My Talent's Name Is Generator

Like a lot of people, I had often imagined going back in time, revisiting memories, reliving the good moments, maybe even fixing some regrets.

But imagining it was one thing. Living it… was something else entirely.

Those massive green eyes I saw in the darkness weren’t from a monster or a stranger.

They were my father’s.

And before I could process it, I found myself in his arms—tiny, weightless, and warm. I had somehow fallen into one of my childhood memories.

I looked down at my hands, small and pudgy. I couldn’t even form a proper fist. My legs dangled in the air. I must’ve been two years old, maybe younger.

The world around me was brighter, softer. Familiar and distant all at once. I recognized the colors of the walls, the smell of the room. The house I had lived in as a child. My home.

My father looked down at me, those same green eyes blinking slowly before a wide smile spread across his face. He pinched my nose gently and said, his voice booming with pride:

“Billion, tell me—is your father a strong man?”

In a babyish voice, I replied without hesitation, “Yes.”

He laughed, loud and full of life.

“Yes! Your father is the strongest! And you’ll be the strongest too, just like me. But I still don’t get why your mother doesn’t appreciate your strong father.”

I tilted my head at him, confused. The child version of me didn’t understand what he meant. But the older me, buried inside, did.

My father was a strength-chaser, hot-blooded, stubborn, always chasing power. He had a thing for fire. Loud, energetic, and passionate about everything he did.

My mother, on the other hand, was calm and cold, according to Grandma. She liked quiet. Peace. Order.

They never saw eye to eye when it came to raising me. My mother wanted a polite, gentle son. My father? He wanted a wild, fiery brute who’d punch his way through life.

He adjusted his grip on me and started walking toward the front door.

I watched everything around me—the house, the furniture, the way the sunlight touched the floorboards.

Then the door opened, and we stepped out into the front garden.

My eyes landed on the back of a woman sitting in the middle of the garden. Her long hair flowed behind her, swaying gently in the breeze.

She was focused, completely absorbed in what she was doing, sketching something on a large canvas spread out before her.

The sound of our footsteps must’ve reached her, because she turned around. As soon as her eyes found me, a warm smile lit up her face.

I couldn’t stop myself. I stretched my little arms toward her and called out, “Mama!”

She set her brushes aside without hesitation and stood up, her arms already reaching for me.

“My baby,” she said with a laugh, “why did you wake up so early today?”

I didn’t answer, just giggled in response.

She stepped up and gently took me from my father’s arms, lifting me like I weighed nothing. Her lips pressed against my cheek, and then she nuzzled her face into mine. Her touch was soft, her warmth familiar.

Then she leaned back and said, “Come, let Mother show you what she’s been drawing.”

Still holding me, she turned and led the way toward the easel.

As we got closer, I could see it clearly.

The sketch was of a young boy, maybe six or seven years old. He had long hair, green eyes, and a playful smile. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets. The boy looked confident, happy.

She looked down at me again and said, “Do you know who this is? This is you, when you grow up into a handsome boy.”

I stared at the drawing. I didn’t fully understand it, but I recognized the green eyes. I noticed the smile, it matched the one people always said I had.

My father stepped up beside us and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Maybe you should give him a weapon. A big hammer in one hand. And take the shirt off, bare chest. That’d look even better.”

My mother scoffed, half amused and half annoyed. “You can draw that yourself. Don’t ruin my painting of our handsome little gentleman.”

I giggled again, safe in her arms.

One moment, everything was calm and beautiful.

Then a thunderclap shattered the sky, ripping through the peace like a scream.

The sky turned red—completely red—as if someone had set it on fire. Another boom followed, louder and deeper, rolling through the clouds. It echoed again and again, until it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

My mother’s arms tightened around me. I felt her chest rise as she lifted her head to look at the sky. My father stepped forward and stood in front of us, shielding us without a word.

Then, out of the red clouds, a figure floated down. Thunder cracked again as she appeared, tall, pale, calm.

Back then, I didn’t know who she was. My baby eyes couldn’t understand.

But the me watching now… I knew exactly who that was.

Miss Red.

The same woman who sent me into this memory.

She floated down slowly, still wearing the same flowery dress I had seen her in before. In one hand, she held a red apple. She took a bite from it just as she landed a few feet in front of my parents.

Her black eyes locked onto my tiny form, still cradled in my mother’s arms.

“So these are your parents,” she said, smiling. “I can see where you get those good looks.”

My father immediately stepped in front of her, blocking her view of me.

His voice was calm but cold. “Who are you?”

She waved her hand lazily and smiled. “Just a visitor, out for a stroll. Doing a bit of work. But I wouldn’t mind if you gifted me your baby.”

I heard my father reply without hesitation.

“Are you insane, woman?”

She giggled.

“Maybe.”

That was all it took.

The next moment, my father vanished from his spot. Wind roared as he moved, and a loud boom split the air. His fist slammed into her chest with blinding speed.

Boom.

Her body exploded. A burst of blood rained across the garden, and nothing remained of her but scattered droplets.

My mother shook her head.

“You could’ve at least listened to her.”

My father didn’t reply. He just stared at the blood, his body still and tense.

“She trespassed,” he said flatly. “On private property.”

I kept my eyes on his back. Power was pouring off him in waves. It was almost hard to breathe near him.

My mother spoke again, her voice softer.

“You’re scaring Billion—”

But she didn’t get to finish.

The scattered blood droplets shivered, then floated together. They reformed—bone, flesh, skin.

Miss Red stood once more, brushing dust from her dress.

“You’re such a rude man, Mr. Father,” she said cheerfully. “I only came to introduce myself.”

I couldn’t see my father’s face, but the air grew heavy, so heavy that the trees stopped swaying and the birds fell silent.

Then, another explosion.

Boom.

The earth around him cracked, dented by the pressure of his power. The ground rose beneath Red, grabbing her legs, her body, her neck—everything except her face.

The earth hardened into crystal, trapping her in place.

She chuckled.

“Ohhh, you’re strong. Aren’t you?”

My father pressed his palms together. The crystal around her compressed, squeezing tighter until it hugged her like skin. Her legs sank into the ground, buried up to her knees.

Then he raised one finger.

And her head exploded.

The world went quiet again.

Blood trickled down the diamond prison. But even that didn’t last.

The blood gathered, reformed—and her face came back, smiling.

She cracked her neck left and right, then looked straight into my eyes.

“My turn,” she whispered.

My heart dropped.

The baby version of me watched with curiosity, unaware of the danger. But I knew. I knew something terrible was about to happen. This was just a memory. She was immortal here. My family wasn’t.

Suddenly, my father’s body froze.

He floated upward, arms outstretched.

Then, boom.

A thunderbolt crashed from the sky and struck him directly. His body exploded into rain.

I heard my mother scream, her voice tearing through the garden.

“Noooooooo!”

She raised one hand toward Miss Red, and space itself cracked. A sharp slice of energy flew out and hit Red’s head, blowing it apart.

But my mother didn’t stop to watch.

She clutched me tightly to her chest and leapt over the garden wall.

Still, my mind stayed behind—stuck on the sight of my father’s body exploding into pieces.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry and shout and beg.

But no sound came out.

My mouth opened and closed helplessly, like I was drowning in silence.

My mother ran with terrifying speed, her arms tight around me as we rushed down the street. Wind howled past us, but she didn’t stop—not until she had no choice.

Miss Red stood ahead, blocking our path.