SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 5: Midnight Training

Trafalgar lay sprawled across his room's floor, limbs splayed and gaze locked onto the ceiling, his mind still struggling to reconcile the madness of the past few hours. The polished stone surface felt frigid against his back, yet the sensation did not pull him from his spiraling thoughts.

'I received the Swordsman class. A rather basic role, correct? However... provided it is nurtured properly, even a mundane class can eclipse the legendary. That was the consensus on the message boards, and this reality appears to operate no differently.'

His expression tightened slightly.

'Nonetheless... with my newfound passive ability, Sword Insight (Lv.Max), my pace of learning should be accelerated. Does it apply when I attempt to craft a technique from scratch, though? Or must I first observe another executing it? Ugh... I have no clue.'

He exhaled a weary, heavy sigh.

'Merely hours ago, I was sitting on the toilet, prepared to whale on the sole character who captivated me in the game's sequel—Trafalgar du Morgain. The illegitimate offspring, the punching bag of the Morgain family. A narrative device designed specifically to perish early for dramatic effect... and now, that person is me.'

Rubbing his eyes, Trafalgar peered at his outstretched palm.

'At the very least, I possess the memories. Somewhat. Certain segments are sharp—painfully so—yet others feel... obscured. As if someone blurred the critical details. Or perhaps wiped them entirely.'

A profound stillness engulfed him. Outside, the night world remained in slumber, blissfully unaware that a shift—or rather, someone—had fundamentally altered.

Rising slowly to his feet, he whispered to himself.

'A household of swordsmen like this surely possesses a training facility somewhere, does it not?'

A slight smirk tugged at his mouth. It wasn't born of confidence. Rather, it was curiosity—dangerous, reckless curiosity.

'The original Trafalgar never stirred his core. Never mastered a Morgain technique. Never achieved anything of value. Perhaps now is the moment to rectify that.'

He stood upright, dusting off his attire. The biting stone no longer provided any solace.

'Time to put this vessel to the test.'

The corridors of House Morgain were sprawling and devoid of sound, cloaked in the silver radiance of a moon filtering through towering windows. Massive banners displaying clashing blades alongside the family’s wolf crest hung against the walls like mute observers, their long shadows cast across the marble floor.

Trafalgar navigated with care, sidestepping creaking tiles and retreating behind pillars whenever he spotted a patrolling guard. He was hardly inconspicuous—appearing outside his quarters, particularly at such an hour, would surely prompt questions.

'Currently, the most prudent course is to maintain the façade. The quiet outcast who never departs his chamber.'

He navigated past another hallway, pressing his frame against the masonry as a lantern’s glow flickered a mere few meters away.

The ancestral portraits lining the corridor grabbed his attention—oil renderings of Morgain predecessors clad in regal plate, consistently depicted with steel at their sides. A few appeared noble. Others seemed... cruel.

'Indeed, this family possesses significant issues. It is little wonder the original Trafalgar did not survive long.'

Arriving at a expansive window, he hesitated to survey the exterior.

The vistas were stunning. The Morgain estate rested high atop a mountain ridge, hemmed in by precipitous cliffs and forests below. Snow blanketed the neighboring summits, glittering like raw silver under the lunar light.

'So, this is the reason for the wolf-with-swords family crest... That makes sense now.'

A crisp breeze drifted through the window, striking his skin. It was an serene, almost sacred interval—one he hadn't anticipated valuing.

He pressed forward, the only noise accompanying him being the soft friction of his movements and the slight rustle of his garments. No magic, no legendary blade, no glory.

Merely an individual sneaking through the halls of the world’s most potent sword-wielding dynasty—aspiring to alter a destiny already carved in stone.

Descending one staircase, then another. He ventured deeper into the very guts of the keep.

Finally, following what felt like twenty minutes of excavation, he located it—a heavy timber door adorned with weathered carvings depicting blades and training dummies.

He reached toward the latch.

'Locked?'

He twisted it gently.

Click.

It swung open.

'Well then... let us see what this chamber has in store.'

Stepping inside, he pulled the heavy door shut behind him.

The training hall was far more expansive than Trafalgar had envisioned. Polished wood floors extended beneath his feet, pristine and meticulously maintained despite the evident age of the cavernous space. Walls were crowded with racks, each supporting steel of varied geometries, dimensions, and histories. Longswords. Katanas. Kukris. Greatswords. Daggers. Rapiers. Dozens—perhaps hundreds—of weapons endured in the silence, awaiting a hand deemed worthy enough to wield them.

Glowing mana-lamps floated lazily overhead, bathing the chamber in a soft, amber luminescence. It offered a surreal contrast to the mountain chill still clinging to Trafalgar’s attire.

'This realm possesses magic-infused lighting, I see? A medieval backdrop with subtle modern tech aesthetics. That is... honestly quite impressive.'

Moving forward, his gaze locked onto a neighboring rack.

Reaching out, he grasped a longsword.

[Item Acquired] – Longsword (Common Rank)

'Damn... heavy,' he murmured, almost dropping the iron as he attempted to hoist the blade over his shoulder.

He returned it to its mount and pivoted toward another—sleeker, thinner. A katana.

[Item Acquired] – Katana (Common Rank)

'...Do I appear to be a samurai or something?' He rotated it in his grip, brows furrowed. 'Not the correct vibe.'

Retracing his steps, he reached for a rapier.

[Item Acquired] – Rapier (Common Rank)

'Nope. Too refined. It makes me feel as though I should be dueling at a high-society tea party.'

Sighing, he continued his search—until one particular blade captured his interest. A simple sword, balanced and unadorned. Lacking an ornate guard or a shimmering finish. Just a clean, symmetrical weapon.

He lifted it.

[Item Acquired] – Sword (Common Rank)

Upon gripping the hilt, he felt it. It was not perfection. It was not mere compatibility. It was comfort. As if the weapon were not selected, but waiting.

'...Very well. Let us see what I am capable of.'

He strode to the center of the room and hoisted the steel awkwardly. He had never grasped a sword previously—not even during fencing drills back on Earth. His posture was rigid, his grip uneven.

He executed a swing.

The blade carved through the air with a faint hiss. No force. No precision.

'Tch... this is pathetic.'

He attempted another.

Across the floor, he swung again. The movement was still clumsy, yet his feet shifted this time. His stance adjusted, almost by instinct. The blade felt lighter, far more manageable.

Then, a flicker occurred.

A subtle resonance within his mind, akin to a whisper brushing across his awareness.

[Sword Insight Activated]

'Hm?'

He hadn't witnessed anyone performing a technique. He hadn't mimicked a single move.

Yet, simply by swinging... something had shifted. His physiology retained more than it should have. Muscle memory he never possessed was taking hold.

He swung once more. Sharper. Cleaner. His feet found their anchor faster. The trajectory of his blade traced a smoother arc.

'...This ability is completely broken.'

He persisted—repeatedly. Basic slashes. Overhead strikes. Lateral sweeps. Each repetition rendered the motion sharper. More stable. Less reliant on guesswork.

Perspiration dripped from his chin.

Trafalgar mopped his forehead with his sleeve, breathing in ragged gasps.

His arms felt leaden. His shoulders burned. His legs trembled slightly from maintaining stances he had never before attempted. His hands, clamped tightly around the simple sword’s grip, were flushed and throbbing.

'Damn... every muscle in my body is aching,' he uttered, lowering the steel.

He remained frozen for a beat, staring at the floor. How much duration had elapsed? An hour? Two? He could not be certain. Timepieces were absent, and he hadn't detected a single sound from the exterior.

He replaced the sword upon its rack—meticulously, almost with deference. Then, glancing about, he tidied the area. Scratches on the floor? None. Blade in the proper position? Correct. Door secured? Not exactly... but perhaps no soul ever ventured down this deep regardless.

'Good. I prefer not to explain why the weakest heir of House Morgain was dabbling with blades in the dead of the night.'

Cracking his neck and stretching his frame, he moved toward the exit.

The mansion’s halls remained still and hushed. However, the shadows were no longer as imposing. As he crested the stone stairs, the pale luminosity of dawn began spilling through the stained-glass windows, washing the corridors in muted, shifting hues.

Trafalgar clung to the shadows of the walls, treading silently. He bypassed two guards—one dozing against a pillar, the other listlessly patrolling with a flickering torch.

By the time he regained his wing of the estate, the primary rays of sunlight had begun to warm the cool marble.

He exhaled a protracted sigh.

'Survived day one without perishing. That constitutes a success, I suppose.'

He opened his door with absolute silence, slipped inside, and secured it.

He did not bother removing his footwear. He merely collapsed onto the bed, groaning as his exhausted frame sank into the soft mattress.

The pull of sleep claimed him almost instantly.

—

A discrete click resonated faintly as Trafalgar’s door latched shut.

Down the hallway, concealed within the gloom behind a robust pillar, a silhouette stood motionless.

Enveloped in dark robes, their presence was obscured by a sophisticated enchantment—something far beyond the capability of ordinary domestic staff or guards.

Their gaze, keen and frigid, had been observing since the moment the youth first crept from his quarters.

So, he had ventured to the training hall.

So, he had laid hands upon a blade.

And not merely to posture or feign ability, but to maneuver—clumsily, certainly, yet with clear intent.

The figure exhaled quietly through their nostrils, visibly amused.

'Interesting,' they murmured, their voice barely a whisper, yet layered with something deeper—curiosity, perhaps even a glimmer of approval.

'The little stray has commenced his nocturnal wanderings.'