My Talent's Name Is Generator

Lyrate chased after another man through the trees. He didn’t turn to fight like the others. Maybe he was smart enough to know he was the weakest among them. But it didn’t matter. His ending was the same.

She flowed behind him like a ghost, her body made of crimson mist. In seconds, the mist wrapped around him, spinning into a tight cyclone. Before he could even scream, the cyclone shifted direction and rushed away—leaving behind a clean pile of body parts. Arms, legs, and his head all stacked neatly, like someone had arranged them on purpose.

Lyrate reformed beside the pieces. Her feet touched the forest floor, but she stayed still. She didn’t chase after anyone this time.

Her sword dissolved into the mist, and she brought her hands together, fingers curled in a quiet gesture—almost like a prayer. Her long red hair floated gently around her, glowing softly in the moonlight.

Then the mist around her stirred.

Three tendrils burst from her back. Long, whip-like, and alive—each made of the same thick crimson mist. They looked like tentacles, but moved more like roots, writhing and pulsing with power.

The tentacles slammed into the ground. Dirt exploded as they burrowed underground, disappearing in three different directions toward the running men.

One of them tripped over a root. Another looked back just once and made the mistake of slowing down. The third tried jumping up into the trees to escape.

It didn’t work.

The ground beneath each of them cracked open, and the tentacles burst out. Each one grabbed a man around the waist, coiling tight like a snake. The air filled with screams and panicked shouts, but the tentacles were already dragging them back—pulling them through the forest floor like sacks of meat, crashing them into trees and boulders.

They fought, of course. One blasted a fireball. Another tried cutting the tentacle with his blade. But it was useless. Their attacks passed through the mist, and the tentacles just healed themselves as they pulled the men in.