My Talent's Name Is Generator

[Hazel's PoV]

I stood on the hill, my eyes locked on the massive eagle hovering high above. Its wings beat slowly, heavy with power, and yet it didn't descend. The summoned creature of that boy, Billion.

I tried once more to scan it, to see its level, to measure what it truly was. But the numbers refused to reveal themselves to me. Not even a flicker. That unsettled me. What manner of summon could ignore the system's gaze? And how had Billion gained the ability to call forth such a beast? From where? From what depths?

My thoughts began to spiral, chasing mysteries I could not grasp, so I shook my head and forced myself back to the present.

I lowered my gaze from the sky to the capital far in the distance. The roofs, the walls, the banners swaying faintly in the wind.

A memory pushed itself into my mind, unbidden. My son's laugh, small hands tugging at my sleeve as he begged me to fly him through the palace again. My husband's warm smile as he sat on his desk, watching us. They were both gone now, claimed by the war against Peanu. That laughter, that smile, I could not even collect their bodies.

I clenched my fists. The skin stretched tight across my knuckles, and I felt the heat rising in me again. It was always there, just beneath the surface. Anger. Grief. Rage so sharp it felt like glass in my throat.

My brother had locked me away, told me it was for my own good. Told me my grief would drive me to do something reckless. And maybe he was right. But he did not understand. How could he? He still had his throne, his cause, his people to lead. I had nothing left.

All I could see was the faces I had lost. All I could feel was the hollow ache of their absence.

And under it all, a single thought that burned brighter than the rest: if fate would not give me back what it had taken, then it could take everything else too.

I exhaled slowly, forcing calm onto my face.

My eyes flicked to my brother, who stood straight before everyone, exactly like Father had taught us to stand.

He moved the way a ruler should, steady, controlled, every line of him practiced until it looked natural. He had always been a good man, and a better emperor. He never married. He said he was content that I had a son to carry the Rayleigh blood.

He lived for duty. Even his push to break through Grandmaster rank felt like duty, another step to protect the world properly.

I remembered him training late into the night, shoulders tight, jaw set, never letting himself fall into soft things.

I saw his face that day when he realised my husband and son were gone.

For a moment the hard lines cracked and something like a raw, quiet grief slid through him. It was small, just a blink but I saw it.

He looked as if the world had shifted under his feet. Then he folded that look away and chose the work instead. He chose duty.

I could not blame him. He had a throne; he had people depending on him. He did what a ruler must do. Still, I knew the look in his eyes had not left him. I knew guilt lived there, a slow thing that ate at him night after night. Maybe he died a little inside each day, the way I did.

But he was strong in a way I wasn't. He could carry the weight and keep walking. I couldn't.

I closed my eyes and let the hill, the soldiers, even the beast in the sky fade away. For a moment, I let myself fall back into a memory I had tried to bury a thousand times.

It was late afternoon, the sun shining the palace gardens in gold. My son, Rian, only twelve, had been running through the grass with a wooden sword clutched in his hands. He shouted as he swung at shadows, his small feet kicking up dirt, his voice ringing bright in the air.

"Again!" he shouted, breathless, turning to face my brother.

The emperor was standing with arms crossed, watching. His face was stern, but his eyes were soft. I could tell he wanted to scold Rian for rushing his steps, but instead he sighed and picked up a training staff.

"You hold it too high," he said, stepping forward. His voice was low, calm, the same voice he used to command armies, but gentler now. "Like this."

Rian's eyes focused as my brother adjusted his grip, steadying the boy's small hands. "Uncle, will I be strong like you one day?" he asked, looking up at him with a grin that could melt steel.

My brother didn't answer right away. He glanced at me sitting under the shade of the old tree and I could see the weight in his eyes even then. Then he bent down, level with Rian, and spoke.

"You'll be stronger," he said quietly. "Stronger than me. But not because of this." He tapped the wooden sword. "Because you'll learn when to use it… and when not to."

Rian frowned, as if trying to understand the meaning, then broke into a smile. "Then you'll be teaching me some cool skills, right?"

My brother gave the smallest of nods. "Offcourse."

I remembered laughing softly, shaking my head as I called out, "Don't promise him. He wants ice related skills with his sword."

But inside, I had felt my chest swell with pride. My son, my little boy, standing so tall with his wooden sword. My brother, guiding him with the same patience Father once showed us. For that brief, shining moment, the world had been perfect.

My hand tightened on the hilt as I pulled myself out of the memory.

The laugh that wanted to burst from my chest felt like a crack—half pain, half madness. Being a grandmaster made it harder, not easier, to forget. Every small thing stayed: the pitch of Rian's laugh, the way Father taught my brother to stand. Those details lodged in me like splinters.

I forced my eyes back to the sky where Silver hovered and to Steve, talking to it. I told myself to wait, to hold back. My brother's face flashed in my mind and that steadied me for a second.

Still, a hot, ugly urge coiled under my ribs. I wanted them to finish fast, to stop their talk, so I could unleash what I had kept chained inside for so long. I wanted to tear this world open and let everything burn.