SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

Chapter 251: Chapter 251: Conversation with Zafira

The corridor stretched endlessly, polished marble reflecting the pale morning light. Though there were a dozen doors on either side, only three of them were occupied — Zafira’s, Alfons’s, and Trafalgar’s. The entire floor was reserved for the heirs of the Eight Great Families, yet silence was its most frequent resident.

Trafalgar leaned against the wall near the circular lift, hands tucked into his pockets. His expression was calm, but his mind wasn’t.

’The World Tree, huh?’ he thought. ’As in the one from the stories? The heart of the elves’ lands — the root that connects the mana flow of half the continent. If the Thal’Zar really attacked something like that, they must be fucking lunatics!’

He exhaled softly, eyes narrowing. ’And of all families, why them? The Thal’Zar are proud and short-tempered, but they’re not stupid. Unless someone pushed them to act, or... something was stolen that they couldn’t let go.’

His reflection rippled faintly in the polished wall. For all the stillness around him, his thoughts ran fast. ’This world has its order. The Eight Families rule it through balance — through the Council. Even when Morgain nearly clashed with Zafira’s house over the mines, it ended in negotiation. But this... this doesn’t fit that pattern.’

He shifted his weight, closing his eyes for a moment. ’Maybe the upcoming Council will make things clearer. Hopefully without another disaster like last time. That was enough chaos for a lifetime.’

The hum of mana rose as the circular lift approached the floor. Just as Trafalgar opened his eyes, a soft, teasing voice broke through his thoughts.

”If you keep thinking that hard, Trafalgar, you’ll wrinkle that forehead of yours.”

He turned, meeting Zafira’s amused greyish eyes. Her long purple hair swayed behind her, horns glinting faintly under the ceiling’s light.

”Wrinkles, huh? That’s a bit cruel,” he said dryly. ”Sixteen years old and you’re already predicting my downfall.”

Her lips curved slightly. ”Good morning to you too.”

”Morning, Zafira.”

The lift doors opened with a low hum, the mana platform pulsing faintly beneath their feet. Both stepped inside — heirs of two Great Families — ready to descend into another day that felt far too calm for the storm brewing beyond the academy walls.

The lift began its slow descent, humming quietly as streams of mana flowed along its edges. The air inside felt lighter than in the corridor above — open, unconfined — giving them a rare moment of privacy away from the endless gazes of servants and students.

Trafalgar glanced at Zafira from the corner of his eye. ”You’ve heard about the news, right? The one that’s about to shake the entire world.”

Zafira’s tone was calm, almost detached. ”You mean the war between two of the Eight Great Families? Yes. Hard not to hear about it.”

”Right,” Trafalgar murmured. ”Do you know anything more than I do?”

Zafira tilted her head slightly, eyes thoughtful. ”That depends. What do you know, exactly?”

”Just that the Thal’Zar attacked the Sylvanel — something about a sacred sanctuary,” he replied, his voice quiet but edged with disbelief. ”The one that houses the World Tree roots, if I’m not mistaken.”

”Then we’re about even,” she said after a short pause. ”The Thal’Zar claim it was the elves who provoked them, but that’s the kind of bullshit people say to cover their mess.”

Trafalgar smirked faintly. ”Exactly what I thought. Blame the victim, rewrite the story, and call it justice.”

Zafira’s lips quirked upward for a second before fading again. ”We’ll get the truth at the Council... or at least the version they want us to believe.”

”Yeah.” He leaned slightly on the railing, watching the floors pass beneath them. ”It’ll be interesting to see how everyone reacts this time. The last Council was a spectacle already.”

Her gaze softened just a little. ”You sound almost eager.”

He gave a quiet shrug. ”Eager? Maybe curious. When things fall apart, you learn a lot about people.”

The lift continued to descend at its steady, unhurried pace — just fast enough to remind them that the ground was approaching, and with it, the weight of the world outside.

The circular lift continued its slow descent through the tower’s core, the mana streams flickering along its edge like veins of light. Trafalgar shifted slightly, turning toward Zafira with a thoughtful look.

”What about your family?” he asked, his voice steady but probing. ”How does House Zar’khael plan to handle this?”

Zafira raised an eyebrow, her horns catching a faint glint from the glow above. ”Dangerous question, Lord Trafalgar du Morgain,” she said with a teasing lilt. ”But... since it’s you, I suppose I can answer.”

He gave a half-smile. ”That’s reassuring.”

She looked forward, her tone turning more serious. ”My father intends to wait until the Council is held. He believes it’s foolish to move before hearing what’s said between the Eight. Since our agreement with your family over the mines, we’ve gained steady influence and resources. A war now would ruin that progress.”

”Practical,” Trafalgar replied quietly. ”And your father’s right — this isn’t the moment to start breaking the board just to prove who’s stronger.”

Zafira nodded slightly. ”Exactly. The balance between the Eight Families has always been thin — like a thread about to snap. If two decide to fight, the others will just watch, waiting to take what’s left. The winner might gain power... but they’ll bleed too much to enjoy it.”

He let out a low breath, eyes focused on the translucent floor beneath them. ”A game of survival, then. The same as always.”

Her greyish eyes softened. ”You’ve already accepted that, haven’t you?”

”Yeah,” Trafalgar said simply. ”Peace only lasts until someone’s greed outweighs their fear.”

Zafira smirked faintly, though her tone stayed calm. ”You talk like an old man sometimes.”

He shrugged. ”Maybe I’ve seen enough to sound like one.”

The lift came to a smooth stop at the base of the building, and a soft chime announced their arrival. The circular doorless platform faded into silence as Trafalgar and Zafira stepped off together.

The marble halls of the academy stretched before them — polished, grand, and already busy. Students moved in clusters, whispering quietly. But as the pair began walking toward the classrooms, those whispers dimmed. Eyes turned. Heads followed.

Trafalgar slid his hands into his pockets, glancing around with mild irritation. ”We’re getting stared at again,” he muttered. ”You’d think people would be used to this by now.”

Zafira’s horns caught a faint glint from the overhead lights as she smirked. ”You know how it is. People love watching the heirs of the Eight Families — especially when two of them happen to show up together every morning.”

”They make it sound like it’s scandalous,” he said dryly.

”Let them talk,” she replied lightly. ”If we stopped every time someone whispered, we’d never get anywhere.”

He sighed. ”Fair point.”

The two continued through the corridor, passing groups of students who stepped aside with a mixture of respect and curiosity. By now, most of the academy was used to seeing them together — along with Xavier, Cynthia, and Bartholomew — but the recent rumors about the war had everyone on edge.

Trafalgar caught faint murmurs as they passed.

”Do you think they know what’s happening?”

”Maybe their families told them something.”

”They’re nervous,” Zafira murmured after a moment.

”Everyone is,” Trafalgar replied. ”Rumors of war make people stupid.”

The tension eased slightly as they turned into the main hallway leading toward the classrooms. Morning light spilled through tall arched windows, painting the hall in soft gold. Ahead, familiar voices echoed — Bartholomew, Cynthia, and Xavier already waiting near the door.

”Looks like we’re the last ones today,” Trafalgar said, opening the classroom door.

Zafira smiled faintly, stepping in beside him. ”Right on time, as always.”

The moment Trafalgar and Zafira stepped into the classroom, the quiet hum of conversation thinned out almost immediately. Dozens of eyes flicked toward them — some curious, some cautious — before turning away as the two heirs crossed the room to their usual seats near the center.

Bartholomew looked up first, sitting beside Cynthia as always. His pale fingers fidgeted with the edge of his quill before he managed a small smile. ”G-good morning,” he said softly.

Trafalgar returned a nod. ”Morning, Barth.”

Cynthia, seated beside her brother, offered a polite nod as well. Her posture was calm but alert — the way it always was when something weighed on her mind.

Zafira sat down next to Trafalgar, stretching slightly. ”Seems like everyone’s early today.”

Xavier, lounging across the aisle with one arm hanging over his chair, gave a lazy grin. ”Can’t focus, can they? Hard to, with half the continent whispering about war.”

”War,” Bartholomew repeated quietly, his tone uneasy. ”You mean between the Thal’Zar and the Sylvanel?”

”Yeah,” Trafalgar replied. ”Word’s spreading fast.”

Cynthia’s golden eyes flicked toward him. ”And your families? Have they said anything about taking sides?”

Zafira shook her head.

Trafalgar exhaled through his nose. ”I can’t say much either.”

Silence followed for a brief moment, the weight of the subject pressing down. Even Xavier’s grin faded slightly.

Then the door creaked open. Professor Rhaldrin waddled in — the small humanoid rat with crimson eyes sharp as daggers, his long robe sweeping the floor. ”Quiet down, children,” he rasped. ”Unless one of you plans to rewrite history today, I suggest you sit and listen to it first.”

A faint ripple of laughter moved through the class. The tension eased — just a little.

Trafalgar leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded as Rhaldrin began lecturing about ancient conflicts and alliances.

Trafalgar leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the tall windows. The morning light spilled through the glass, but it did little to ease the weight pressing behind his temples.

’What a pain in the ass... this whole thing,’ he thought, exhaling slowly. ’I just hope it gets solved soon — and that I don’t have to get involved.’

For a brief moment, he felt a flicker of relief at the thought. But then, the realization hit him — the kind that always came too late.

’Right... you can never say things can’t get worse,’ he mused bitterly, dragging a hand down his face. ’Because they always do.’

He let his hands cover his eyes, elbows resting on the desk as he groaned under his breath. The sound of scratching quills and the professor’s voice filled the silence around him.

Bartholomew leaned slightly closer, hesitant. ”A-are you alright, Trafalgar?”

Trafalgar lowered his hands just enough to meet the boy’s worried eyes. For a second, he almost smiled.

”Yeah,” he murmured. ”Just... thinking too much, I guess.”