SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 1: Shitty Reincarnation

"Dammit, I’m exhausted."

Sleep had completely eluded me. The reason? This was the day. After four years of eerie silence, my favorite game was finally launching its sequel. Not a single leak or spoiler had surfaced, just one cryptic teaser that teased a vast array of new playable characters.

It was a gacha game, of course. If you hoped to pull a rare character, you better be prepared to sacrifice your soul—or perhaps just your savings account.

That was a trade-off I was perfectly fine with making.

I was perched on the toilet in my university’s restroom, my smartphone gripped in one hand and my debit card in the other, watching the countdown tick toward zero.

"Three seconds remaining..."

I wasn't even thinking about my bodily functions. Every ounce of my concentration was fixated on that roll—the single event that might alter everything.

There was only one character I cared about.

Trafalgar du Morgain.

A legend-tier unit boasting a mere 0.7% drop rate. Among the ten legendary characters, he possessed the most tragic backstory. As the illegitimate son of one of the Eight Great Families, he suffered through fifteen years of relentless abuse, hatred, and eventual exile.

"That’s precisely why he’s superior as a protagonist. The struggle, the eventual rise..."

"3..."

"2..."

"1..."

"YESSSSS!!! HE DROPPED!!!"

BAM.

A violent thud resonated from the stall immediately next to mine.

"Buddy, you aren't the only one in here, and some of us are trying to focus on our business!"

"My apologies!" I replied, pressing my palms together in a knee-jerk reaction, even though he couldn't see me.

I launched the app with lightning speed, bypassed every opening cutscene, and dived into the store. I entered my card details. I had to have him. I desperately needed this unit.

'Card 6831... expires 12/37... name... Trafalgar... wait, we share a name? That's bizarre.'

I tapped the purchase button.

ERROR.

I tried it again.

ERROR.

"What the hell? Come on!"

ERROR: INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

"No... no, please—!"

"DUDE! I’M FIGHTING FOR MY LIFE IN HERE, WOULD YOU SHUT THE HELL UP?!"

The guy in the adjacent stall sounded like he was gasping his last breath.

I fell silent immediately. I just sat there, phone in hand, hollow inside.

Fifteen minutes went by before I heard the flush and the chime of a belt buckle.

"Thanks, man. You finally shut your mouth so I could get it done."

No answer came. It was dead silent.

The student walked out and headed to lecture, having no clue that the stall next to him was now empty.

Inside, only a mobile phone remained—the screen still glowing with the message: "Congratulations! You’ve obtained the legendary character: Trafalgar du Morgain."

---

"Why is the seat so cold?"

That was the first thought that raced through my mind as I drifted into awareness. My physical form felt alien. The floor beneath me wasn't the cracked tile of a university restroom—it was smooth, polished, and frigid.

My eyelids fluttered open.

This... this wasn't the bathroom at school.

I was seated on marble. Genuine white marble. Faint golden patterns shimmered within the stone walls. A massive, silver-trimmed mirror stood before me. To my right, a colossal bathtub sat beneath an arched window where brilliant sunlight streamed in like a masterpiece.

And I was completely bare.

"...What the hell."

Garments were scattered on the floor around me—intricate, aristocratic clothing that definitely weren't mine. Decorated sleeves, silk linings, and a design that looked suspiciously like a family crest.

I tried to stand too quickly and lost my balance. My hand flew to my head... and struck something solid.

Clack!

"Ow—what the...?"

I stared at my hand.

A small glass vial hung from my fingers, seemingly tethered to my wrist by a thin cord. A deep crimson liquid swirled inside, pulsating softly in the sunlight.

"What is this...?"

The moment I voiced the question, it struck me.

A deluge of memories that belonged to someone else flooded my consciousness. A tsunami of pain. Screaming. Blood. A shivering child trapped in a hallway. Older brothers mocking him while they pummeled him. A stern man—his father?—gazing down from the staircase without a word. Endless training. Failure. More training. Even greater failure. Hearing again and again that he had zero talent for Cultivation. That he was a stain on the Sect. That his life was an error.

The vial. A single swallow.

Then, utter darkness.

And now—me.

"...No way."

The vial slipped from my grip and skittered across the floor. I didn't care to go after it.

"I’ve been reincarnated... as him?"

My voice shook. My breathing was ragged.

I stood there trembling, the red glow from the vial casting a hazy light over the tiles.

The memories continued to surface—too visceral to be fake, too detailed to be dismissed. They didn't feel like a phantom dream. They were sharp. Abhorrently real.

Trafalgar du Morgain.

The ninth son. Born to a concubine who passed away in labor. Raised in shadows. Disowned by his father, despised by his siblings, and mocked by his own servants.

Zero talent. No affinity for Qi. No swordsmanship to speak of.

He was bullied for years by noble children and his own siblings alike. A disgrace to the Morgain lineage. A literal punching bag bearing a crest.

Decades of physical labor resulted in nothing at all. Not even a glimmer of power in his Dantian. Nothing.

Until one day... he discovered something. A potion found inside an ancient vault. It wasn't labeled, just glowing with that haunting crimson hue. It seemed to speak to him.

He swiped it.

Told a soul regarding it to no one.

Then, when the estate was finally quiet, he hid inside this very bathroom—the one no one ever used.

He drank it.

That was his final memory.

And currently... it belonged to me.

I sank onto the marble, my knees hitting the floor with a dull thud.

'He took his own life... with that poison.'

'I was just trying to pull him in a damn game...'

'I wanted to experience the story of the tragic underdog—not become the tragic underdog!'

I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The same black hair. The same blue eyes.

But they weren't mine anymore.

"I am Trafalgar du Morgain now..." I whispered.

'And this path is certainly not set to easy mode.'

A sound startled me, breaking my trance. My head snapped toward the ornate wooden door.

"Young Master? Is everything alright?" a voice inquired—polite, wary, and entirely foreign to me.

My brain went into overdrive.

'Dammit, what do I say? What if they think I’ve lost my mind? What if they suspect I’m an imposter?'

I gulped, grabbed the silk robe from the floor, and draped it over my shoulders.

"Yes," I replied, struggling to keep my tone even. "I am fine. Is... there an issue?"

There was a short pause.

"It is just... you’ve been inside the washroom for over three hours."

'Three hours? I’ve been unconscious that long?'

I cleared my throat. "Ah, right. My apologies. I was... just finding some peace in the bath."

A light chuckle sounded through the door. "Understood, Young Master. I shall have a meal prepared for you shortly."

"Thank you," I said, nodding although they couldn't see me.

Footsteps retreated down the hall.

Silence fell once more.

I leaned my back against the wall and exhaled a shuddering breath.

'Okay. I bought myself a little breathing room.'

'What do I know so far?'

'I’m Trafalgar du Morgain. Fifteen years old. Zero talent. The ninth son of House Morgain. Abused. Ignored. Hated.'

'And now I inhabit his body. With zero knowledge of how this world actually functions beyond what the game lore hinted at.'

I glanced toward the discarded vial on the floor.

'Looks like I inherited more than just his physical appearance.'

I breathed out through my nose and surveyed the bathroom one final time.

'Time to stop spiraling.'

The silk robe felt uncomfortable against my skin. Too expensive. Too refined. It didn't feel like it was mine.

Because it wasn't.

I cast it aside and stepped toward the pile of clothes—the actual attire. A dark uniform, trimmed with charcoal and midnight blue fabric. Gold thread traced a crest over the left chest: two blades crossed under the eye of a wolf.

The insignia of House Morgain.

I donned the tunic, tightened the belt, fastened the heavy coat, and stepped into my boots. Everything fit as if it had been custom-made for my frame—which, I supposed, was accurate.

'This body belongs to me now.'

I spotted a black ribbon among the garments and gathered the long strands of hair that were falling over my shoulders.

I tied them into a tight knot.

A simple, black ponytail.

It felt... correct.

'Trafalgar always wore this style in his character art,' I recalled. 'He looked cool... miserable, but cool.'

I exited the bathroom at last.

The corridor was elegant, deserted, and unsettlingly pristine. Stone walls, banners, and flickering torches set in golden sconces bathed the hallway in a regal light. I leaned against the wall next to the threshold and crossed my arms.

'Let’s review the situation.'

'I am in a fantasy realm dominated by eight prominent families. House Morgain is one of them. Notorious for their swordsmanship, arrogance, and cruelty.'

'I am their ninth son. Born without potential. The weakest of the clan.'

'Bullied, broken, discarded.'

'Damn it, I am well and truly screwed.'"