SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

Trafalgar stepped out of Selara’s laboratory with more questions than when he had entered.

The corridor beyond felt colder than before, though that may have had less to do with the Academy and more to do with the name that had just been dropped into everything. Vaelion. An old alchemist who should have been dead. A century of absence that, apparently, had not been absence at all.

’Are they truly involved, or is this only an ugly coincidence?’

He walked at an unhurried pace, hands tucked into his coat, his thoughts moving faster than his steps.

If Selara’s master was really alive, that part at least made sense. Strength stretched life. The higher one’s mana core, the longer the body held together, especially when bloodline advantages were added on top of it. Human, vampire, beastkin, elf, every race carried its own edge somewhere. A man like that, if he had kept advancing and if the Vaelion had found ways to preserve him, might very well have lasted this long.

That did not mean Trafalgar could touch the problem now.

Nearly a week of his break had already passed, and other pieces demanded attention first. The situation with Caelum and Darian had been handled for the moment, which was enough. Later, when the time came, Darian would turn his back on House Morgain and House Sylvanel alike. Once that line was crossed, he would answer to Trafalgar alone, and that would place the Thal’zar fully in Trafalgar’s hands without requiring a second war or another public display. Darian was not eager to gamble with his life either. Trafalgar had already made the point clearly enough with Lucien. Darian knew more than he said, and that alone was enough. Lucien had died, Darian had risen to the head of House Thal’zar, and neither of those two things had happened in a vacuum.

That was precisely why Darian understood the line beneath all of it. Trafalgar did not need to threaten him openly. He had already shown what kind of move he was capable of making when the board, the timing, and the opportunity aligned in his favor.

Of course, Trafalgar knew that could not be repeated whenever he pleased.

War had opened the space for it. Confusion had hidden the hand behind it. Pressure from every side had made the impossible briefly viable. Against another Great Family under normal conditions, something like that would be far harder to attempt. The Eight Great Families did not survive by leaving their strongest people idle. Most kept power close to home, ready to move the moment anything felt wrong.

That was why Darian’s case could not become a habit.

It had been a precise cut, not a model to use every month.

Trafalgar exhaled slowly and let that branch of thought go. There was no point chewing the same bone twice.

What he had now was one quiet week before Zafira returned. He had already agreed to go with her and buy the things he actually lacked. Weapons were not the problem. Armor was not the problem either. He had both, and of a quality most people his age would not even dare dream about.

What he lacked were the smaller things, the ugly practical ones that decided whether a fight stayed manageable or turned rotten.

Utility items.

Storage, concealment, movement, resistance, detection, emergency recovery, disposable tools, anything that would make the difference between adapting and getting cornered. Up to now, he had been making do with raw ability, instinct, and whatever he could improvise on the spot. That worked. It also had limits.

Which was where Augusto came in.

”That man really does arrive exactly when he’s useful. Trafalgar’s mouth twitched faintly. ’Let’s just hope he doesn’t try to make me work for it the way he did last time!

Granted, the last time had paid well. The mithril mines alone had ended up being worth the trouble, and the money from that had been far from meaningless. Euclid devoured resources at a pace that would have made a lesser territory collapse under its own costs. A city never came cheap, and a city that was still expanding felt worse. Labor, materials, transport, fortifications, adjustments to the Gate district, payments, maintenance, the list never seemed to end.

People liked imagining territory as profit. In reality, unless something major happened, a territory mostly ate.

Euclid ate like a starving beast.

Or, more accurately, like a vampire with access to someone else’s veins.

Most of what Trafalgar earned no longer stayed in his hand for long. It went back into Euclid, into roads, defenses, reconstruction, internal structure, and the sort of quiet growth that outsiders only noticed once it had already become significant. The city was not large compared to the greater holdings of the world, but it was his. That part carried weight. More importantly, Euclid had already begun producing something even more useful than tax or status.

An army.

Not one loyal to House Morgain. But his personal army.

Trafalgar’s expression eased into thought as he turned down another corridor.

”Though I still haven’t seen the main squadrons of the family.’

That curiosity had lingered for a while. Arthur had belonged to the last

squadron, and even that lowest tier had been made of capable people.

Disciplined. Dangerous enough to make most regions sweat if they crossed a border. Yet Trafalgar knew very well that Arthur and his group represented the bottom layer of something far larger.

The main Morgain squadrons were another matter entirely.

Trafalgar could imagine it even without having seen those forces deployed in full.

Arthur had belonged to the last squadron, and even that lowest layer had been made up of capable people. Disciplined, hard, dangerous enough to cut through most armies if they were unleashed properly. Which only made the rest of House Morgain’s sword squadrons more unsettling to picture. If the bottom already looked like that, the upper ones had to be something else entirely.

Older men did not speak of them lightly. Even people who had spent their lives around power seemed to weigh their words more carefully when the main Morgain squadrons came up.

Valttair had never brought them to the last war. That had not been because he lacked trust in them, nor because they were unsuited for battle. It had been choice. Valttair disliked showing the full shape of his hand unless he had no other option. He preferred that the world keep guessing how far House Morgain’s reach actually extended.

And because of that, no one truly knew how monstrous those squadrons were. Arthur’s group had only been the outer skin of something far larger.

’One day I’ll probably see what the real ones can do!

The thought did not leave anything pleasant behind.

By the time Trafalgar reached the section of the dormitory reserved for heirs

and the handful of students the Academy treated like treasured disasters, his head felt crowded enough already. Rest would help. Putting his thoughts in

order would help more.

He was almost at his door when a familiar voice cut through the corridor.

”Trafalgar!”

He turned toward the training area near the long window.

There he was.

As always, Xavier had decided that shirts were optional and discipline was not.

Crimson-red hair fell around his face in its usual unruly way, his scarf wrapped around his neck as though he had declared war on weather itself, and his mismatched irises burned in different colors, one red, the other yellow. His summoned spear rested in one hand, the weapon tilted against his shoulder with easy confidence, though the marble beneath his feet told the truth of

what he had been doing.

He had not been idling.

Shallow marks ran across the floor in tight patterns, each one carved by repeated movement, fast pivots, spear turns, and explosive bursts of footwork. Sweat ran down his chest and shoulders, catching the pale corridor light in a thin sheen. Even on vacation, Xavier trained like a man trying to bite a piece out of the future before it arrived.

Trafalgar changed direction and walked toward him.

Trust Xavier to spend a break trying to murder the concept of leisure.

When he stopped in front of him, Xavier’s grin widened immediately, bright and challenging in the way only he could manage without becoming insufferable.

”You took your time,” Xavier said. ”I was starting to think the great first place

genius had collapsed from overthinking.”

Trafalgar glanced at the spear, then at the floor around him.

”You’re really training now?”

Xavier snorted. ”What, you thought I’d spend the break sleeping?” He rolled one shoulder, the

motion loose despite the work he had clearly already put in. ”Some of us have

pride.”

”That explains why you’re shirtless, Trafalgar replied. ”You must be ventilating

the pride.”

Xavier barked out a laugh.

”See? This is why I like talking to you. Most people are too respectful. It gets

boring.”

Trafalgar let the jab pass and folded his arms.

”You say that now. Give it a few years and you’ll start appreciating quiet.”

”Impossible.”

”I admire the confidence.”

”You should.” Xavier spun the spear once through his fingers and caught it cleanly, the movement smooth from repetition. ”Anyway, enough talking.” The heat coming off him carried the clean scent of exertion, the sharpness of

someone who had been pushing his body hard instead of pacing himself. There was nothing lazy about the way he held the spear either. Even relaxed, Xavier

always gave the impression that the next instant could turn into violence if he found a reason entertaining enough.

Trafalgar had known people like that in his previous life too, though none of them had been able to summon a spear and punch holes through stone. For the first time since leaving Selara’s laboratory, the knot in his head loosened a little. Xavier had a talent for that. He took up so much space with his presence that other thoughts were forced to retreat for a while. Xavier planted the butt of the spear against the ground and leaned into it with a grin that already promised trouble.

”So,” he said, ”do you want to have that sparring match you promised me now?”