SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

Chapter 366: Chapter 366: Friendly Duel [III]

Trafalgar moved.

His step wasn’t linear. It didn’t cut forward or retreat backward. Instead, his body slid sideways through the space between heartbeats, following a shallow curve that bent around Darion’s line of sight. One foot brushed the stone, barely pressing into it, and the rest followed in a smooth, economical motion that wasted nothing.

[Severance Step].

There was no explosion of mana to announce it. No dramatic surge. The movement was clean, precise, almost quiet, like a blade passing through air before the sound could catch up.

To Darion, it felt wrong.

Trafalgar wasn’t where he had been a moment ago. But he also wasn’t where Darion’s instincts expected him to appear. The angle collapsed. Distance lost meaning. Darion turned too late, sword snapping toward a space Trafalgar no longer occupied.

Then he was there.

Inside the guard. Offset just enough to break balance, close enough that retreat was no longer an option. Trafalgar’s blade was already raised, posture settled, breathing unchanged.

The rhythm shattered.

Darion froze for a fraction of a second.

And that was enough.

The duel slid back under Trafalgar’s control, absolute and undeniable, as if it had never left his hands at all.

Trafalgar’s mana condensed along the edge of his blade, drawn inward and sharpened rather than allowed to flare. There was no announcement, no dramatic pause meant for an audience.

He simply moved.

[Morgain’s Final Crescent] carved forward in a tight, inverted arc, fast enough that Darion only realized what was happening when the space in front of him folded inward. The strike wasn’t wide, nor reckless. It cut through alignment instead of flesh, slicing cleanly through guard, stance, and flow in a single, precise motion.

Steel rang once.

Darion’s sword was ripped from his grasp and sent skidding across the stone, spinning end over end before clattering to a stop at the edge of the circle. The force didn’t stop there. It tore through his core flow, severing regeneration mid-cycle, leaving his mana fractured and unresponsive.

His breath hitched.

Strength fled his legs as instability surged through him, sharp and disorienting. He staggered, barely managing to stay upright, suddenly aware of how empty his hands felt.

Trafalgar was already there.

The blade hovered close, steady, unmoving, close enough that Darion could feel the cold of it against his skin. Trafalgar’s breathing hadn’t changed. His posture hadn’t shifted. The duel had ended where he decided it would.

”Yield,” Trafalgar said, voice calm, final.

Darion clenched his jaw. His hands shook at his sides as he forced himself straight, pain and imbalance tearing through him with every breath.

He said nothing.

He didn’t step back.

He refused to do it.

Trafalgar didn’t move.

His gaze lifted past Darion, settling on Armand across the room. The exchange was silent. A question asked without words. An answer given the same way.

Armand observed him steadily.

He made no gesture to stop the duel. No signal to intervene. The moment stretched, heavy with intent, until its meaning became impossible to misunderstand.

The duel was still ongoing.

A faint stir moved through the gathered Morgains before dying out, smothered by the weight of that choice. Everyone grasped what it implied. Darion had lost his weapon. His core flow was fractured. He remained standing through will alone. And yet, by the rules set before them, he had neither yielded nor collapsed.

So it continued.

Trafalgar lowered his blade slightly. Not as mercy, not as hesitation, but as acknowledgment. His expression stayed composed, distant, as if this outcome had always been part of the path forward.

’So that’s your decision,’ he thought.

The room held its breath.

No victor had been declared. No authority had stepped in.

Which meant what followed was still within the rules.

Trafalgar moved. His free hand closed around Darion’s throat, fingers locking in without strain, and he drove him down into the stone with controlled force. The impact echoed through the hall, knocking the air from Darion’s lungs in a broken gasp.

Trafalgar followed him down.

His knee pinned Darion’s side. Weight settled. Absolute. Maledicta dissolved into light and vanished, leaving nothing between them but flesh and intent.

Then the punches began.

The first strike snapped Darion’s head sideways, knuckles crashing into his cheekbone with a wet, hollow sound. Blood burst across the stone. The second came immediately after, harder, crushing into his mouth, teeth biting through lip as his head rebounded uselessly against the floor.

There was no rhythm to it. No flourish.

Just impact.

Fist.

Face.

Stone.

Again and again.

Each blow landed driving Darion deeper into the ground, skin splitting, features swelling beyond recognition. His arms twitched, useless, body failing to respond as Trafalgar’s fists kept coming, unbroken, unrelenting. The only sounds left were breath, the dull crack of knuckles against bone, and blood pooling beneath them.

Darion stopped looking like an heir.

Stopped looking like a person.

And still Trafalgar didn’t slow.

There was no rage on his face. No loss of control. Only focus, cold and precise, as if this too were part of the lesson. Part of the inheritance being shown to everyone watching.

This was how a Morgain ended a fight.

Ysolde was the first to break.

She surged to her feet, chair scraping violently across the stone as her voice cut through the hall, sharp with panic and fury. ”Enough!” she cried, eyes fixed on the figure on the ground. ”Armand, stop this—now!”

Trafalgar’s ist came down again, controlled, exact, knuckles splitting already-ruined skin. Darion’s body jerked weakly beneath him, no defense left, no answer to give. Blood spread in dark arcs across the floor, each impact driving the truth deeper than any blade could have.

No one else spoke.

Not a single voice rose to join her.

The hall had gone utterly still, as if the space itself had decided to watch.

Somewhere along the edge of the circle, Rivena’s lips curved upward. It wasn’t amusement. It wasn’t mockery. It was something sharper, brighter—interest tinged with something almost eager, her cyan eyes fixed on Trafalgar as if seeing him for the first time.

’So that’s what you are now.’

Lysandra stood rigid, breath held without realizing it. Relief settled slowly into her expression. The fight had been decided long before the first punch landed.

Armand watched longer than anyone.

Then he lifted a hand.

”Enough,” he said, voice calm, carrying without effort.

The word landed with weight.

Trafalgar stopped.

He rose from Darion’s shattered form without haste, blood dripping from his knuckles, expression unchanged. Behind him, Darion lay barely conscious, face swollen beyond recognition, chest rising shallowly.

Armand stepped forward, gaze sweeping the circle once before settling on Trafalgar. ”The duel is decided,” he said evenly. ”The victor is Trafalgar du Morgain.”

Only then did the room breathe again.

”Healers,” Armand added, already turning away. ”See to Darion. His face will need work.”

As servants rushed forward with magic and salves, the image remained burned into every mind present.

They had not watched a bastard fight.

They had not witnessed talent merely proving itself.

What they had seen reminded them of Valttair.

Not a copy nor a shadow. But the same stillness. The same way violence was applied without excess or hesitation, as if emotion had never been part of the equation to begin with.

And in that moment, something settled across the room with unsettling clarity.

The rumors hadn’t been exaggerations. The whispers about Trafalgar du Morgain weren’t inventions born from war or distance.

They had been understated.

This was no longer a forgotten bastard clawing for relevance.

He had crossed that line quietly, decisively.

Whether they liked it or not, Trafalgar du Morgain was already someone who mattered.

And the unease in their chests did not come from his strength alone.

It came from how naturally he carried it.