pain that blended with the lingering ache from earlier when I tried to push my perception too far. Every attempt to extend it ended the same way, an explosion of pain in my skull like someone was drilling behind my eyes.

Still, I wasn’t done trying.

I focused inward, gathering strength through my core. For a brief second, the energy stirred. I felt it rise through my limbs… and then it vanished again, scattered like dust in the wind.

I knew right away what was happening. Even through the pounding in my skull, I sensed it. The energy wasn’t just fading—it was being pulled, siphoned through the cuffs on my wrists and then dispersed harmlessly into the air around me. Like water leaking through cracks, it was simply gone.

So I shifted my attention. If the cuffs were draining my gathered energy, I needed to know what else they were doing. What could I still do, if anything?

Before I could think it through, one of the men stepped forward and grabbed me by the hair, yanking me upright. I clenched my teeth.

He raised a hand to my chest. I could feel it—that familiar tingling of wind element gathering in his palm. He was charging up an attack.

So I tried to hit back.

I activated [Havoc Sfera], pushing Essence into my palm to form a fireball. For a moment, it worked. The Essence surged out of my channels like it always did—hot, wild, ready. But before I could shape it, a white-hot pain exploded behind my eyes, and I lost all control.

The fireball fizzled into nothing.

And then his wind attack struck me square in the chest.

Boom.

My body flew across the cell, slammed into the stone wall with a sickening crunch, and flopped onto the floor like a sack of meat. A sharp, burning pain flared through my ribs and chest. I felt something wet pooling beneath me, blood.

I didn’t get up.

I just lay there, chest heaving in shallow gasps.

Then I heard King’s voice, calm and casual.

“Bring the other one here as well.”

A few moments later, Steve was dragged into my cell. I tracked him with what little perception I had left, watching as he squinted in the darkness, trying to find me.

“Here, let me help you look for your friend,” King said. I saw him take off his goggles and place them over Steve’s face.

Steve turned his head toward me, and for a second, he didn’t say anything.

Then he looked at King and muttered, “You’re a bitch.”

That got a laugh out of me, even through the pain.

The man next to King didn’t find it funny. He stepped forward and kicked Steve hard in the chest, sending him flying back into the wall.

And then King gave the order.

“Beat him too.”

What followed wasn’t just a beating. It was a message.

For five long minutes, the two men worked Steve over just like they did me. Every punch, every kick, was brutal and practiced. When they were done, he was on the floor next to me, breathing raggedly, bruised and bloodied.

King walked over and planted his boot on my face.

“We’ll meet again tomorrow, Billion,” he said. “For the next three days, it’s just you and me.”

Then he turned and left, taking his men with him.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Steve coughed and said in a hoarse voice, “This much was expected.”

I let out a faint hum.

“Are you angry?” he asked after a moment.

Another hum.

“How much?”

“Very,” I replied quietly.

He paused, then asked, “Why?”

I gave a weak chuckle. “Because he’s weak.”

There was silence. Then he asked, “Are you going to kill him?”

“Yes,” I answered without hesitation.

And that was it. We went quiet again, both of us trying to recover.

I shifted slowly onto my back. My body was already at work healing itself. My passive helped my muscles regenerate faster, and with my high constitution, the damage would fade sooner than it should have.

Steve wasn’t so lucky, but he’d be fine. Give him until tomorrow and he’d be back on his feet.

The thought made me smile despite everything. King really was trying his best to piss us off.

My thoughts drifted to the collar and cuffs again.

I understood their purpose now. The collar severed my connection to my Psynapse, stopping me from controlling Essence or using skills. The cuffs absorbed my gathered energy and dispersed it, probably through some law-based mechanism.

But the more I understood them, the more confident I became.

I could break them. Not now, not yet, but soon. And when I did, I wouldn’t just break them. I’d use them.

Eventually, I forced myself up, shaky but determined. I limped over to Steve and carefully dragged him toward the wall, helping him sit upright.

Then I sat beside him.

I glanced over at Steve.

“Want me to patch you up?” I asked, my voice low.

He shook his head. “No. I’ll recover. This isn’t much.”

I nodded, already feeling my eyelids getting heavy. “Alright. I’m going to take a nap,” I mumbled, closing my eyes.

And before I knew it, I was out cold.

**** [Steve’s POV]

I listened to Billion snoring beside me.

That guy could sleep through anything. I always found it impressive, his ability to pass out like a stone, no matter the pain, no matter the place.

I shifted slightly, adjusting my legs, and winced at the sharp jolt that shot through my ribs. Still, I’d taken worse. We both had. Honestly, I was expecting more than just a few bruises and a cracked rib.

My hands instinctively searched for something that wasn’t there, my sword. I missed it already.

This mission… I volunteered for it. I knew it would be brutal, and Arkas made sure I was ready. His training was a nightmare—days blurred into pain and drills—but it was worth it.

And so far, this hellhole hadn’t disappointed me.

This place was hiding something. I could feel it in my bones. Secrets, power, corruption. All the right ingredients for the kind of chaos that could make or break people like us.

And if we stirred it just right, there was a chance, just a chance, I could grow faster. Stronger.

The real goal? Completing this mission to earn the Feran’s transformation skill.

Arkas and I had talked about it. He was blunt, as always—this mission was my shot at breaking into the realm of true elites. I believed him. How could I not? He’s the one who helped me get Final Severance, and that skill changed everything.

A single clean strike. That was all it took.

I’d killed an Abomination eight levels higher than me with it. Just one swing.

And that kill awakened something deeper, my class.

I opened my panel, eyes scanning over the words that still gave me chills.

[Class – Death’s Touch (Epic)] : A single slash is equal to Death’s hand. Once your blade finds flesh, no one returns.

[Attributes Gained] : Strength +2 Constitution +2 Psynapse +2 Dexterity +3

Skills:

[Blind Rush]: Let instinct take the reins. Fight long enough, and your blade will find the weakest link.

[Bladed Curse]: The faster your swing, the heavier the toll. Each slash drains the enemy’s strength, cursed by your momentum.

It was clear—this class wasn’t about defense. It wasn’t about patience or control.

It was about ending lives. Fast.

Every skill I had now was built for that. Final Severance carved a path straight to the enemy’s fatal flaw. Blind Rush helped me spot that weakness faster. And Bladed Curse? That turned my second strike into a death sentence.

Because sometimes, Final Severance alone wasn’t enough, especially against someone stronger. But with Bladed Curse eating away at them, that second blow almost always sealed the deal.

That’s why I took the lightning movement skill from Arkas too. My sword was fast, but my legs needed to catch up. Speed was everything now.

I exhaled slowly and dismissed the panel.

The Holts would pay for this. I had no doubt.

Billion might not know it yet, but there was something dark inside him. A villain, quiet and buried. Most people back at the academy weren’t strong enough to drag it out of him.

But the Holts?

They just might be.

And when that side of Billion woke up… it would be unforgiving.

**** [Billion’s POV]

My eyes fluttered open at the sound of a voice.

I blinked a few times, letting the haze clear, then extended my perception out of habit.

The voice came again, louder this time.

“Hey, you dead?”

It was coming from the cell across from ours. One of the prisoners.

The man was built like a boulder—broad shoulders, thick beard and mustache, and a jagged scar running just below his right eye. He had the kind of face that looked like it had seen too many battles and not enough sleep.

I scoffed, voice dry.

“Not yet, kind sir.”

He let out a chuckle. “Easy there, kid. Don’t bite my head off—I wasn’t the one who beat you to a pulp.”