My Talent's Name Is Generator - Chapter 108

Chapter 108: A Thousand Lessons in Each Swing
I gripped the staff tightly and took a deep breath.

The vision of the woman was still fresh in my mind, the way she moved, her precision, her power. She had made it look effortless, but I knew better.

I took my stance, feet firmly planted, and raised the staff.

The first step was simple: control. She had never wasted movement, never hesitated. Every motion had a purpose. If I wanted to reach her level, I had to start from the very beginning.

I swung the staff forward in a basic strike. It cut through the air cleanly, but something felt off.

‘Too stiff. Too forced.’

I adjusted my grip and tried again. This time, I focused on keeping my motion smooth. The staff whistled slightly as it passed through the air.

‘Better.’

I planted my foot and swept the staff to the side in a wide arc. Then, a forward thrust—sharp and controlled.

Next, a downward strike, mimicking the way she had shattered the waves. The impact sent a dull vibration up my arms. It wasn’t anywhere near her level, but it was a start.

I moved into a spin, letting the staff rotate in my hands before striking again.

This time, I felt a small shift in the air around me. It wasn’t much, but it meant I was getting somewhere.

I exhaled, rolling my shoulders. The basics were simple. But the way she had done them, so natural, so refined, that was the real challenge.

Closing my eyes, I activated [Psynapse Boost], allowing my perception to cover every inch of my muscles.

Then I began again.

I raised the staff above my head, gripping it firmly with both hands. This was the move I had chosen to refine, the two-handed smash.

Simple, direct, and devastating. If done right, it wouldn’t just be an attack. It would be an execution.

I imagined an enemy standing in front of me, faceless and nameless. I wasn’t just swinging in the air. I was bringing this staff down on their skull, aiming to crush them in a single strike.

No second chances. No hesitation.

I brought the staff down.

‘Too slow.’

Even as I completed the motion, my Psynapse detected flaws.

My grip wasn’t right, I had tightened too much, restricting movement.

My shoulders had tensed, killing the natural flow of the strike. The impact wouldn’t have been clean. It would have been strong, sure, but it wouldn’t have been deadly.

I inhaled deeply and reset my stance.

Again.

I lifted the staff, adjusted my grip, and focused on every muscle from my fingers to my legs.

This time, I let my shoulders relax just slightly, allowing the motion to carry through without resistance. My Psynapse traced the movement, mapping the force distribution across my body.

I struck down.

Better. Not perfect.

I repeated the move, each time making small adjustments. My arms needed to snap down faster. My core needed to stabilize the motion. My legs needed to generate more power from the ground up.

Again.

Again.

Each time, I felt the move getting sharper. The feedback from my Psynapse guided me like an invisible instructor, highlighting weak points, adjusting angles, refining every little flaw.

Then, I tried something different.

Instead of thinking about the motion as a whole, I broke it down into pieces. The lift. The tension in my muscles. The brief pause at the peak before the strike. Then the explosion of force as I brought it down.

I let go of everything except those points.

Then I moved.

The staff came down with force, cutting through the air. I felt a slight shift in the air pressure around me, a faint movement against my skin.

A sharp whooshing sound followed, clean and crisp, like a blade slicing through wind. I listened to it carefully, memorizing the sound.

I exhaled. This was it.

Now, I just had to do it a thousand more times.

I raised the staff. This time deciding to count the swings.

Feet planted. Grip firm. Body steady.

[Psynapse Boost] activated, sharpening everything. I felt the weight of the staff, the tension in my arms, the air shifting around me. But I didn’t rush.

First, I moved slow.

“One.”

The staff came down in a clean arc, cutting through the air.

“Two.”

The motion repeated. I kept my breathing steady, making sure every part of the strike was controlled.

“Three.”

The whooshing sound was faint, barely noticeable.

I increased the speed.

“Ten.”

The staff moved quicker, but I didn’t force it. My muscles adjusted naturally, adapting to the pace.

“Fifty.”

The whooshing became sharper. The impact firmer.

“One hundred.”

Faster.

The movements blurred together, but I didn’t lose focus. Each strike was measured. Each swing identical to the last. Or at least, that’s what I aimed for.

“Two hundred.”

The speed picked up. A faint breeze stirred in the room.

“Three hundred.”

The air started to shift.

“Four hundred.”

The whooshing sound grew deeper, stronger. I barely noticed the numbers anymore, my body moved on instinct.

“Five hundred.”

The staff blurred.

I exhaled. And continued.

“Five hundred sixty three.”

The staff cut through the air so fast that a sudden gust of wind kicked up around me. Loose dust stirred. The air itself trembled from the force.

I stopped.

Holding my stance, I slowly compared the feeling of my first swing to this one. The motion was the same, but it wasn’t identical.

Eighty percent identical.

That was the difference.

I tightened my grip. Not enough.

I raised the staff again.

And began from one. Slow at first then fast.

I kept repeating the swings, trying to make my fastest strike feel as controlled and precise as my slowest one. Every movement had to be exact, no wasted energy, no unnecessary motion.

The goal was simple: reach peak speed and precision at the same time. The strike had to be fast, but it also had to be perfect.

I went through another full round of swings, focusing on every detail—the grip of my fingers, the shift in my shoulders, the tension in my core. By the time I stopped, I compared the latest strike to my slowest one.

Eighty-three percent.

A small improvement, but still not enough.

I exhaled, closing my eyes for a moment. My mind replayed every swing, from the first to the last. The gap between them was getting smaller, but I needed more.

Ninety percent.

That would be my threshold. Anything below it wasn’t acceptable.

I adjusted my stance, tightened my grip, and raised the staff again.

I started again.

****

I stood in the center of the room, my body drenched in sweat. My shirt lay discarded in the corner, forgotten.

Seven rounds.

I had completed over 500 swings per round, and only now had I reached the 90% threshold. It had taken everything: focus, control, and countless adjustments but I had finally mastered the speed.

Now, the next step was force.

But before that, I performed the move one more time.

I tightened my grip on the staff, planting my feet firmly. No buildup, no gradual acceleration, just pure execution. The goal was simple: reach peak speed in an instant.

I inhaled.

Then, I moved.

My arms tensed first, gripping the staff with perfect control. My shoulders shifted, pulling the staff upward in a smooth motion. My spine followed, coiling like a spring as my core tightened.

Then, I unleashed it all.

My arms snapped downward, driving the staff with full force. My shoulders locked in, ensuring precision. My back muscles engaged, stabilizing the motion. My legs braced against the floor, absorbing the impact as the force traveled through me.

The staff cut through the air.

A sharp whoosh echoed in the room. The wind stirred, kicking outward from the strike, rushing past my skin.

I exhaled.

“Perfect.”

I raised my hand and stared at the staff.

“We’re going to have so much fun, friend.”

Pulling out my phone, I checked the time.

Nine hours had passed since Arkas left me here.

I decided to step out and get some food. But as I turned, I noticed something strange.

There was no door in the room.

“What the fuck?”