My Talent's Name Is Generator

Chapter 282: Finally….No More Attacks

[Skill Evolved]

[Garden Of Death -> Lotus of Annihilation Level 1]

I ignored the notification and nudged the Null Heart.

The white core within my chest trembled—and then, with a sharp snap, a glowing blue chain burst out from it, lashing through the air and piercing straight into the swirling Deathmist.

A shriek tore through the space, high-pitched and unnatural, as something was yanked from the mist.

A crimson core, faintly translucent and pulsing with roiling Deathmist, was pulled free. The chain jerked back, dragging the struggling core toward me, until it slammed into my chest and merged seamlessly into the growing cluster within the Null Heart.

The phantom’s soul fragment fused into the already existing fragment of the phantom’s core. The rhythm of the spin changed. Faster. Heavier.

Then it happened.

A tremor ran through my Generator Core. My body seized up for an instant—and my vision went black.

******

Darkness swallowed my vision, and I knew what was coming. I waited patiently, just like the last time, when I had acquired Silver’s fragment and was shown a vision.

Then… a flicker.

Faint light seeped through the black, and colors began to shape a scene.

I stood in a clearing bathed in soft moonlight, the air crisp and cool. Around me, young elves trained on a vast stone platform surrounded by ancient trees.

Their movements were swift and precise as they practiced martial arts—spinning, striking, and dodging in fluid harmony. Two older elves, clad in ceremonial robes, paced along the sidelines, their eyes sharp and voices commanding.

One of them stopped and pointed toward a girl with golden eyes—Lyrate, around twelve years old. She stepped forward to spar with another elf boy. As the match began, a small voice called out from the crowd.

“Go, Lya!” a girl no older than seven cheered from the edges of the platform, hopping excitedly. Her golden braids bounced, and her smile beamed like the moonlight.

Lyrate smiled gently at her younger sister before turning to face her opponent.

She moved with grace and control. All her skills were way above the boy. And yet, there was care in her blows—she never struck to injure. When she finally disarmed the boy, she caught his fall and helped him up with a soft nod.

The elders frowned.

“Lyrate, your mercy weakens you. This is not the way of warriors,” one snapped.

But she didn’t respond. She only returned to her place, her little sister running up and hugging her side.

“You were amazing,” the girl whispered.

Lyrate said nothing, but her hand gently rested on her sister’s head.

Another flicker.

She was older now—eighteen, maybe. Her golden eyes were calmer, steadier. But the forest behind her had changed. It was scorched and broken, the trees dark and hollow.

She stood before a small group of elves—her sister among them—frightened and bruised, cornered by a hulking Abomination. Its form twitched and bubbled with corruption, clawed limbs clicking grotesquely. Its roar echoed through the ruined glade.

Lyrate stepped forward.

She didn’t hesitate.

She hurled herself into the fight, blades flashing silver in the firelight. The Abomination landed a blow, knocking her back, blood spraying from her mouth. Her sister screamed, trying to run to her.

“No! Stay back!” Lyrate shouted, forcing herself to stand again.

She lunged forward, dodging a claw, driving both blades into the beast’s chest—but it didn’t stop. It roared and swung wildly, catching two of the young elves behind her.

Blood sprayed. Screams rang out. They were gone before they hit the ground.

The world seemed to freeze.

She turned slowly, eyes wide, then fell to her knees beside the bodies. Her sister trembled behind her, eyes filled with tears.

Other elf warriors arrived but they were too late.

They dragged the survivors away, shouting orders and blaming words.

“This was your mercy, Lyrate! You hesitated! You let them believe they didn’t need to fight!”

She didn’t respond.

She looked down at her hands—red, trembling—and then at her sister, who clung to her silently.

Something inside her broke.

The vision flickered and shifted again.

Gone were the forests. Gone was the moonlight.

Now only cliffs remained—sun-scorched, jagged, stained with centuries of blood. In the center stood Lyrate. Her cloak fluttered in the wind. Her hair was streaked with silver. Her eyes… empty.

She held something in her arms.

Her sister.

The girl was older now—maybe in her teens—but lifeless, her form limp and bloodied, cradled against Lyrate’s chest. One side of her face was torn open. Her body barely intact.

Lyrate stood in the canyon holding her, as other elves approached from both sides.

“You’ve gone too far, Lyrate. This isn’t the way. Please—stand down,” one of the commanders pleaded.

She laid her sister’s body gently on the ground and stood, her back to the wind.

No words.

Just a spear of red metal forming above her hand.

She cast it forward.

It tore through the front lines like a scream.

The battle that followed wasn’t one. It was a massacre.

Lyrate’s magic obeyed her will like a curse. Wind sliced skin. Earth swallowed bones. Roots burst forth, impaling without warning. Elves screamed and begged.

She didn’t flinch.

She walked past them, cutting down those who remained.

There was no kindness left in her eyes.

Only silence.

The vision flickered once more.

The chamber was silent, its smooth white walls etched with patterns of flying birds frozen in mid-flight.

In the center sat Lyrate.

Her silver hair now faded into pale ash, bound behind her head in an unceremonious knot. Wrinkles lined the corners of her golden eyes. She sat cross-legged, hands resting on her knees, eyes closed in unflinching focus.

Before her floated a single seed.

It hung in the air, motionless. Then, the air trembled.

Essence rippled through the chamber—barely visible, but immense. Like waves rippling over still water, space around the seed distorted. Then something began to stir.

A soft crack.

A shoot pushed its way out of the seed’s shell. Roots extended downward, though they found no earth. Branches grew upward, leaves bloomed—thin, delicate, veined with glowing green threads. A fully-formed plant hovered in midair, impossibly vibrant, suspended by will alone.

The seed had become life.

Her eyes opened.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t react. Her gaze moved—slow, exacting—until it locked onto the blooming plant.

She raised a single finger.

A light green droplet formed at the tip of the plant’s highest leaf. It quivered, then detached, floating through the air. The drop glowed faintly, it paused for the briefest moment before merging into her forehead—right between her brows.

The moment it entered, the plant began to wither.

Leaves shriveled and turned to dust. Branches blackened. Roots disintegrated. The entire creation curled inward on itself, drained of everything. Within seconds, there was nothing left but a faint shimmer in the air—and then even that was gone.

The chamber fell still again.

Her eyes, now empty of light, stared forward—focused on nothing, feeling nothing. Distant. Hollow.

Then she closed them.

Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!