SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 502: Sparring with Eryndor [II]

Through touch, adaptation, and raw instinct alone, he absorbed the lessons right then and there.

Eryndor’s face shifted dramatically.

The wide, casual grin faded into a sharper, more triumphant smirk. He twirled the greatsword in his grasp once, widened his stance, and the atmosphere nearby grew thick with tension.

Trafalgar sensed it instantly.

A pure focus of will so intense it triggered his survival instincts even before the attack landed.

Eryndor’s command rang out over the training ground.

"Take this blow."

Sword Insight ignited at last.

The transformation hit hard and fast. No flashes of light or mental bells sounded for Trafalgar. His perceptions simply exploded into sharpness. Eryndor’s hand placement, shoulder tilt, the grip of his right foot in the dirt, the arc the greatsword would carve as his hips pivoted—every detail slammed into his awareness with merciless precision.

This wasn’t some basic move disguised in solid form. It was a true skill, forged into his very being through endless drills until it fused with his flesh.

Warning alarms blared along Trafalgar’s nerves.

Sidestepping would have been the smart play.

He refused.

His fingers clenched tighter on Maledicta. He raised the sword, matched it to the approaching trajectory, planted his feet firm, and confronted the blow directly.

The collision erupted across the field.

Not merely a clash—it was raw power bursting from tempered steel.

Maledicta endured. Trafalgar stood firm with it.

As the greatsword slammed into his defense, the earth behind him fractured with a sharp snap. Fissures spiderwebbed through the hard-packed soil from his heels like dark tendrils. His boots gouged furrows while the shockwave surged through him. Dirt and debris erupted in a gritty haze. The training wall at his back absorbed the excess his body and blade couldn’t handle, shattering with a booming rupture. Stone fragments hurled rearward, tumbling over the ground in a gritty shower.

The students flinched back together.

Trafalgar experienced the full brunt.

The blow nearly hurled him backward, but he kept his footing—just. Fire raced through his arms. His shoulders ached like iron spikes had pierced them. Shudders from Maledicta vibrated up his frame, jarring his teeth. Yet he withstood it. No dodge. No knockdown.

Once the force ebbed, a heavy veil of dust lingered between the two.

Eryndor maintained his stance, greatsword dipped slightly, eyes fixed beyond Trafalgar on the destruction wrought. His lips curled wryly.

"Whoops... Althea is going to kill me."

The remark landed oddly on the field. Students braced for gore or scolding froze, too shocked to even chuckle.

Trafalgar’s breathing grew labored. He eased Maledicta down an inch, then more, only fully relaxing the blade once certain his legs wouldn’t buckle. His chest heaved painfully. Blocking that strike had drained him quicker than he cared to confess. One step rearward sufficed—no further display needed—and he sank into a weary seat on the ground, one palm pressing behind for support.

Dust coated his attire.

Tiny fissures radiated beneath his boots. The demolished wall spoke volumes no words could enhance.

Eryndor snorted softly and slung the greatsword over one shoulder.

"Well," his voice boomed clearly over the area, "you did well."

His smile reemerged, carrying deeper respect now.

"More than well, actually. That was far beyond what I expected from a light spar."

Trafalgar leaned his head back a touch, gulping air into lungs that burned like sandpaper. "You call that light?"

The quip unleashed the tension everyone craved. A hearty laugh burst from Eryndor effortlessly.

"For me?" he shot back. "It was."

The class caught the reply and grasped its true weight—no insult to Trafalgar. Rather, a public salute.

Sword met sword alone, and Trafalgar weathered a slash that tore the training area and crumbled rock.

That reality rippled through the group swifter than spoken words.

The earlier first-year gaped, practice sword limp at his side. Sparring pretense vanished long ago. Eyes locked on the wrecked wall, on Trafalgar, or reassessed Eryndor afresh. No longer could they dismiss Trafalgar as war tales, bloodline gossip, or faded glory.

His blade mastery stood proven.

Eryndor let the realization settle naturally. He flourished the greatsword once, banishing it in mana sparks, and crossed his arms.

"Enough gawking," he snapped at the class. "If you have time to stand around with your mouths open, you have time to work on your footwork."

The order shattered the spell, scattering students back to action.

Eryndor faced Trafalgar again, his amusement softening to pragmatic focus. "Catch your breath. When class ends, don’t forget what I said. The offices."

Trafalgar nodded curtly from his spot. "I won’t."

Eryndor lingered a moment, etching Trafalgar’s capability into memory, then strode off to enforce discipline.

Trafalgar remained seated a few breaths longer, Maledicta fading into shadowy flecks from his grasp. His arms pulsed with ache. His chest weighed heavy. Sword Insight echoed faintly in his thoughts like lightning’s ghost, that ultimate move etched indelibly.

The class buzzed on around him.

Soon, the soreness in his limbs faded enough to stand. Trafalgar fetched a wooden sword from the rack and slipped back to a quiet patch of field unnoticed. Basics resumed: plain slashes, steps, guard shifts. Humble drills. Sword Insight had imprinted techniques beyond years of study for most—lifetimes maybe—but foundations endured vital, easily ignored when gifts shouldered the load. Carelessness held no appeal for him.

Class wrapped with fresh sweat on his skin. Trafalgar hit the dorm first, showered swiftly, changed clothes before dust and fatigue trailed him further. Emerging, Bartholomew waited close by. Side by side, they headed to the next session.

Professor Rhaldrin awaited.