My Talent's Name Is Generator

Chapter 291: Lyrate’s Night Dance

I sat cross-legged on one of the peaks, eyes closed, surrounded by the stillness of night. Distant shrieks and guttural growls echoed across the mountain range, abominations stirring in the dark but I ignored them all.

My perception was focused on a single point, the entry path where the Holts usually slipped into the range. Azalea had told me they’d be investigating tonight. I was waiting.

The plan was simple: kill the investigation party, capture one of them, and drag them back for interrogation.

I had briefly considered attacking their base to cause chaos, but now that I could freely move in and out of the realm, that kind of stunt felt unnecessary. Risky, even. It would only put them on high alert.

Besides, I needed more information. I wanted to know what Steve was up to outside. What plans they’d come up with. And I wouldn’t mind flexing a little when I showed up again in front of Arkas and Edgar with results they couldn’t even imagine.

My mind wandered briefly—to North, and to Unit 02. But I pushed the thoughts down before they settled. I didn’t want to think about them. Not right now.

Time passed slowly. The night stretched on, cool and quiet, but I stayed completely still, focused on the boundary of my perception.

Then....I felt it.

A disturbance. Like ripples in still water, movement entered my perception range.

A small smile tugged at my lips.

”They’re here.”

Twelve figures rushed across the terrain below, heading straight into the mountain range. At the front of the group was someone I recognized instantly, Grey Holt, King’s cousin.

I finally got a good look at his level.

[Grey Holt – Level 186]

Impressive, but not the highest.

My gaze shifted to another man at the rear, a little broader, moving with heavy but measured steps.

[Bruno Holt – Level 194]

So he was the real threat.

The others weren’t pushovers either. All of them were above Level 170. This wasn’t a scouting party, it was a serious strike team.

”Perfect.”

I raised my hand and summoned Lyrate.

Crimson mist burst from the core behind me, coiling in the air before settling beside me. Lyrate emerged from it, her crimson hair dancing in the wind, her eyes glowing red in the dark.

”Lyrate,” I said, keeping my voice low but firm, ”go down there and kill all of them....except the strongest two. Those you can injure, but don’t kill. I want them alive.”

She didn’t speak.

I felt her agreement through our mental link.

Without a word, her body dissolved into mist once again and rushed down from the peak like a wave of crimson death.

The hunt had begun.

And I stayed right where I was, smiling to myself, waiting to see how much fun my Phantom elf was going to have.

They moved fast, the group of twelve.

Their boots thudded across the earth as they rushed deeper into the mountain range, unaware of what waited for them in the dark.

That’s when it started.

The sound.

A strange gurgling—wet and sudden.

They heard it too.

The group halted mid-run. One of the men at the back made a choking noise. The others turned, confused.

Then they saw it.

His mouth was full of blood. His eyes wide, shocked. He tried to speak, but no sound came. Then, slowly—far too slowly—his head slid off his neck and hit the ground with a dull thud.

”Scatter.” Bruno shouted.

The team scattered, weapons drawn, forming a tight circle. They shouted each other’s names, trying to understand what just happened.

But it was already too late.

The mist rolled in, crimson and thick, swirling low over the ground like something alive. And from that mist, she stepped out.

Lyrate.

She didn’t make a sound. Her sword gleamed in her hand, and her hair flowed behind her like silk lit by fire. Her eyes glowed softly....calm, cold, and completely empty of emotion.

She hovered a few inches above the ground, mist curling beneath her feet.

When they looked at her their jaws dropped in surprise.

Someone shouted from the group.

”An Elf?”

The man leading the group stepped forward. His voice was rough and cautious.

”Who are you?”

Lyrate didn’t answer. She didn’t even look at him.

Instead, her head slowly turned toward a soldier standing off to her right. He had pressed his back against a tree, trying to protect himself from a surprise attack.

But he was already in one.

Lyrate raised her sword and pointed at him.

In the very next breath, a thick spike of wood shot out from the tree behind him. It punched clean through his chest and burst out of the front of his armor, dragging blood with it.

”Elon!” a few of his comrades shouted in horror.

But it was too late.

Elon’s head dropped forward, lifeless, his body hanging on the spike like a broken doll.

This time, there were no more questions.

Bruno Holt stepped forward, his face dark with rage.

”Attack,” he growled.

One of the men standing right beside Grey suddenly raised his hand toward Lyrate and shouted, ”Bind!”

Thick roots burst out from the ground, twisting and shooting straight toward her.

I raised an eyebrow and leaned forward slightly, already imagining the result.

You don’t use anything related to wood or nature against her. That was just asking for it.

The roots that were supposed to trap her slowed just before they reached her body. Then, as if caressed by some invisible hand, they softened and wrapped around her gently. Bright flowers bloomed across their surface like a crown offered in surrender.

The man who had cast the spell froze in shock, his eyes wide.

Lyrate turned her head slowly and looked at him.

Then her body dissolved into mist.

”Watch out!” someone shouted.

Lyrate reappeared behind the man, and with one clean slice, his head dropped from his neck and hit the forest floor with a dull thud.

”Ahhh!”

The shout came from Bruno Holt.

He was a large, thickly built man—middle-aged, covered in scars, and carrying a massive greatsword. His face twisted in rage as he let out a roar and launched himself toward Lyrate, the sword raised high above his head.

He brought it crashing down.

Lyrate sidestepped effortlessly.

BOOM!

Bruno’s sword smashed into the earth like a falling boulder, throwing up a blast of soil and grass. But she didn’t stick around.

Before the dust could even settle, her body scattered again into crimson mist.

A moment later, roots exploded from the ground nearby, piercing straight through two more of his men. The thick tendrils lifted their twitching bodies into the air and surged toward the rest of the group like hungry snakes.

”Scatter!” Bruno roared.

This time, they obeyed. Finally.

The remaining survivors dashed into the forest, shields up and spells forming, trying to split up and defend against the roots.

”Stupid,” I muttered under my breath from my place high on the mountain peak.

They had just entered her garden.

And in this garden, only she chose who bloomed and who died.

A wave of crimson mist rushed toward one of the fleeing men.

He glanced back, eyes widening as the red fog chased him like a living storm. Panic hit him and he spun around, throwing his arm forward.

A roar of fire exploded through the dark forest, bathing the trees in flickering light. A wide wave of flames surged straight toward the mist.

But it didn’t stop her.

The fire split down the middle like water, and from within, Lyrate stepped out. She swung her sword once.

A crimson arc burst from her blade and shot toward the man like a flash of red lightning.

He screamed and slashed forward with his own fire blade. The two attacks collided in midair, a blast of shockwaves rippling out and shaking the trees around them. Leaves flew, smoke swirled, and dust clouded the scene.

When it all cleared, the forest was quiet again.

And the man?

He hung in the air, lifeless, skewered clean through the chest by a thick tree branch that hadn’t been there before. It pierced him like a stake, holding him a few feet off the ground, his arms limp, his head drooped forward.