SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 2: A Seat at the Edge of the Table

Trafalgar stood motionlessly in the corridor outside the bathroom, his arms folded across his chest. While his posture remained rigid and formal, his dark uniform was impeccably pressed. The black ribbon holding his hair back shifted slightly with every quiet inhalation he took.

Outwardly, he appeared composed.

However, his mind was spiraling internally.

He had forgotten something vital.

’The vial.’

His gaze grew sharp.

It remained inside—hidden beneath the sink where it had rolled earlier. That very vial had brought about the end of the original Trafalgar’s life. If anyone were to discover it, the consequences would be catastrophic.

He pushed the bathroom door open and walked inside.

The chamber retained a faint scent of soap and marble polish. Kneeling by the basin, he searched momentarily until his fingers brushed against the chilled glass.

There it was.

The small vial hung from the cord that had previously been tied to his wrist. Beneath the flickering candlelight, the red liquid shimmered like fresh blood, as though it still held the memory of its grim duty.

Trafalgar stared at it for a beat.

Then, he tucked it into his jacket’s inner pocket.

’I cannot allow anyone to find this.’

’If someone associates it with poison... they will realize he took his own life.’

Should that come to pass, the interrogation would commence. The rumors would spread. Suspicions would arise. It might even lead to a burial.

As the successor to his spirit, the reawakened Trafalgar du Morgain could not permit that—especially having only just arrived.

’And I must never reveal that I am not him.’

’My existence here is unintended.’

He adjusted his coat to ensure the pocket was hidden, then retreated into the hallway just as delicate footsteps echoed from the distance.

’How fortunate,’ he thought with a bitter smile. ’I am cast in the worst role of the game, forced to experience it from within the character.’

The footsteps drew nearer—rhythmic, precise, and melodic.

Trafalgar turned his head just as a young woman rounded the corner. She wore a pristine black-and-white maid’s uniform, the fabric tailored and modest. Her chestnut-colored hair was pulled into a neat ponytail that bobbed with her stride, and her warm, hazel eyes brightened briefly upon spotting him.

Stopping a few paces away, she performed a small, practiced curtsy.

"Good morning, Young Master."

Trafalgar blinked.

He froze for a fleeting second. Suddenly, a name emerged from the depths of his memory—not his original identity, but the one tethered to this body.

She was one of the few servants duty-bound to him. Quiet, efficient, and—most importantly—detached. She neither spoke ill of him nor offered any defense.

He offered her a brief nod. "Where are we going?"

Mayla stood upright, folding her hands neatly before her.

"To your quarters, Young Master. As is customary, your meals shall be served there. You... always dine in solitude."

Trafalgar hesitated.

’Right... naturally I do.’

Turning away briefly, he mumbled, "Ignore the question."

"As you wish."

The pair moved down the corridor side by side.

Mayla maintained a respectful distance, remaining silent unless addressed. Her movements were hushed, barely audible even against the polished stone.

Trafalgar stared straight ahead, his thoughts churning.

’This is reality. Every bit of it. The individuals, the architecture, even their manner of speech.’

It felt like witnessing an anime come to life—only with a colder, more rigid edge. There were no exaggerated expressions or typical tropes here.

The hallway opened into an expansive, vaulted hall decorated with velvet carpets and towering windows. Between each archway, golden candelabras cast warm glimmers of light across the dim stone walls.

And adorning those walls were portraits.

Each one was massive, rendered in oils, framed in carved obsidian and trimmed with silver.

The atmosphere grew heavy as they passed the first depiction.

Valttair du Morgain.

The patriarch.

He stood with a greatsword at his hip, arms crossed, his eyes as frigid as steel. His silver hair was slicked back, his jawline sharp, and his presence remained formidable even in a painting.

Trafalgar slowed his pace slightly.

’He looks capable of killing someone just by standing still.’

Mayla continued walking; she was accustomed to the portraits and required no glance to guide her.

The next featured Lady Seraphine, the first wife. She appeared regal, draped in shades of violet and gold. Her gaze held a piercing quality that felt as though it could flay skin without a single touch.

Following were Maeron, the eldest son—clad in armor with a sword in hand, set upon a battlefield; Lysandra, graceful and poised with a resting rapier; Lady Verena, possessing a fierce, fiery demeanor; Helgar, broad-shouldered and bare-armed, balancing a greatsword of twice his height on his shoulder; Rivena, wearing a smirk and a curved blade dripping with purple venom; Lady Naevia, wearing a gentle smile; Sylvar, with a tactical expression; Nym, cloaked in shadows; and Lady Ysolde, statuesque and cold, accompanied by her offspring—Darion, with his ambition-filled eyes, and Elira, who appeared as if she were prepared to combat the world itself.

Finally, at the far end of the hall, placed in a dimly lit, off-center position—

Trafalgar du Morgain.

His portrait was smaller and noticeably obscured. The frame lacked the obsidian luster of the others. In the painting, the youth wore dark robes and stared downward with hands at his sides and eyes half-shut.

It struck him less as a portrait and more as a mere record of his existence.

A reminder.

Trafalgar halted.

He gazed at it for a long period.

’Even in a painting... I am only an afterthought.’

Mayla paused several paces ahead and turned, noticing his hesitation.

"Is something the matter, Young Master?"

Trafalgar schooled his features into a neutral mask and began walking again.

"It is nothing."

They arrived at a grand wooden doorway carved with the House Morgain sigil—two crossed swords beneath a wolf’s eye. Mayla opened it without hesitation.

"This is your chamber, Young Master," she murmured.

Trafalgar entered.

He blinked in surprise.

For someone branded the family disgrace, his surroundings were far from lowly.

Polished black marble floors reflected the afternoon light streaming through high-arched windows. A king-sized bed, dressed in dark velvet and silver, sat beneath a complex chandelier. Opposite, a black stone fireplace stood prepared for the flame. The bookshelves were partially filled, awaiting further attention.

To the left, a private bath chamber lay open, with white steam curling from within.

In the center of the room, upon an obsidian dining table, rested a silver tray.

It was perfectly laid: a seared steak served atop roasted vegetables, a goblet of dark red wine, and fine silver utensils.

Trafalgar stared at it in silence.

Despite the luxury, the space felt... devoid of life. Immaculate, cleaned daily, yet never truly occupied.

Like a display item.

"Thank you, Mayla," he said, turning toward her. "You may depart."

She inclined her head with practiced grace. "As you wish, Young Master."

Just like that, she was gone. The door latched shut behind her.

Trafalgar stood alone.

Surrounded by opulence.

Drowning in emptiness.

He seated himself at the table, taking up the knife and fork. The steak was tender and expertly seasoned—a meal of a quality he had only witnessed on screens in his previous life.

He took a bite.

"...This is absurd," he muttered to himself. "How is it this good?"

Each morsel practically dissolved on his tongue, the vegetables were perfectly crisp, and the wine—full-bodied and dry—flowed like silk.

He lifted the goblet and chuckled bitterly.

"Who is going to lecture me? My nutritionist? My RA? My professor?"

He took another swallow.

"This world is already a disaster... I might as well live like a noble while I have the chance."

The smirk, however, quickly faded.

Setting the goblet down, he leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

’What now?’

’Everyone here despises me. I possess no talent. Powerless. I was a failure before I even began.’

His gaze drifted to the dark wood table, then to his own face reflected in the wine.

’Why did it have to be Trafalgar?’

Just as the silence deepened—

A sudden pulse throbbed within his chest. Not agony, nor heat. Simply... pressure.

He sat upright.

Then, echoing in the back of his mind, came a sound.

[System Awakening...]

He caught his breath.

Yet nothing else occurred.

The voice had vanished.

The room remained still.

Trafalgar stood up slowly, searching the walls as if expecting a transformation.

Nothing occurred.

"...What was that?"