My Talent's Name Is Generator

Above the battlefield, storm clouds twisted in chaos as Arkas and Brutus clashed with enough force to shake the sky itself.

Their bodies moved like bolts of lightning and flame, Arkas with his lightning trident, Brutus with his heavy gauntlets, both of them Grandmasters honed by decades of war. Thunder cracked as they crashed together, sparks flying from each strike.

Arkas jabbed forward with a sweep of his trident. Brutus ducked beneath it and responded with a fiery punch that cracked the air and sent waves of heat downward.

They circled each other in the sky. Wind howled between them. Brutus came again, punching upward with a flame-covered uppercut that Arkas barely dodged.

Arkas twisted in midair, flipped above him, and drove his trident down like a spear. Brutus caught it between both gauntlets, flames bursting around his arms.

“You haven’t changed at all,” Brutus spat, fire crackling along his body.

“I changed enough to survive,” Arkas growled back. “You didn’t.”

Then they both pulled away, hovering at opposite ends of the storm, hundreds of meters apart.

Arkas raised his trident to the sky. Lightning screamed in every direction. The clouds responded to his call, flashing with power as the air grew dense and electric.

He held the trident in both hands, Essence coiling along its length. The storm condensed into a single bolt of shaped energy, a massive weapon easily hundred meters long.

“[Destructive Wish].”

He roared and hurled it downward, aimed directly at Brutus.

At the same time, Brutus roared and drew his hand back. Fire exploded around him like a rising ocean. His gauntlets blazed, and the sea of flames gathered into a single point. From it, a giant flaming spear surged upward like a volcano erupting into the sky.

“[Burning Wish].”

The two weapons, lightning and fire, rushed toward each other, colliding with a sound like the sky splitting in half.

The explosion rocked the battlefield. The clouds trembled. The air twisted and howled as arcs of lightning and tendrils of flame spiraled out from the impact point.

And then, from the shadows below, Edgar moved.

His bat-like shadow expanded to a monstrous size, its wings outstretched behind him. The air seemed to darken around him as he streaked upward.

While Brutus was still suspended in the stormy sky, stuck between their attacks, something stirred in the shadows.

Above him, the clouds twisted unnaturally as Edgar emerged, his body half-shrouded by the monstrous silhouette that had taken shape behind him.

The shadow bat spread its wings wide, its form towering. From one massive wing, a claw began to form. It stretched and thickened, shaped by raw killing intent, until it was the size of a house.

The sky dimmed further as the claw descended.

It flashed forward and crashed into Brutus.

The impact was thunderous. The claw struck Brutus like a falling mountain, slamming into his entire side and folding him inward with a crunch that echoed across the battlefield.

The force hurled him downward, limbs flailing as flames burst uncontrollably from his body. He spun out of control, trailing smoke and sparks like a dying comet before smashing into the ground hard enough to crack the very earth open beneath him.

The crater that formed swallowed rubble and bodies alike. Smoke billowed high, and dust shot outward like a shockwave.

Before he could recover, Edgar followed, his shadow slamming down with him. The bat-shaped Essence twisted and wrapped around Brutus’s broken body, binding him completely. Tendrils wrapped around his limbs, tightening.

Then the bat leaned down.

Its jaw opened wide.

And it bit into Brutus’s head.

A horrible crunch echoed through the battlefield.

Silence followed.

The Holt Grandmaster was dead.

The field, which had been roaring with the sounds of combat only seconds before, went quiet.

Across the broken base, Holt soldiers and their remaining Grandmasters stopped moving. Shock spread like wildfire. Their strongest leader had just fallen.

A few of them screamed.

Some turned and ran, racing toward the edge of the barrier Arkas had activated earlier. They attacked the invisible wall with all they had, firing skills, slashing with blades, launching desperate strikes.

But it held firm.

The Empire’s Grandmasters gave chase.

A new wave of battles began, this time more desperate, more personal. It was no longer a war, it was a hunt.

Above it all, Arkas slowly floated down. Lightning still crackled weakly along his arms. Dust brushed off his robes as he hovered over Brutus’s headless corpse.

He looked at it for a long time.

“I knew him for thirty years,” Arkas said, his voice quiet.

Edgar stood a few feet away, his shadows already retracting, folding back into his body. He said nothing, just stared at the broken remains.

I landed beside them, watching the final phase of the battle unfold.

There weren’t many Holt soldiers left now. Most were already dead. Others had dropped their weapons, realizing escape was impossible. A few still fought, clinging to whatever hope they could find.

“It’s over,” I said softly.

Together, the three of us watched.

Lyrate stood atop a pile of fallen enemies, her sword tightly clenched in her hand. Mist curled around her ankles as she raised her hand and summoned another wave of roots.

Steve stood not far from her, spinning in a blur of speed. His sword flashed again and again, cutting down any enemy still standing.

North fought alongside a small group of Empire Masters, holding the southern edge of the battlefield.

The field was red.

The clouds above rumbled.

And Brutus’s death marked the beginning of the end.

The dust finally began to settle.

High above, the thick storm clouds started to thin, and for the first time since Arkas’ battle, sunlight broke through. Golden rays spilled over the ruined battlefield. But the warmth did not reach the ground.

Destruction remained everywhere. Smoke rose from shattered towers, charred bodies lay scattered across the stone, and deep craters marked the places where great powers had clashed. Buildings were split in half. The ground was cracked, burnt, and torn.

Nearly ten thousand Holt soldiers had died.

And the rest… had surrendered.

The battle was over.

“I’ll lower the pocket space soon,” Arkas said, his voice quieter now.

“Hmm,” Edgar replied with a nod, his arms crossed. The shadowy mist behind him slowly faded, shrinking back into his core.

Arkas turned toward me. His gaze was sharp but approving.

“You’ve grown really strong,” he said. “Use the next two days to Rank Up. We’ll need your help when we face Peanu.”

I gave a small nod. “That was the plan. The Emperor agreed too.”

Arkas gave a faint smile before looking away.

Then Edgar spoke, breaking the silence. “What about your summons? Will they Rank Up as well?”

I glanced toward the battlefield where Lyrate stood calmly.

“Hopefully,” I said.

Edgar let out a low laugh and shook his head. “Crazy.”

We stood there in silence for a few moments, watching the sky clear. A breeze moved through the broken camp, carrying with it the scent of smoke and blood.

The war wasn’t over. But this battle was won.