SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 500: Eryndor’s Class

A momentary peace from the dormitory faded swiftly. Trafalgar arrived at Eryndor’s class to find the training grounds alive and stirring. Wooden swords clashed sharply over the compacted soil. Certain students stretched out, while others swapped soft strikes, heating up before the true session kicked off. Dust mingled with sweat and the sharp metallic bite of sparring weapons in the air under the dim morning light. The scene ought to have seemed routine. In ways, it did. Yet everything shifted when eyes caught his arrival on the field.

Positioned alone along the class’s edge, Trafalgar waited patiently. From across the grounds, the earlier first-year spotted him and waved eagerly. Trafalgar mirrored the wave briefly and stopped. Minor exchange, yet potent. Nearby peers noticed, shooting curious looks his way, as though that gesture validated the campus rumors with a real person now in Eryndor’s group.

Eryndor showed up shortly after, instantly commanding the field without a word. Human-built, wide and solid, bearing dark brown skin etched with scars on arms and slicing partway over his face. Black hair cropped short on sides, pulled into a lengthy ponytail at the back. A trimmed beard outlined his jaw. His piercing yellow gaze scanned the students once, straightening them all effortlessly. Voices like his weren’t necessary; such men wielded presence like blades.

"Good morning, students," Eryndor declared. "I hope you’re ready. Today we’ll have sparrings."

His gaze swept slowly over the group, noting familiar faces until settling on Trafalgar. An eyebrow arched faintly.

"Ah, Trafalgar du Morgain. You’ve finally returned. Good."

Trafalgar offered a quick nod. "I’m here."

Eryndor held his stare a beat longer. "Later, drop by the offices. We’ve got matters to cover. You and certain other students tied to recent events."

"Understood."

Conversation wrapped up there. Eryndor pivoted toward the field’s expanse, treating it like a mere note before proceeding.

"The final exams approach," he announced. "No ordinary test for my class. You’ll venture to an academy hunting zone, hunt a beast each, and your haul determines the score."

Tension rippled instantly across the grounds. Trafalgar sensed it as postures stiffened and talk hushed.

Eryndor crossed his arms, flashing a tough, pleased grin at the class.

"Now. Pair up for sparring."

The students surged into motion right away.

Those idling moments before now flowed into duos smoothly from routine, handing wooden blades around, sharing quick words, boots grinding dirt as they spaced out. It wrapped up fast for most.

Trafalgar remained rooted.

Several eyes flicked toward him. One seemed poised to approach, reconsidered, and paired elsewhere. Another skipped even the thought. The sidestepping shone clear. Unlike past disdain leading to isolation, this held respect for some, wariness for others, outright dread for a handful.

None of it fazed him.

’Fewer wasted words for me.’

If anything, that simplified matters.

His gaze tracked their drills, analyzing poses, holds, steps, initial awkward wood-on-wood clashes. Zilch emerged. No mental tug, no Sword Insight spark, no unveiling of secret techniques. It slumbered past every observer. Verdict clear: class sword skills lagged behind his own.

That thought endured briefly until Eryndor eyed his solitude.

Turning from the action, Eryndor registered the lone unpaired figure and grinned broadly.

"Well, Trafalgar. Looks like our rematch awaits."

Trafalgar replied with a subtle lip twitch. "It will be a pleasure, Director Eryndor."

The grounds kept churning, yet focus converged centrally. Sparring pairs pressed on mechanically, but minds wandered. Blades swung steadily amid the area, though the class’s true gravity pulled here.

Maledicta responded instantly to his summons.

The blade materialized darkly in his grip, fitting naturally as if poised there pre-call. Opposite, Eryndor raised an arm, summoning his own colossal greatsword, hefty enough to cleave armored foes asunder. In his hold, it felt light.

Eryndor shrugged a shoulder, grounded the blade’s flat briefly, and eyed Trafalgar approvingly.

"I’ve heard plenty on your sword advances," he noted. "And your feats in that conflict." His grin broadened, raw and genuine. "As your instructor, I’d fib if I claimed no pride in a student faring this superbly."

Trafalgar dipped his head. Silence followed initially. Straight praise left little room for retort.

Eryndor accepted the quiet.

"So," he continued, hoisting the greatsword ready, "light spar it is. Agreed?"

Trafalgar nodded sharply. "Of course."

They took positions facing off, sword and greatsword gleaming differently in dawn rays. The class strove to persist per orders. Some succeeded briefly.

Yet all knew the true clash loomed right there.