SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

A week had passed since classes began.

The routine had been fairly normal, which was already rare enough in Trafalgar’s life to be worth noticing. He was also getting used to his new core rank. Prime Core felt different with every passing day, not in some dramatic way that changed how the world looked, but in the way mana answered him. Less resistant when he pulled it through his body.

Many new students had entered the first year, and another room had also been occupied on the floor where the heirs of the Eight Great Families stayed.

It belonged to the Dward family, from the Dvergar.

Trafalgar had not crossed paths with that heir yet, but it made the floor feel slightly less empty than before. Last year there had only been three heirs of the Eight Great Families there. Now there were four, though Trafalgar honestly did not care much either way.

Most nights, he was not even there.

Sometimes he slept outside. Sometimes he stayed at the apartment with Mayla others with Aubrelle. It was nothing out of the ordinary anymore, although his room at the academy still remained his personal space. No one entered it except him, and he liked keeping at least one place that way.

Right now, Trafalgar was leaving that room.

He wore normal clothes, nothing especially formal, because the reason for his departure was simple. Selara had called him to her office.

Or rather, her laboratory.

There was no point pretending otherwise.

As he walked through the dormitory hall, Trafalgar’s thoughts moved in the direction they always did when Selara was involved.

’Did she finally find something about her master? That would be good if it were true. There are many things I would like to discover, and it seems Director Selara has her own reasons too. So I hope she found something useful.’

He left the dormitory building and crossed the campus toward the main building.

There were many new faces moving around the academy now. First-years, mostly. Some walked in groups, some looked lost, and some tried very hard to appear as if they already understood where everything was. A lot of those unfamiliar faces turned toward him.

Trafalgar was used to that.

Everyone knew who he was by now.

Few students actually approached him, though. Rumors had already done their work. People said Trafalgar du Morgain was cold to anyone who tried to talk to him. That was not exactly intentional. It was just that too many people had tried to approach him day after day, usually with questions, flattery, or some badly hidden agenda. At some point, his answers became short enough to scare most of them away.

Convenient, really.

He reached Selara’s door and stopped in front of it.

He knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again.

BOOM!

The explosion came from the other side of the door and rattled the frame hard enough that dust fell from the top.

Trafalgar’s expression went flat.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside to see what had happened.

Selara’s laboratory greeted him in the usual way: vials everywhere, strange instruments humming on tables, ingredients stacked in places where ingredients should never be, papers spread across surfaces at angles that made reading them feel like punishment, and enough burn marks on the walls to suggest the room had accepted violence as part of its daily schedule.

This time, there was also smoke.

A lot of smoke.

A cracked glass cylinder spun slowly on one of the tables, leaking green vapor from its side. Several shelves had survived by luck alone. A few flasks rolled across the floor in lazy circles, clinking against each other while something acidic hissed near the corner.

And in the middle of it all stood Selara.

She was covered in what looked like green viscous liquid.

Her long platinum-blond hair was messier than usual, which was saying something, and her strange goggles sat crookedly on her forehead. Her green-and-white robes had survived the explosion, though now they looked as if an angry slime had tried to claim them. Selara was already reaching for a towel, as if this were merely a small inconvenience in an otherwise productive morning.

’Oh no. Not again, please.’

Trafalgar took one step backward.

Very calmly, he began closing the door.

Selara’s voice reached him at once.

”Oh, my great personal chef, you could not have chosen a better moment to arrive.” She turned toward him with a wide smile, green slime dripping from one sleeve. ”Come in, please. You will help me with one tiny little thing.”

A chill ran from Trafalgar’s feet to his head.

He already knew what awaited him.

This had happened before. It was not déjà vu. It was experience returning to punish him.

”Selara,” he said, stepping inside with the voice of a man already negotiating with suffering, ”my dear favorite Director Selara, I heard you had called me.”

He stayed by the door.

Selara was wiping the slime from her face with a towel when she lifted her head and stared at him.

”What are you doing standing there? Grab a broom and help me clean.”

”Tch.”

The sound slipped out before he bothered stopping it.

He still obeyed.

A broom leaned against a nearby cabinet, though it had no reason to be there unless Selara’s laboratory had grown used to needing one every few days. Trafalgar picked it up and began pushing pieces of glass into a safer pile.

While he worked, he asked, ”So? Why did you call me? Is there finally something about your master? Did you find anything useful?”

Selara smiled.

Not her usual manic grin. This one had a little more mischief in it, which Trafalgar immediately disliked.

”Hoho. You would like to know, wouldn’t you?” She tossed the ruined towel onto a chair that was already lost beyond saving. ”But no. No luck. I haven’t found anything directly related to that old lunatic.”

Trafalgar’s hand paused around the broom.

”But?”

Selara pointed at him with one gloved finger.

”That is why I like talking to you. You understand when the interesting part is coming.” She leaned against a table, which made one of the flasks beside her tremble dangerously. ”We have an opportunity to find him. Or to see if he appears where we are going.”

Trafalgar looked at her with growing doubt.

”Where we are going?”

”Yes.”

”Plural?”

”Very plural.”

”You and me?”

Selara’s smile widened.

”You, me, and a few other students.”

Trafalgar stared at her.

Selara lifted both hands as if presenting something magnificent.

”We are going to The Grand Alchemical Conclave.”

Trafalgar held the broom in one hand, surrounded by smoke, broken glass, and green slime.

The name sounded expensive.

It also sounded like trouble dressed in formal clothes.

”The Grand Alchemical Conclave,” he repeated. ”That sounds big and majestic. What is it?”