SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 501: Sparring with Eryndor [I]

The duel started plainly, devoid of any fanfare.

Eryndor adjusted his hold on the greatsword, tilting its edge just a touch, and offered the faintest nod—like a mentor signaling to a disciple that the true lesson was about to unfold. Trafalgar responded by striking first. Maledicta sliced the air between them in a smooth diagonal sweep, more a probe than a bid to injure. Eryndor countered with the flat side of his blade, soaking up the blow and shunting it away with effortless disdain. The clash echoed across the arena, dark steel ringing against hefty iron, as the initial trade cleared the path for what followed.

Trafalgar advanced without pause. A sweeping low strike at the legs. An upward riposte toward the ribs. A lunge that morphed midway into a sideways slice designed to provoke a response. Eryndor parried every assault with tight, efficient motions that squandered no energy. His bulk ought to have rendered that greatsword unwieldy. Yet it didn't. He wielded it as if its heft had fused into his very frame after years of mastery. Trafalgar orbited, closed in once more, altered his tempo, and hunted for that usual tug deep in his thoughts.

Nothing emerged.

His sword clashed with Eryndor’s anew, glanced off, returned from a fresh direction, yet Sword Insight yielded zilch.

’Why isn’t it activating?’

That notion flashed through his head as his steps persisted. He’d anticipated at least a spark, some reaction, a subtle nudge hinting at patterns ripe for grasping. Instead, only the duel itself existed. No instinctive rush. No secret pathway unlocking in his mind. It threw him slightly off-kilter, but not so much as to hinder his pace. If anything, it honed his focus even sharper.

The arena started taking notice.

Wooden training blades continued their rhythmic clacks in the distance, yet the steady beat faltered. Trainees meant to concentrate on their own foes now stole glances every few moments, those looks stretching longer. Trafalgar surged through yet another flurry, slipped within the greatsword’s range, compelling Eryndor to retreat a half-step. More volleys ensued. Trafalgar coaxed another retreat, and now the entire group could no longer feign indifference. A low buzz swept the practice field.

Observers might think Trafalgar was forcing him backward.

Eryndor understood otherwise.

He intercepted Maledicta again, letting the shock ripple up his limbs, and his smile broadened involuntarily. Rumors had reached his ears. Whispers of an SSS talent, tales from the battlefield, crude accounts from witnesses who’d glimpsed mere fragments of Trafalgar’s feats. Hearing such tales was one matter. Facing the youth blade-to-blade was quite another.

’This surpasses my expectations already.’

A sudden shift in Trafalgar’s stance demanded Eryndor raise the greatsword higher than prior, while a precise strike veered toward his shoulder. Eryndor blocked it too, but by the barest margin.

’An SSS talent proves monstrous. In a few years, he might eclipse even me.’

That idea ought to ring overdramatic. It didn’t. It rang true.

A spark of humor trailed right after.

’Should I claim victory now, I could boast later about toppling the mighty Trafalgar du Morgain before the world wise up.’

His thoughts rebuked it with a wry huff.

’I’m his instructor. Such notions ill befit me.’

Yet the smile lingered.

And an inner resolve declared he’d gauged enough from afar.

The shift struck abruptly.

Up to then, Eryndor had observed, absorbed, probed Trafalgar’s advances. Now the greatsword led the dance. It plummeted in a savage overhead chop, obliging Trafalgar to snag its edge with Maledicta and divert the momentum lest it shatter his defense outright. The jolt numbed his arm to the shoulder. Scarce had he deflected it when Eryndor unleashed a sideways arc that traversed the gap far swifter than such a massive blade deserved. Trafalgar ducked beneath, spun, and slashed upward briefly at the wrist. Eryndor withdrew just sufficiently, flipped the greatsword’s arc, and smashed down again.

The arena transformed in their midst.

Silence replaced murmurs, as nearly all students halted their drills completely.

Trafalgar sensed the shift in every clash. Eryndor hadn’t grown reckless. He’d turned precise. The greatsword ceased resembling a ponderous tool propelled by raw might. It seemed tamed. Each stroke landed impeccably. Each trajectory sealed an option before Trafalgar could exploit it fully. The blade’s weight no longer hampered Eryndor’s skill. It empowered it. Every impact drove heavy vibrations through Trafalgar’s arms straight to his torso.

Thus revealed the reality.

The space Eryndor had yielded early wasn’t Trafalgar overwhelming him. It was Eryndor exposing the outer layer.

Trafalgar’s boots gouged faint furrows in the soil as he yielded to another ponderous blow, deflected the edge, and sidestepped before the pursuit grazed his shoulder. Maledicta retaliated in a flash, sharp and ruthless, targeting the gap Eryndor’s swing should have exposed.

The gap vanished prior to the strike landing.

Eryndor’s greatsword occupied it already.

’Now it’s getting serious.’

That truth struck fiercer than the strikes.

Trafalgar lacked leisure for irritation. Adaptation came swift. He tightened his arcs. Abandoned drawn-out chains. Started countering force with deflections, gliding the blade aside instead of halting it, probing Eryndor’s wrist pivots, hip commitments, nascent trajectories. Each impact imparted lessons via sheer exertion, Sword Insight dormant still.

Eryndor observed this as well.

Typical pupils crumbled when a superior, swifter blade seized control. Trafalgar held firm. He conceded ground only when forced, regained solid stance, and reengaged before dominance became rout. The harder Eryndor pressed, the clearer it grew: the youth endured not through mere grit.