SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 478: The Night Before

Night had fully descended by the time Trafalgar finally secured a moment of solitude within his quarters.

With both families having retired to their suites in anticipation of the morrow, the mansion had settled into a hush, leaving only the distant echo of footsteps and the occasional, hushed movement of domestic staff lingering in the corridors. The afternoon had proven manageable—a rare victory in its own right—and more importantly, none of his relatives had crossed his path long enough to provoke a confrontation.

Trafalgar reclined on his bed, ankles crossed, one hand cushioning his head as he spent a long moment studying the ceiling.

"Status," he commanded.

A translucent system interface shimmered into existence before him.

[Host: Trafalgar du Morgain][Title: Cursed Heir][Age: 17][Race: Half-Human / Half-Primordial][Bloodline: Primordial Being][Core: Flow][Class: Swordsman / Riftspawn][Talent: SSS][Passive Skill: Primordial Body – Rank: Unique – Lv. MAX][Passive Skill: Riftborn Devourer – Rank: Unique – Lv. MAX][Passive Skill: Sword Insight – Rank: Legendary – Lv. MAX][Passive Skill: Morgain Blade – Rank: Unique – Lv. MAX][Combat Skill: Arc Slash – Rank: Common – Lv. 2][Combat Skill: Severing Fang – Rank: Rare – Lv. 2][Combat Skill: Severance Step – Rank: Epic – Lv. 2][Combat Skill: Earthsplitter – Rank: Epic – Lv. 1][Combat Skill: Morgain’s Requiem – Rank: Unique][Combat Skill: Morgain’s Last Dusk – Rank: Unique][Combat Skill: Morgain’s Final Crescent – Rank: Unique][Combat Skill: Crosswind Edge – Rank: Common – Lv. 1][Weapon: Maledicta – Rank: Epic – Type: Evolutive Sword][Accessory: Oathbinder – Rank: Legendary – Type: Ring][Armor: Leather Undersuit – Rank: Uncommon][Accessory: Heirloom of the First Lord – Rank: Unique – Type: Ring][Utility Item: Blazewick Torch – Rank: Common][Weapon: Widow’s Whisper – Rank: Rare – Type: Dagger][Weapon: Nightpiercer – Rank: Epic – Type: Longsword][Armor: Shadowhide Leather Armor – Rank: Rare][Armor: Armor of the Unborn Star – Rank: Unique][Clothing Item: Winter Jacket – Rank: Uncommon][Accessory: Leviathan Fang Pendant – Rank: Legendary]

Trafalgar scrutinized the display for a lengthy stretch of time.

A long, drawn-out breath escaped him.

"Ridiculous," he muttered.

Witnessing the totality of his attributes laid bare highlighted the disparity with startling clarity. His talent, bloodline, array of skills, armaments, and accessories appeared excessive for one of his years—far too much for a lad who, not long ago, had been forced to fight like a stray dog for every scrap of progress.

His focus anchored itself on a singular line.

[Weapon: Maledicta – Rank: Epic – Type: Evolutive Sword]

A faint smirk curled his lips.

"My girl Maledicta has already climbed to Epic."

He hadn't truly processed the advancement until now. Between the chaos of war, the demands of the Council, the shifting Primordial secrets, and the impending wedding, the mechanical notifications had blended into the background. Now, viewed in this stark format, the reality felt entirely different.

At this rate, he was beginning to resemble less of a student and more of the shameless antagonist that a typical protagonist would tremble to encounter in the final act.

His gaze drifted toward the lower section of the list.

[Weapon: Nightpiercer – Rank: Epic – Type: Longsword]

"Hm."

With Maledicta having evolved once more, there was little utility in retaining Nightpiercer. He could offload it to Augusto; the merchant would likely struggle to mask his excitement, failing miserably as his face lit up like a scavenger who had stumbled upon a divine treasure. Or, perhaps...

His eyes narrowed as a new thought took root.

"Or I could pass it on to Arthur."

The captain had earned a reward. He had managed the situation with Euclid with poise, maintained discipline, and—unlike the sea of fools Trafalgar usually dealt with—didn’t require constant babysitting. A blade of that caliber would be far from wasted in his hands.

He scanned the remainder of the window once more, his speed slowing as he reviewed each entry. A genuine smile touched his face.

"If I keep progressing at this velocity, I ought to start offering apologies before my duels. It would be quite impolite not to."

The thought had barely vanished from his mind when an external sound caught his attention.

The system window dispersed into nothingness. Trafalgar hoisted himself off the bed, already formulating a mental defensive strategy.

"Please, just don't let it be Rivena. She would love nothing more than to poison both tonight and tomorrow."

Truthfully, he’d prefer to face a biting insult from Helgar or a cold, cryptic lecture from Valttair than endure the presence of that woman. Anyone but her.

He reached the door, seized the handle, and swung it open.

The second the door swung wide, Trafalgar’s posture softened.

It wasn't Rivena.

Aubrelle stood in the shadows of the corridor, barefoot, her snowy blindfold still knotted securely, with her pale hair cascading over her shoulders. Pipin circled lazily in the air nearby, the dim light of the hallway catching against his feathers, leaving a faint, shimmering trace in the atmosphere. Seeing her haunting form at this hour took him completely by surprise.

"Aubrelle?" he questioned, lifting an eyebrow. "Has something occurred?"

She faltered for an instant—a rare moment of hesitation that felt completely out of character. Aubrelle was rarely one to stumble over her words.

"May I enter?" she ventured quietly.

Trafalgar ceded the space immediately, gesturing wide. "Certainly. Please."

She glided past him, Pipin trailing silently in her wake. Within the room, Aubrelle reached up to loosen her blindfold with practiced grace. She had no need for it when they were alone, and the movement had become so instinctive that Trafalgar hardly paid it any mind. He clicked the door shut while she crossed the room to sit upon the edge of the large bed.

It was a massive piece of furniture; even someone as territorial about his space as Trafalgar could find no fault with the arrangement. He walked over, halting before her as she folded the cloth and set it aside.

"Apologies for the late hour," she offered, her voice unusually subdued. "I have been... anxious about tomorrow."

Trafalgar took a seat beside her, shifting his frame to face her directly. "Oh?" A smirk tugged at his lips. "Don't tell me you are contemplating a daring escape before the nuptials."

Aubrelle rotated her face toward him.

Trafalgar knew she lacked traditional sight; the gaze he felt was the one she borrowed via Pipin—a distant, ethereal perception that no mortal eye could replicate. Yet, when she faced him, the sensation persisted that she could see straight through his defenses.

She leaned forward, closing the remaining distance.

Her hand brushed his chest, stabilizing herself, before she claimed his lips. The kiss arrived with an intensity that silenced the sarcastic retort he was about to deliver. Trafalgar’s hand came up by instinct to rest against her waist, pulling her closer. Aubrelle leaned into him, her kiss deepening—a tangle of the nerves she’d arrived with, now tempered by a raw, profound honesty. Her lips parted, warm and searching, and for a few fleeting moments, the entire world narrowed down to the stillness of the room and the synchronized rhythm of their breathing.

When they finally drew apart, Aubrelle remained close, the heat of her frame still pressed against his own.

Trafalgar studied her for a moment, letting out a soft huff. "Well. That settles that."

A soft flush bloomed on Aubrelle’s cheeks, but she didn't look away.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice deepening. "I don't think you're in any rush to escape."

A ghost of a smile drifted across her face, though it evaporated almost as quickly as it had appeared.

Trafalgar noted the shift instantly.

His hand, resting by her side, lingered before gently shifting. "So, what is it?" he persisted, watching her with renewed focus. "What weighs on your mind?"

Aubrelle lowered her gaze, her fingers fidgeting with the fabric of her dress.

"It is Mayla," she finally confessed.

Trafalgar’s brow creased. "Mayla?"

Aubrelle offered a shallow nod. "I have spoken to you of this before, and I have spoken to her as well, but..." She paused, casting about for the right terminology. "It still feels unsettled. She was by your side long before me. And yet, tomorrow, I shall be designated as your first wife."

Trafalgar remained silent, absorbing the weight of her words.

He understood her burden. He also knew there was no simple remedy. The situation was coiled deep within the rot of family, lineage, timing, and political maneuvering. Ugly, wretched things—yet unavoidable.

"We cannot circumvent tomorrow," he said eventually, his voice soft. "Regardless of our personal feelings, the ritual must proceed." He focused his eyes on her. "But I hear you. And I grasp why it sits ill with you."

Aubrelle edged closer, resting her head against his shoulder.

"Can you provide me with a promise?" she asked in a whisper.

Trafalgar turned his head slightly toward her. "State it."

After a moment of silence, Aubrelle whispered, "Will you ask Mayla to marry you as well?"

The request caught him completely off guard.

For several seconds, Trafalgar uttered not a word. Then, the tension in his features loosened, replaced by something appreciative. He was, in truth, deeply touched.

Aubrelle and Mayla were among the few he truly valued, and the fact that they acted with grace instead of circling one another like predators, as the women of the Morgain line were taught to do, was profound. There was no toxicity here—no desperate grasping for status or petty schemes to elevate their own futures.

"I will," he replied.

Aubrelle lifted her head, eyeing him. "Truthfully?"

"Yes." A faint smile graced his lips. "Though I am uncertain how Valttair will respond. I already made my stance known to him, so I doubt he has the leverage to refuse."