My Talent's Name Is Generator

[Steve’s PoV]

At first, it felt like she was cutting off my right arm, leaving me weaker, exposed. But over the days, I began to see what she was doing. Without all the extras, without leaning on anything else, I had no choice but to meet her blade with nothing but my own.

And somehow, in that stripped-down state, I grew faster. Sharper. My instincts learned to find openings, however small.

My strikes started landing closer, even if they were still crushed in the end. I was bleeding and broken, but I was moving closer to something real.

Finally, I drifted into sleep, my last thought clinging to the image of a morning where my blade would finally draw her blood.

The next day, the cycle began again. Endless drills, heavy physical work that broke down my body before the real training even started. I pushed through it all, waiting for the moment that mattered—the spar.

When it came, we repeated the same exercises we had gone through before. Nothing new, nothing easy. Every swing felt like a test I had already failed and had to face again.

And then, once more, I found myself standing in front of her, sword in hand, heart steady, every muscle coiled to move at a moment’s notice.

Her eyes sharpened, and with a flick of her wrist she unleashed flying slash—thin, shimmering, faster than the eye could follow. I barely lifted my blade in time. The force rattled my arms, cracked the ground beneath my feet, and still the edge grazed my side, carving a fresh line of fire across my ribs.

“You failed again.”

“Almost had it.”

“You almost had nothing.” She stepped forward, and even though she was still a dozen paces away, it felt like she loomed over me. “Do you know what separates killers from swordsmen? Resolve.”

I tightened my grip on my sword, feeling the faint hum of lightning sparking around the blade.

The lessons of the past four days swirled in my mind—blind rush, curses layered with speed, shadows lingering after my cuts.

But Hazel wasn’t teaching me to pile on techniques. She was forcing me to simplify, to strip away hesitation until all that remained was a single, lethal truth.

She raised her blade again, but this time I didn’t wait.

I lunged forward, lightning bursting under my feet, sword cutting down in one savage arc. The world slowed, the shimmer of her slash, the hum of my heart, the way air bent around my swing. For a fraction of a second, I saw it. The weakness. Not in her, but in the attack itself, an edge of energy that wavered, a seam invisible unless you lived in the instant between breaths.

I struck.

My blade cleaved through her slash, scattering it in shards of light. The force threw me back a step, but I landed on my feet, panting, laughing like a madman. “Got you.”

Hazel’s smile was small, but I caught it. “Better. That… was the first step.”

The slash I had just used—half desperation, half instinct—wasn’t a skill in my log. It didn’t carry a system’s name. It was mine. A single, decisive strike that severed weakness itself, faster than thought.

I whispered to myself, “Phantom Severance.” The name felt right. A cut that existed in the blink of an eye, aimed at the flaw no one else could see.

Hazel didn’t comment on the name. She simply tested me again. More slashes rained down, faster, sharper. Each one forced me to find its weakness, to cut at just the right angle, just the right breath. Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes blood sprayed, but each strike honed the edge of my will.

Hours later, I collapsed onto the training ground, sword across my knees, shirt sticking to my skin with sweat and blood. Hazel sat a short distance away, calm as ever. She hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” she said, passing the water bottle to me.

I drank deep, letting the water cool the fire in my throat. “That’s because you’re insane. Normal people don’t call bleeding out a teaching method.”

She smirked. “Normal people don’t survive being a swordsman.”

Fair point.

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling beams above us. “You know, when I was a kid, I didn’t dream of being some abyss-slicing killer. I just wanted to be quick enough to win bar fights, maybe impress a few girls.”

Hazel raised an eyebrow. “And now?”

“Now I want to be the fastest man alive with a blade. I want people to hear my name and know they won’t even see the swing that kills them.”

“That hunger,” she said softly, “will keep you alive. But temper it, or it will burn you hollow. A blade without control cuts the hand that holds it.”

I turned my head toward her. “So what about you? You’ve got that whole ’wise, untouchable master’ vibe going, but what did you want when you started?”

Her expression flickered, just for a second. “Freedom.”

I blinked. “Freedom from what?”

“From expectations. From being the emperor’s sister. From being told what path I was born to walk.” She looked down at her sword, fingers brushing its edge. “The sword gave me that. Every cut was mine, not theirs.”

That silenced me for a moment. I hadn’t expected her to answer, let alone so honestly.

“…You’re tougher than you look,” I said finally. “Also scarier. In a good way.”

She actually laughed at that, a sharp, rare sound. “Careful, Harper. Flattery won’t save you next time.”

“Didn’t say it to save me. Said it because it’s true.”

We sat there a while longer, just breathing, letting the silence stretch comfortably. My body screamed at me to sleep for a week, but my sword hand twitched, itching to try that new cut again. Phantom Severance. It wasn’t perfect yet, but it was mine.

Hazel stood at last, sliding her sword back into its sheath. “Rest while you can. Tomorrow, we begin again.”

I groaned, lying flat on the ground. “Tomorrow, huh? You sure you’re not secretly trying to kill me?”

“If I was, you’d already be dead.”

Fair.

But even as exhaustion pulled me under, I smiled. Because for the first time, I felt like I was cutting closer to the swordsman I wanted to be.