SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

Chapter 538: Chapter 538: A Catastrophic Misunderstanding

Trafalgar had already left the main building and was making his way toward the Academy dormitories.

He had a clear destination in mind, but one irritating detail remained: he had never had any reason to enter a room that was not his own. That meant he would have to ask someone where Bartholomew’s room was, which felt faintly ridiculous when the whole Academy seemed to assume Trafalgar could walk anywhere he pleased and have the doors arrange themselves out of respect.

The campus had emptied out in a way that felt strange after months of constant movement. The paths were not deserted, but the usual flood of students had thinned into scattered figures crossing courtyards or heading between buildings with bags in hand. Many had already left with their families. Others were probably halfway home by now, eager to enjoy the freedom that came after the end of the year.

’That sounds nice,’ Trafalgar thought while walking under the late afternoon light. ’How fortunate for them. Meanwhile I’m carrying old notes tied to war, void creatures, and some lunatic alchemist, and I still have to hunt down Barth because he’s the only person I know who’ll willingly help me untangle illegible writing without dying of joy first.’

By the time he reached the dormitory building, he had already decided he was not in the mood to wander three floors looking lost, so instead of heading straight to the circular platform, he went to reception.

Three receptionists were working behind the long desk. The moment Trafalgar approached, one of them, an elf with pale hair tied neatly back, straightened in visible surprise. Apparently Trafalgar du Morgain was less abstract when he stood right in front of someone.

”Good morning,” she said quickly. ”Trafalgar du Morgain. What can I help you with?”

”Trafalgar is fine,” he replied. ”I’m looking for a friend. Can you tell me where his room is?”

”Of course.” She reached for a small stack of records, fingers moving faster now that she had a task to hide behind. ”What’s his name?”

”Bartholomew. First year. Well, second year once the next term starts.”

She searched through the sheets, found the right page, and nodded with quiet satisfaction. ”Room one hundred twenty-one. Second floor.”

Trafalgar inclined his head. ”Thanks for telling me. See you.”

That simple answer seemed to fluster her even more than his presence had, but he was already walking away.

Now he went to the circular platform.

There were other students waiting there, some with bags, some empty-handed, all of them far more relaxed than they had any right to be. Trafalgar stepped onto the platform with them, and it began to rise with the soft hum of mana beneath polished stone. A few students got off on the first floor. More than one glanced at him on the way out. He understood why. Whenever people saw Trafalgar on this platform, he was either descending from the highest floor or returning to his own room. Seeing him ride up only to get off on the second floor was unusual enough to stir curiosity.

When the platform stopped there, Trafalgar stepped out and started down the corridor.

This was the first time he had been on this level, and it showed.

He walked slowly, checking the numbers one by one as he passed the doors.

’One hundred eighteen. One hundred nineteen. One hundred twenty... so one hundred twenty-one should be right—’

He stopped.

There was no next door.

Only the corner.

Trafalgar turned his head, stared at the wall for a beat, then checked the numbering on the opposite side. One hundred forty. One hundred thirty-nine.

A vein pulsed faintly at his temple.

’You have got to be kidding me.’

Of course it was at the beginning of the other side. Of course the Academy had chosen to arrange the corridor in the most irritating possible way. So Trafalgar turned around, walked the entire stretch back, and only at the far end did he finally find room one hundred twenty-one.

He stopped in front of it and knocked.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

No answer came.

’Did Barth go out?’

Trafalgar frowned slightly, but before he could knock again, the door shifted inward a little under the pressure. It had been left unlocked.

He stared at it in disbelief.

’This idiot. What happens if someone steals all his things? He’d probably apologize for the inconvenience and help carry them downstairs.’

A faintly mean idea came to him at once.

He pushed the door open, stepped inside, and closed it behind him with quiet care. A lesson, he decided. Just enough to make Bartholomew rethink the wisdom of leaving his room open to the world.

Trafalgar sat down on the edge of the bed to wait.

Compared to his own room, this one was modest in every direction. Smaller bed. Smaller desk. One chair. One shelf. A narrow bathroom. Nothing decorative or excessive, nothing that hadn’t been chosen for simple use. It suited Bartholomew well enough. The whole room carried the cautious tidiness of someone who occupied a place carefully, as if trying not to take more space than necessary.

Trafalgar let his shoulders ease a little and closed his eyes.

A door opened.

He opened them at once, expecting Bartholomew to be returning through the main entrance.

Instead, the sound had come from the bathroom.

A female voice drifted from inside.

”Ay, be careful, Barth!”

Trafalgar froze.

The bathroom door opened wider.

Cynthia stepped out wrapped in a white towel, damp hair falling over her shoulders, one hand still adjusting the cloth as she walked. She was speaking as she emerged, clearly expecting her brother to be somewhere in front of her.

”You really need to stop barging arou—”

The rest died.

Because the person sitting on the bed was not her brother Bartholomew.

It was Trafalgar.

For one impossible moment, neither of them moved.

Cynthia’s expression emptied out so fast it was almost impressive. Her face went from calm irritation to complete shock, and the color rushed into it with brutal efficiency. Trafalgar rose halfway from the bed, equally stunned, his mind still trying to make sense of why Cynthia was in Bartholomew’s room fresh out of the bath while Bartholomew himself was nowhere in sight.

The towel slipped.

The world made a deliberate choice to get worse.

Cynthia went rigid.

Trafalgar forgot every language he had ever known.

The silence lasted barely a breath before mana exploded through the room.

A bow materialized in Cynthia’s hands with violent speed, its shape snapping into existence as though the weapon itself had been waiting for the excuse. An arrow followed at once, black light twisting along it in hard veins.

[Piercing Shade Arrow]

The projectile shrieked through the air.

Trafalgar moved on instinct. He threw himself to the side just as the arrow tore past him, blasted through the open window, and vanished outside in a streak of dark force.

”Relax!” he snapped, already lifting one hand while the other braced against the floor. ”First cover yourself. This is a misunderstanding.”

That did not improve her mood in the slightest.

Cynthia caught the fallen towel with one savage motion, wrapped it back around herself, and aimed the bow at him again with a hand that trembled from fury more than embarrassment.

”You’re dead,” she said.

Trafalgar pushed himself back up and rubbed a hand over his face. ”Yes. I would prefer that at the moment.”