The SSS Talent That Wasn't Supposed to Exist

THE USELESS TALENT

Arka's footsteps echoed softly as he walked down the cold concrete corridor of Campus III. The damp smell of last night's rain still clung to the mossy stone walls, mingling with the scent of oil and soot from the Hunter tactical vehicles parked in the courtyard. The heavy thud of his thick-soled boots against the dull ceramic tiles created a lonely gema.

He stepped inside the empty mana theory laboratory. The heavy wooden door shut tight behind him, cutting off the noisy bustle of the campus. Arka rested his back against the door and closed his eyes.

"Status," he whispered.

A thin, translucent blue glass panel floated in front of his eyes.

[Name: Arka Pratama] [Talent: Storyteller (F-Class)] [Mana Core: Unranked] [Active Skill: None]

Arka took a deep breath, feeling the cold air settle in his lungs. He focused on his chest, searching for even the slightest warmth or pulse that Talent users normally felt when channeling their power.

"Activate Storyteller," he muttered.

Silence. No spark of electricity, no ripple in the air, no shift in color at his fingertips. The surrounding air remained dead and still.

He clenched his fists, trying to force his mana to circulate. "Use Talent: Storyteller."

Still, no reaction. The system screen before him dimmed coldly, as if mocking his attempts. Arka stared at his clean palms, free of any battle scars. How could an F-Class Talent fail to give even a hint of activation?

Slam!

The laboratory door was kicked open violently, hitting the wall. Startled, Arka quickly dismissed his system interface. Three students casually strolled inside. Leading the group was Rendy, a broad-shouldered youth wearing a specialized uniform with a gold pin on his collar—the mark of an Elite S-Class Student who had just awakened the Flame Sovereign Talent that morning.

A pungent smell of sulfur clung heavily to Rendy's cloak, signaling a surging, unrefined aura of fire mana that was not yet fully under control. His two followers trailed behind him, wearing sneering grins.

"Well, look who's here, the Genius taking some quiet time," Rendy said, his voice laced with unhidden mockery. Crossing his arms, he eyed Arka up and down. "I thought you'd be busy writing bedtime stories for orphanage kids."

One of his followers laughed aloud. "Or maybe he's trying out word magic, Ren? Who knows, maybe if he says 'Open, Sesame!', the door will open by itself."

Arka simply adjusted his glasses calmly, refusing to take the bait. His hands rested at his sides, hiding his cold, tingling fingers. "I have this room reserved until two o'clock. If you need equipment, you can use the lab next door."

Rendy stepped closer, his heavy boots thudding against the concrete floor. Radiant heat emanated from his body, raising the room's temperature by a degree. He stopped right in front of Arka, looking down at him with disdain.

"Dimensional rifts out there are expanding every month, Arka," Rendy said, his tone deep and full of arrogance. "A single monster wave from a D-Rank rift can obliterate hundreds of ordinary people. In a world that only respects raw muscle and pure mana, someone like you—armed with nothing but theory and a trash Talent—will only ever be a burden."

Arka looked straight into Rendy's eyes. There was no anger in his gaze, only the same cold, analytical focus he used when reading complex mathematical formulas. He didn't utter a single word in response.

Rendy clicked his tongue, disappointed by the lack of a hysterical reaction. "Let's go. Why waste time on an F-Class?"

The three turned on their heels and walked out, leaving Arka behind in the silence of the closed lab.

Arka let out a soft sigh and walked toward the lab workbench. He nudged a wooden pencil lying on the surface.

'Muscle and pure mana,' he thought to himself. Rendy was right about one thing: this world was ruled by the physical laws of mana. But the system never assigned Talent names at random. Storyteller literally meant one who tells stories. If it wasn't a direct combat ability, then what was the true essence of a 'story'?

A story is a narrative. A story is a sequence of events believed by its audience.

Arka stared at the wooden pencil. He cleared his throat softly, attempting to focus on the intent in his mind.

"This pencil will break," Arka said clearly.

The pencil didn't budge. No cracks formed; nothing changed.

Arka tried again, shifting his tone. "The wooden pencil on this table suddenly becomes extremely heavy."

He picked up the pencil. Its weight remained a few grams, light as a feather.

Arka furrowed his brow. He tried affecting a measuring beaker, sheets of paper, and even the light switch on the wall. Everything failed completely. Inanimate objects did not respond to his words at all. That hollow sensation began to gnaw at his chest once more. Was this Talent truly useless?

Footsteps resounded again from the corridor outside—this time hurried and light. The lab door creaked open, revealing Budi, Arka's classmate from the structural analysis department. Budi held a thick stack of documents, his face panicked and his breathing ragged.

"Arka! You're still here?!" Budi exclaimed, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Professor Gunawan is looking for me! I left my wave material analysis report in Archive Room B, but the door was automatically locked at one o'clock!"

"Archive Room B?" Arka asked.

"Yeah! The electromagnetic locking system is already active. I have to get the manual key from the building custodian on the ground floor, but he's out for lunch. If I don't turn this report in within ten minutes, my semester grade is toast!" Budi ruffled his hair in frustration.

Arka walked over to Budi. He glanced at the thick wooden door of Archive Room B right next to the lab. The indicator light above the door handle glowed a solid red—an absolute sign that the high-power magnetic lock was active.

Budi frantically rummaged through his pockets. "Damn it, damn it... do I really have to wait until three?"

Arka stared at the red light. An impulsive thought suddenly crossed his mind. If inanimate objects didn't react to direct commands, what if he delivered the narrative as a reality to another subject?

Arka patted Budi's tense shoulder. He adjusted his tone to sound completely confident, calm, and without a trace of doubt.

"Try opening the door, Bud," Arka said flatly. "It shouldn't be locked. The staff member just forgot to turn off the indicator light."

Budi turned, staring at Arka with a furrowed brow. "Not locked? But the light's red, Ka—"

"Just try it first," Arka interrupted softly, his eyes fixed on Budi. "I just saw the custodian pass by a moment ago. The door isn't locked."

Budi blinked twice, as if Arka's words had slipped directly into his mind without resistance. The doubt on Budi's face instantly dissolved, replaced by a strange sense of conviction.

"Oh... is that so?" Budi muttered absently.

He turned, reached out a slightly trembling hand, and grabbed the iron handle of Archive Room B. He pressed the handle down.

CLICK.

A heavy mechanical sound resonated from inside the doorframe. The protective magnet disengaged with a faint hiss of air. The handle turned smoothly, and the thick wooden door swung wide open, revealing dark rows of archive shelves.

The indicator light that had been solid red flickered rapidly before shutting off entirely.

Budi stared, wide-eyed. "Whoa... it really wasn't locked! Man, I'm saved! Thanks, Ka!" Budi rushed inside without giving it a second thought.

Outside the room, Arka froze where he stood. His hand, still hovering in the air, began to tremble slightly. He knew for a fact—beyond any doubt—that the building's electromagnetic locks were connected to the central server and could never open without a Master card authorization.

He hadn't hacked the system. He hadn't touched the door.

He had simply... told a story.

Before his shock could settle, the corner of Arka's right eye flashed brilliantly. The translucent system panel forced itself open, this time vibrating violently with streaks of golden neon lines he had never seen before.

The gray F-Class text split in two, displaced by lines of letters appearing one by one like the typing of a forbidden machine.

[Narrative Influence detected.] [Subject's Cognition Overridden: 100%] [Reality Alteration (Minor): Successful]