My Talent's Name Is Generator Chapter 713: Charge of the Damned

The scene unfolding beneath us was staggering.

Ragnar initiated the movement, gliding forward until he hung suspended above the legion gathered on the platform. We trailed behind him in silence, coming to a halt at the rear of the demonic forces. Stepping forward to join the line of command, the three demon captains took their places directly behind Ragnar.

Below, the military host stood in perfect, disciplined rows. A million demons were packed onto the massive platform, their auras suppressed yet volatile, weapons gripped firmly. It felt as though the void itself had gone still in anticipation.

Ragnar turned with a slow, deliberate motion, his overwhelming presence filling the expanse.

"Are you ready to roar?" his voice thundered across the launch pad.

In just a few days, Ragnar had earned the demons' fervent admiration. His primal nature struck a chord with them, perhaps more than he even understood. There was a raw, visceral quality in his combat style and his speech that felt familiar to them. Piece by piece, he was reawakening the dormant instincts they had suppressed for so long.

He was dragging them out of the pits of hopelessness and loss, pulling them away from their exhaustion and sorrow to remind them of a far more lethal emotion.

The exhilaration of battle.

For a single heartbeat, silence reigned.

Then, the ranks began to stir.

Auras ignited one after another, spreading like a wildfire through the troops. The collective pressure surged outward, rattling the void and warping Essence, sending violent ripples through the fabric of space.

"YES!" The response was a singular, thunderous roar—a raw explosion of fury, weariness, and a million demons' thirst for blood.

Ragnar tilted his head back and let out a deep, predatory laugh that vibrated through the core layer.

"Then let’s wash our bodies with their filthy blood."

His aura erupted violently.

Before the eyes of the entire assembly, his physical form began its first transformation. His muscles expanded, glowing runes etched themselves across his skin, and the laws under his command surged with terrifying force. The surrounding void creaked and splintered under the strain, with lines of spatial distortion spreading like cracks in a pane of glass.

His subsequent roar was even more deafening, causing the entire core layer to tremble.

Standing tall before the army was Ragnar’s ascended form.

He had shifted into a humanoid hybrid, standing nearly fifteen feet in height. Coarse, dense silver fur coated his arms and chest, while a relentless surge of crimson mist swirled around him like a living shroud. His wild black hair fell to his shoulders, untamed, and a tail as thick as a man's arm swayed behind him, heavy with latent power. Even his massive club had transformed, reshaped by sheer force and law to suit his new scale.

The demons stared, their eyes wide with awe.

Their blood began to boil.

They could feel the sheer dominance radiating from him—the weight of a warrior who would not back down, who refused to wait, and who felt no fear toward the looming enemy.

Ragnar raised his club, pointing it directly at the Eternal army. The opposing force had become eerily still, a sea of phantoms and abominations watching him in eerie silence.

For a fleeting moment, all motion ceased.

The gap between the two armies was wide and quiet, cluttered with the drifting wreckage of previous skirmishes. Shattered weapons floated by, and pieces of cracked armor spun slowly in the vacuum, still marked by blood that refused to fade.

I recognized that familiar sensation—the heavy dread that usually signaled an Eternal advance.

The demons recognized it too.

Many of these soldiers had stood on this very platform dozens of times. They were well-acquainted with this pause and knew what normally followed: the sudden onslaught, the crushing pressure, the moment they were forced to react rather than act.

I noted the clenched teeth and white-knuckled fists. Old battle scars glowed dimly where laws had seared their flesh. These were soldiers who had watched siblings and entire squads perish, staring ahead as if waiting for history to repeat itself.

This was the tipping point where things would either remain unchanged or break forever.

Ragnar lunged.

"CHARGE!" his voice crashed like thunder as he bolted forward.

For the first time in countless years, the demon host did not wait for the Eternal forces to strike first.

They took the initiative.

A collective roar burst from the ranks as those under Ragnar’s command followed his lead, their auras blazing as their rigid formations dissolved into a violent, forward-moving tide.

On the neighboring launch pads, the rest of the demonic military watched in stunned silence. Captains of other divisions turned toward Saleos, looking for guidance. Even the traitors among them were genuinely shocked, their instincts faltering at the unprecedented sight.

None of them had foreseen this.

Slowly, a smirk spread across Saleos’s face.

He breathed a single command.

"Charge."

It began as a soft whisper, barely a sound, yet it carried immense weight. It traveled through the void, reaching the ears of every demon and vibrating within their very souls.

In that instant, all hesitation evaporated.

The entire core layer erupted in response.

Millions of auras flared simultaneously.

The void shook as if struck by a giant, singular heartbeat. Essence flooded out from the launch platforms, clashing and merging until space itself struggled to contain the power. War cries, long suppressed in their chests, finally tore free in a raw, unrestrained deluge.

Waves of demons leaped from the platforms.

They threw themselves into the fray.

Formations that were designed for defense shifted into a lethal arrowhead, with Ragnar at the very tip. His aura intensified with every passing second, his massive frame piercing the void like a living projectile. The red mist surrounding him grew dense, his laws dragging the space around him and pulling the army along as if gravity itself had been weaponized.

I felt the change wash over me.

The shift in momentum.

For years, this war had been defined by endurance—holding the line and surviving until the next wave passed. But now, the demons were no longer waiting to be broken.

They were the hunters.

Behind Ragnar, the captains barked orders that were barely needed. The soldiers moved on pure instinct, their blood singing, their despair converted into kinetic fury. Even the injured pushed forward, dismissing their pain as if it were irrelevant.

The Eternal forces were a heartbeat too slow to react.

Phantoms shimmered with cold light, trying to regain their footing. Abominations surged forward like a living wall to meet the threat. But the tempo was off. The timing had been ruined.

The demons slammed into them with full force.

The impact was devastating.

Raw power collided with mass. Law crashed against law. Sections of the void shattered as Ragnar tore into the front lines, his club falling like a gavel of judgment. The resulting shockwave threw bodies aside and dismantled enemy formations before they could even stabilize.

And the army poured in after him.

A spear thrust directly into the enemy's heart.

I observed it all from the center of the surge, my cloak snapping in the gale of Essence, my own heart beating in sync with the demons' roars.

’Go,’ I commanded.

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