My Talent's Name Is Generator-Chapter 172: Fifty Shades of Wind

Chapter 172: Fifty Shades of Wind

After I finished setting up my little advantage, I sat back down on the cold floor and let my breath settle.

Xin called out from the other cell, his voice slightly curious.

“Hey, kid. What did you just do? I felt the Essence shift in your cell.”

I let out a small chuckle.

“What could I possibly do in here, old man? I’m just as caged as you are.”

He scoffed but didn’t press any further. The cell fell into silence again.

I leaned a little closer to Steve and whispered,”How’s your recovery coming along?”

His eyes were still closed, but I saw a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

“I think I’m doing alright,” he murmured.

“Good,” I whispered again. “Want to train a bit?”

He furrowed his brows in confusion.

“Train? How?”

I shifted slightly and flicked a tiny wind blade from my fingertip toward his leg. It was sharp enough to sting but harmless. The blade zipped through the air and lightly grazed his thigh.

His eyes snapped open wide as the realization hit him. Then he looked at me, scoffing.

“Show off.”

I grinned.

“So? You in?”

He gave a slow nod, then asked more seriously,

“Are you planning to escape?”

I shook my head.

“Not yet. First off, I have no idea how to even get out of this cell. Second… why would I rush it? We don’t know anything about what’s going on outside yet. Let’s get roughed up a bit by King and see where they take us. After that, we’ll come up with a real plan.”

He listened quietly, then nodded again.

“Alright,” I said with a grin. “Here’s what we’ll do, you try dodging, and I’ll attack. Easy enough, yeah?”

He stood up and asked me.

“Are you sure they’re not watching us from somewhere?” Steve asked.

I chuckled.

“Nope. Not even a little. There’s a Grandmaster in this realm, I’ve got no idea what he’s capable of. But there’s no way in hell I’m just going to sit quietly. Actually, I can’t sit still. That’s not me. Still, I do believe they’re not watching.”

That confidence came from my Essence perception. I had scanned every inch of the cell—every crack in the walls, every corner of the ceiling and floor. Nothing. No runes, no transfer seals like the ones I’d seen outside.

If they had something even more advanced, something beyond my reach… well, so be it. I was ready to face whatever came next.

****

The darkness in the cell was absolute. No flickers of torchlight. No cracks in the stone. Just thick, suffocating black and the sound of our own breathing.

We stood a few feet apart.

The [Essence Engine] thrummed inside me, steady as a heartbeat. It pulled in scraps of energy from the air, feeding the generator core. The white sphere at its center spun slowly, glowing faintly in my perception.

I lifted my hand slightly, not enough to strain the cuffs, just enough to channel. A thin blade of wind took shape—silent, near weightless. I flicked it toward Steve’s arm.

A hiss of air. A faint sting. He flinched, just a little, too late to dodge.

Another blade. I sent it toward his side.

The sound of movement, he shifted again, this time quicker, but still not enough. The blade kissed his ribs and faded.

He grunted but didn’t complain. That was good.

I whispered, voice low and steady. “Don’t wait for the pain. Try to feel the air shift before it comes.”

No reply. Just a slow exhale. His stance adjusted, legs slightly apart, arms loose, body alert.

Another blade. I sent it low, toward his knee.

This time, he jerked his leg back. Still slow, but the blade missed by an inch.

Better.

I kept the rhythm. I didn’t want him to relax. I didn’t want myself to either.

A blade from above now, angled downward toward his shoulder.

He shifted again, reacting too late. It caught him on the collarbone and vanished.

No words. No curses. Just a quiet breath. Resetting.

Again.

He stood in the pitch black, no vision to guide him, only instincts. No Essence to help him, only nerves and breath and sound.

It wasn’t much. But this was how soldiers were made.

The darkness didn’t matter. My Psynapse bloomed beyond it.

While Steve tried to sharpen his senses, I trained my control.

I raised both hands, feeling the cuffs strain slightly, and called the Essence around me. Wind coiled to my will, fine threads drawn from the air.

Four wind blades formed, floating quietly in the pitch-black cell. They hovered in a loose orbit around me, thin and sharp. I focused on their shape—length, weight, edge. Then I twisted.

The blades bent, shimmered, and folded into spheres.

Each one now spun silently, the air condensed inside to near vibration. It was easier than I expected. Keeping them stable while shifting their structure required layered intent, pressure, direction, edge memory. My Psynapse surged.

The wind bent to my will like it was born for it.

I shaped six blades in the air—razor-thin and silent, orbiting me with perfect coordination. My Psynapse didn’t strain. It simply obeyed.

With a flick of thought, I transformed them into spheres. The transition was seamless. Air compressed into tight orbs, each humming faintly, invisible in the dark but pulsing in my perception.

I fired one toward Steve’s side.

He flinched too late. The orb struck and burst with a soft thud against his ribs.

I shifted the spheres again, this time into dense, short daggers. Compact and deadly in form, they spun slowly in place. I let them hover, then redirected one at Steve’s shoulder.

He ducked. A little faster this time. Progress.

The remaining daggers swirled in a tight spiral around me. I spread them out, then reformed them into long needles—thin as hair, sharper than bone. Their flight was effortless. I kept them in motion, rotating above my shoulders, ready to strike at any angle.

Another flick. A needle whispered through the air toward Steve’s leg.

He dodged again, barely. His instincts were improving, even if his body lagged behind.

I kept moving.

The six needles snapped into spinning discs, then into spheres again. The transformations were fluid, instant.

A blade curved toward Steve’s chest. He swayed aside but caught the edge. A low grunt followed, but he stayed standing.

Good.

I shifted the wind forms one last time—spheres, then daggers, then a wide arc of flat pressure that rippled outward like a fan.

Steve’s hair fluttered from the passing wind.

I conjured a few more needles and kept the pressure on him while I focused on shaping new wind blades.

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