My Talent's Name Is Generator Chapter 695: Left Commander Rael

We weren’t exactly prisoners, but we were buried deep within the heart of the enemy's lair.

For the time being, we were playing the part of honored guests.

While a total escape wasn't a certainty, I felt fully capable of keeping us hidden if the situation turned sour.

My gaze swept across the third layer as my perception granted me a comprehensive map of the surroundings. I noted cargo hubs, medical bays, living quarters, and storage centers. Then, I focused on the three security checkpoints Dravon’s vessel had navigated earlier—each one fortified and guarded with much more intensity than the rest of the facility.

Beyond that final checkpoint lay nothing but the veil shield.

If things went south, attempting to pass through that shield in the open would be a death sentence. To avoid that, I required multiple layers of contingencies.

I set to work.

Moving with deliberate patience, I flickered through space using short, precise jumps. I never lingered in a single spot for more than sixty seconds. At every stop, I folded a tiny segment of space inward, slicing it away from the void to create a hidden pocket.

Within each of these spatial pockets, I carved a teleportation circle.

These weren't basic arrays. They were intricate, multi-layered constructs—runes anchored by my soul energy, stabilized through Essence, and masked so perfectly that even Transcendents passing by would perceive nothing more than a minor spatial tremor, easily dismissed as the background noise of the battlefield.

I tucked the first three pocket spaces between the various checkpoints.

I chose their positions with care, ensuring I could leap from one to the next without ever stepping into a monitored corridor. Should a retreat become necessary, we wouldn't have to blast our way through the checkpoints; we would simply vanish into the gaps between them.

The next two were established near the primary cargo stations. The constant activity and the chaotic mess of Essence signatures in those sectors made them the perfect place to hide in plain sight.

I placed another near the infirmary platform. I paused briefly before committing to the spot, but the tactical logic was sound. No one would bat an eye at a sudden spatial fluctuation near a hub of emergency transports and wounded soldiers.

Two more were anchored near the private quarters—far enough to stay out of direct scanning range, but close enough to be effective for a quiet extraction.

The ninth pocket space was my most critical anchor.

I situated it between the second and third layers, hidden within a dead zone where conflicting Essence flows collided and neutralized one another. From this vantage point, I could either strike toward the veil shield or dive deeper into the lair if the path was blocked.

Once the task was finished, I took a moment to let my perception verify all nine locations.

They remained stable.

Every pocket space held firm, and every teleportation circle was flawless. They existed in perfect harmony without interference. If the need arose, we could traverse the entire third layer without a single soul noticing our movements.

I let out a slow, measured breath.

This wasn't a finished escape route, but it was a guarantee that we wouldn't be slaughtered like cornered animals.

With the safety net in place, I shifted my focus. Preparation for escape was only half the battle.

Now, I needed to master the layout of the battlefield so thoroughly that running wouldn't even be necessary. With that goal in mind, I ventured toward the second layer.

The atmosphere shifted the instant I crossed the boundary.

While the third layer felt rigid and sharp—like a blade held at someone's throat—the second layer felt oppressive and heavy. This was the staging ground where the defenders rested and recovered before being thrown back into the meat grinder of war. Huge, barracks-like structures floated in disciplined rows, all oriented toward the core layer and the distant, haunting radiance of the rift.

I allowed my perception to spread out silently.

I drifted through corridors packed with wounded demons resting on reinforced cots. Some were missing limbs, while others bore gashes that refused to close because the distorted laws of the rift fought against healing magic. Medics moved between the rows with grim efficiency. This wasn't a scene of chaos; it was a practiced routine. That realization made it even more chilling.

I observed the same horrific injuries repeating in every hall. Charred flesh. Shattered bones. Torn muscles that would never truly regain their strength.

The soldiers moved on autopilot, instinctively knowing which platform to occupy or which medic to signal without uttering a word. Names were no longer exchanged. The healers didn't need them. They worked with blank expressions and steady hands, saving lives simply because it was the only task they had left.

Nevertheless, there were flickers of hope.

Individuals like Dravon walked among the injured, pausing to offer a brief word or a supportive hand on a shoulder. There were no grand speeches—just a presence. It was proof that the strong were still standing and that they hadn't been abandoned.

I also detected the presence of other races. There were mercenaries, volunteers, and refugees with nowhere else to turn. Although they were resting, their minds were restless. Many stared blankly into the void, their eyes unfocused as if they were trapped in a loop of their own worst memories.

Exhaustion clung to the second layer like a thick, suffocating mist.

There were exceptions, of course. A few hundred demons moved with clear intent, their Essence burning steady and bright. These were the veterans, like Dravon—warriors who had mastered the art of survival without losing their minds. But they were the minority.

I moved closer to one of the larger installations and slowed down when a conversation caught my attention.

"...the Fourth Battalion was decimated," a demon murmured, his voice hushed and low.

"They walked right into the trap," another answered, his tone dripping with suppressed anger. "A perfect ambush. It was too clean. Too precise."

I scanned the group and identified two Transcendents among them. Their auras were tightly suppressed, but I could tell they were also nursing injuries.

"What is the status of Left Commander Rael?" a third voice inquired.

Silence stretched out for a long moment.

"He's alive," one of the Transcendents finally whispered. "But only just. Left Commander Rael was severely wounded. They managed to extract him just before the formation broke. He’s been moved to the Arx-9 medical facility."

The conversation died there.

I committed that name to memory.

Rael. Left Commander. Fallen in an ambush.

As the silence deepened, I continued my reconnaissance.

This layer displayed the true price of the conflict far more vividly than the third. Here, there were no shields to mask the fatigue, and no walls could dampen the sense of hopelessness. Every floating structure was burdened by the weight of what had been lost.

I kept drifting from one platform to another, remaining a shadow. Every few buildings, I anchored another pocket space, each containing a teleportation circle locked with runes and soul energy. I linked them all into a single network.

By the time I set my sights on the Arx-9 medical base, one truth had become undeniably clear. This entire battlefield was bleeding out.