My Talent's Name Is Generator Chapter 710: Collateral Damage

The signal arrived to a void battlefield that was already thrumming with anticipation.

Between the defensive fortifications of the vacuum, two colossal armadas lingered in a tense silence, separated only by the vast distance and mutual restraint. Organized in layered arcs, the demon formations consisted of endless ranks of soldiers floating in perfect alignment, their Essence flickering like embers waiting for a spark.

Opposite them, the Eternal army loomed like a spreading blight. Grotesque masses of abominations clustered together while Phantoms drifted through their ranks, cold and towering, their very presence distorting the surrounding void.

Watching from a distance, I stretched my perception across the theater of war, sensing the pressure mount with every breath.

Ragnar stood at the vanguard of the demon host.

Saleos had already introduced him to his direct subordinates. He had appointed Ragnar as his acting right commander while Phegor recuperated from his wounds, presenting the move as a temporary necessity to help Ragnar adjust to the rhythm of this specific battlefield.

Thirteen captains served under Ragnar, each a veteran forged by years of conflict at this rift. Among their number, two carried rune anchors within their bodies, their Essence signatures corrupted in ways that remained hidden to most. Saleos was aware. I was aware. And now, Ragnar was aware as well.

Those two captains remained close to his side, their gazes grim and their focus locked on the approaching foe. They were under the impression they were being trusted. They believed this was a moment of opportunity.

When the Eternal forces finally charged, the signal flared.

The battlefield erupted into chaotic motion.

Both armies lunged forward simultaneously, closing the gap with a ferocity that seemed to warp space itself. Roaring as they advanced, the misshapen abominations tore through the void with raw power. The demon soldiers met them with a disciplined counter-charge, their formations tightening as shields shimmered and weapons blazed with Essence.

Ragnar was the first to strike.

He lunged forward, his massive frame descending through the void like a falling mountain. His club, radiating Essence and a swirling crimson mist, descended in a savage arc, crashing into the lead wave of abominations with enough impact to implode their bodies.

BOOM!!!

Corrupted Essence, flesh, and bone shattered under the blow, dissolving into nothingness.

“Come on, you ugly things,” Ragnar roared, his shout reverberating across the void. “I’ve smashed mountains far tougher than you.”

Gravity warped around him as he spun in a sudden ripple.

Commanding the Force Law, he dragged his enemies toward him against their will. Abominations lost their footing mid-charge, pulled off balance as Ragnar waded into the thick of them, swinging his club in wide, catastrophic sweeps. Every hit delivered a crushing weight, causing bodies to buckle and collapse as if hammered by invisible giants.

“What a brute human.”

A group of Phantoms descended to halt his progress.

Three moved in unison, their figures blurring as they lashed out with blades of warped law aimed at Ragnar’s vitals. He laughed at their approach, planting his feet and driving his club into the empty space between them.

BOOM!!!

The shockwave radiated outward.

The Phantoms were frozen in place, their forms warping as gravity suddenly spiked around them. With a quick twist, Ragnar swung again, the sheer force tearing through them and hurling their broken bodies back before they could even attempt a defense.

Behind him, the two traitorous captains led their squads forward, fighting with calculated restraint. They attacked only when necessary and defended when required, ensuring they never overextended. They were being cautious.

Ragnar took note.

The intensity of the combat surged.

A fresh tide of abominations poured in, their movements erratic but their strikes lethal. Demon warriors engaged them in vicious melee, Essence flaring as opposing laws clashed. The void became a tapestry of light and shadow, filled with the thunder of weapons and the screams of the dying.

Ragnar moved like a living hurricane.

He plunged into enemy clusters, wielding his club with reckless abandon, his aura intensifying with every kill. The floorless battlefield shook as invisible forces bent to his command, enemies either crushed flat or sent flying by bursts of attraction and repulsion.

Suddenly, Ragnar released his grip on his club and flickered upward, positioning himself above the demon army to face the incoming Phantoms.

I could feel the shift even from my remote position.

Laws and Essence swirled around him.

Space compressed above his head, the pressure manifesting into a colossal shape within the void. A massive fist, constructed entirely from condensed destructive power, materialized above him, its silhouette vast and daunting.

“Titan’s Fist,” Ragnar muttered.

The fist shot forward like a falling star and slammed down.

The resulting explosion was devastating.

The force radiated outward, obliterating a group of Phantoms and abominations as their bodies were shredded by the overwhelming weight. However, Ragnar had aimed the strike with precision, tilting the core of the blast slightly toward his own ranks.

Specifically, it struck toward the two captains and their units, which now contained many of the traitors Saleos had discreetly moved into their command.

The shockwave slammed into them with full force.

Both captains were hurled away violently, their protective barriers crumbling under the sudden stress. Their frames twisted unnaturally as the impact shattered their bones. Several nearby soldiers were also caught in the blast, including all the marked traitors, the surrounding chaos perfectly masking the true purpose of the strike.

Cries of pain filled the air.

Healers moved in almost instantly, dragging the wounded away while the battle continued to rage. The two captains were moved out quickly, their injuries sufficiently grave to warrant an immediate retreat from the front lines.

Ragnar didn't break his stride.

With a roar, he surged forward once more, obliterating another wave of foes with his relentless club. The battlefield simply absorbed the incident, the carnage continuing without interruption.

I watched every move.

Throughout the following hours, Ragnar maintained this pattern.

Whenever a traitor was positioned near him, a massive area-of-effect attack would follow. Each time, the resulting wounds were plausible, hidden beneath the general entropy of war. On a battlefield like this, soldiers were maimed every minute. These were merely seen as unfortunate accidents.

One after another, the traitors were removed from the vanguard.

Each was sent to the rear to heal.

Each believed they were simply victims of bad luck.

The conflict persisted until the signal sounded once more.

The Eternal forces retreated abruptly, the abominations pulling back in unison as if tugged by invisible leashes.

The demon army halted, maintaining their formations with weapons still at the ready.

Another cycle had concluded.

The injured were quickly collected and moved away from the front in organized waves. Floating transports glided through the ranks, picking up wounded soldiers and captains to ferry them toward medical outposts shielded within the defensive layers.

One such transport drifted toward a secluded platform.

A nurse stepped forward to meet them.

Dressed in the standard attire of the battlefield medical corps, her expression was professional and composed. Her movements were fluid and practiced as she assisted the wounded onto reinforced cots.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, adjusting their restraints and calming their Essence flow. “I’ll take good care of you.”

As she reached down, a faint flicker of crimson mist danced around her fingertips before vanishing instantly.

Lyrate had arrived.

The first phase was officially underway.