SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

Chapter 363: Chapter 363: Eyes on the SSS Heir

The doors opened, and the hall fell silent.

Lysandra stepped in first, posture straight, presence unquestioned. Trafalgar followed half a pace behind her, and the effect was immediate. Conversations died mid-sentence. Laughter vanished. Even the servants froze where they stood, trays half-lifted, eyes turning as one.

Every gaze settled on him. Not mockery. Not dismissal. Those were gone. What replaced them was sharper, heavier. Interest. Ambition. Calculation. He felt it in the way their eyes lingered, in the way some leaned forward while others narrowed their gaze, already weighing possibilities that hadn’t existed an hour ago.

A year ago, he would have been invisible here.

Now he was the center.

Trafalgar moved forward without changing pace, expression composed, shoulders relaxed. Inside, he understood the reaction all too well. A talent like his altered equations whether people wanted it to or not. Especially after Magnus. Losing one SSS heir had left a scar on House Morgain’s pride. Discovering another did more than mend it. It reshaped the future.

’It was always going to be like this,’ he thought. ’There’s no version of this where they don’t look.’

He ignored the stares and continued inward, already aware that whatever came next, there was no returning to how things had been before.

He had almost reached the inner tables when someone stepped into his path.

The movement was subtle, done with enough precision to force him to slow without drawing attention from the room. Trafalgar turned his head slightly and stopped.

Seradra du Morgain stood before him.

She did not smile or soften her expression for the occasion. Tall and straight-backed, her posture carried the same rigid authority as the castle itself. Her crimson eyes studied him carefully, lingering longer than courtesy demanded, as if weighing the worth of a blade before deciding whether it should ever be drawn.

Up close, the resemblance was impossible to deny.

”So,” she said quietly, her voice lowered so only he could hear, ”you really do look like Magnus.”

The name carried more weight than any praise spoken that night.

Seradra leaned in just enough to shield her words from surrounding ears. ”Be careful, boy. Inside this family. Outside it.” Her gaze sharpened. ”From now on, you will have a target on your back. Likely for the rest of your life.”

Trafalgar met her eyes without hesitation. His voice remained calm when he answered. ”That isn’t new, Aunt Seradra. When your own family tries to kill you before you’re grown, you learn to live with it.”

For a moment, she simply looked at him.

Then Seradra laughed, a short and rough sound, more acknowledgment than humor. ”Yes,” she said. ”A true Morgain, without question.” She reached into her coat, produced a cigar, and lit it with practiced ease. ”Don’t disappoint us.”

She stepped past him, smoke curling lazily in her wake, already moving on as if the exchange had been nothing more than a passing observation.

Trafalgar watched her leave for a brief moment, then continued forward, the warning settling into him without surprise.

The moment Seradra moved away, the space around him shifted.

It started subtly. A pause in conversation here. A turn of the head there. Then the flow began.

Relatives who had never spoken to him before closed the distance with practiced smiles. Soft voices, measured compliments, casual remarks delivered as if they had always been waiting for the right moment to reconnect. Offers followed quickly. Invitations. Suggestions of cooperation. Hints at shared interests and mutual benefit, wrapped in silk and courtesy.

Trafalgar saw through it instantly.

Too many of them had argued against him holding Euclid. Too many had dismissed him as expendable when his name carried no weight. Now they looked at him the way vultures looked at a battlefield that had finally gone quiet, calculating what could be taken before anyone else moved first.

He gave them nothing.

Some he ignored outright, stepping past them without breaking stride. Others he cut off with a glance and a tone so cold it ended conversations before they properly began. Polite. Distant. Unyielding. No encouragement. No openings. No weakness offered.

Inside, the line was already drawn.

Lysandra. Seradra. Those tied to Mordrek.

Everyone else existed on the other side of that boundary.

Enemies, opportunists, or threats waiting for the right moment. And Trafalgar treated them all the same, moving through the room with calm restraint, fully aware that the smiles around him would turn the moment he stopped being useful.

The shift came from the far end of the hall.

Valttair’s voice rose, clear and absolute, cutting through the layered conversations without effort. It did not need volume to command attention. It simply took it. One by one, voices fell silent until the room settled into expectant stillness.

”I have received a response from Elenara au Sylvanel,” Valttair said, his gaze sweeping the assembled family. ”I will be leaving the castle shortly to address the matter directly.”

A murmur threatened to rise. It died under a single look.

”Until I return, you will remain here,” he continued evenly. ”No departures. No independent actions. The course of this war will be decided soon enough, and when it is, we will move without hesitation.”

The weight of those words lingered long after he finished speaking.

Trafalgar felt it settle into place inside him.

’So that’s it. We’re past waiting,’ he thought.

The moment Valttair disappeared through the doors, the room exhaled.

It was subtle at first. A loosening of posture. A shift in tone. Conversations resumed, but they carried a different edge now, sharper and less restrained. Whatever order Valttair’s presence imposed vanished with him, and what remained was something far closer to instinct.

Trafalgar felt it immediately.

The looks changed. Interest curdled into irritation. Admiration twisted into resentment. Around him, the siblings who had held their tongues minutes earlier no longer bothered. All of them, except one.

Lysandra remained where she was, watching quietly.

Darion didn’t wait long.

He stepped into Trafalgar’s path with deliberate slowness, close enough that the people nearest them fell silent without being asked. His posture was rigid, chin lifted, eyes burning with something that had been building for a long time.

”So that’s why,” Darion said, voice tight but controlled. ”That attitude of yours.” He let out a short breath through his nose. ”You come back with a talent like that, and suddenly you look at us like we’re beneath you.”

Trafalgar didn’t respond.

He didn’t even look at him. He simply shifted his weight slightly, as if preparing to step around an inconvenient obstacle.

That was enough.

Darion’s jaw tightened, the lack of acknowledgment cutting deeper than any insult. ”Don’t ignore me,” he snapped. ”You think because everyone’s staring now, because Father said a few words, that you’re something special?”

Still nothing.

The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, and Darion’s composure cracked under it. His voice rose just enough to carry.

”I’m talking to you, bastard.”

At last, Darion straightened fully, drawing in a breath as if steadying himself. When he spoke again, the words were clear, deliberate, and loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.

”I challenge you,” he said. ”A formal duel.”

The declaration rippled outward, pulling attention like gravity. Eyes turned. Conversations stalled. Somewhere behind them, a chair scraped softly against the floor.

Darion held his ground, gaze locked forward, waiting.

Trafalgar finally stopped walking.

The room seemed to lean inward.

Everyone knew the numbers. Everyone knew the imbalance that wasn’t supposed to exist. Darion had awakened his core at three, trained without interruption for sixteen years, molded by tutors, resources, and expectations reserved for a legitimate heir. An A-rank talent, respectable, predictable, forged through time.

And then there was him.

Late awakening. Barely a year of growth. Flow Rank reached in a span that bordered on absurd. An SSS talent, the kind that didn’t fit into House Morgain’s structure but threatened to redefine it. The family watched with open hunger now, no longer bothering to hide it. Like vultures, waiting to see what kind of creature he truly was.

Trafalgar felt it clearly.

This wasn’t about pride. Or provocation. Or Darion’s fragile ego.

This was about image.

’If I walk away,’ he thought, ’I remain what I was to them. An anomaly they don’t fully trust.’

A brief pause followed, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. ’If I accept... I define myself.’

He wasn’t the bastard anymore. From this point on, every move he made would be weighed, remembered, and repeated. House Morgain needed to see what stood among them. Not whispered potential or rumors.

His gaze moved through the room, taking them in. Anthera, watching him carefully. Sylis, tense, already anticipating fallout. Lysandra last. Her green eyes met his without interference, without warning, only trust.

Darion mistook the silence for doubt.

A thin smile crept onto his face as he leaned in. ”What’s wrong?” he said, voice carrying just enough. ”Thinking about your blind fiancée? Or that filthy maid you keep clinging to?” His eyes glittered. ”Must be exhausting, pretending you belong here.”

Something settled into place inside Trafalgar.

He turned fully, meeting Darion’s gaze at last. The room went still as he exhaled once, slow and controlled, and allowed a faint smile to surface. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t playful.

It was deliberate.

”I accept,” Trafalgar said calmly. A pause followed, intentional. ”Dear older brother.”

His smile sharpened just enough to be unmistakable.

”Let’s have a friendly duel,” he continued.