SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 503: Back to Ordinary Days

After changing, Trafalgar had just stepped out when he spotted Bartholomew lingering nearby, clutching his books tightly to his chest as though he'd stood there long enough to debate slipping away and returning later. The instant he saw him, Bartholomew shot upright so sharply that his glasses almost tumbled off his nose, requiring a quick grab with one hand to steady them.

Trafalgar paused right in front of him, a flicker of amusement crossing his expression. "Were you waiting for me, Barth?"

Bartholomew blinked in surprise at the straightforward query. "Y-yes... I thought we could head there together." His tone softened shyly at the end, just like always when the topic strayed from history or books. "If you want to, that is."

"Perfect," Trafalgar replied, already moving forward. "Let’s head out."

Bartholomew quickly matched his pace, and together they crossed the academy grounds toward the next lesson. Students streamed by in pairs or alone, some lugging books, others carrying the faint scent of training fields, a few wearing the groggy look of those whose day began too early. It felt perfectly routine in the most comforting sense.

Trafalgar shattered the comfortable silence first.

"What did you think of that small celebration we threw?"

Bartholomew’s ears flushed red right away. "O-oh... I enjoyed it. Quite a bit, really." His fingers fidgeted uneasily along the edge of a book. "It was my first invite to anything like that, so I truly appreciated it. Thank you. Sincerely."

Trafalgar shot him a look, the honest response nearly drawing a chuckle from him. "Why thank me so formally? We’re friends, right? Stuff like that’s just normal."

Bartholomew ducked his head slightly, but a smile tugged at his lips, betraying his delight despite his uncertainty.

Trafalgar allowed the moment to linger for a couple of steps before tossing in, "Just don’t forget you owe me an invite too. Your celebration, your party, your wedding—whatever hits first."

Bartholomew flushed crimson in record time, an almost comical sight. He tugged at his shirt collar as if the morning air had turned stifling, revealing more of his neck unintentionally. The gesture caught eyes he didn’t notice. Two girls approaching from the other way slowed to steal another glance before moving on, one murmuring something with a sly smile she assumed went unseen.

Trafalgar noticed.

His gaze lingered on Bartholomew for a moment, noting the sharp jawline, the light hair, the refined features hidden beneath excessive timidity.

’He truly has no clue, huh?’

The notion nearly sparked laughter.

’He’s ridiculously good-looking. A touch more confidence, and he’d draw crowds effortlessly.’

"Hm," Trafalgar muttered. "Someone special in mind? You got flustered quick."

Bartholomew almost sputtered. "N-no. No, I don’t— I haven’t had time for that." He hugged his books closer, seeking refuge in them. "Besides, who’d want someone like me?"

Trafalgar’s face hardened instantly, not angrily, but solidly enough to halt that thought cold.

"Don’t speak of yourself that way."

Bartholomew fell silent.

"You’ve got loads to offer," Trafalgar pressed on. "More than you realize. Eventually, someone’s going to fall hard for you."

That only deepened Bartholomew’s blush, which Trafalgar figured didn’t help his case one bit. If anything, it highlighted him further. Another student crossing ahead eyed them curiously, and Trafalgar fought the impulse to highlight it just to maximize the mortification.

Bartholomew sensed the risk and pivoted topics in clear panic.

"W-we should discuss you instead," he stammered. "You’re the one stirring up massive buzz since returning."

Trafalgar arched a brow. "Me?"

Realization hit him moments later.

Ah. Eryndor.

Bartholomew nodded eagerly. "Word’s already spreading about class events. How Trafalgar du Morgain endured a blow from Director Eryndor." He whispered the name, awe still shining through. "Did it really happen?"

"Yes," Trafalgar confirmed. "It’s true. Director Eryndor got overly enthusiastic." Memories of the demolished wall and ground fissures surfaced, twitching his lips faintly. "More than just a bit, perhaps. But I’m okay. That won’t kill me."

Bartholomew gaped at him with awe-struck disbelief, the sort for those beyond ordinary limits.

Trafalgar ignored it and continued. "Anyway, soon you’ll need to fill me in on everything properly. And assist with exams." He glanced sideways. "I mentioned it before, but here’s the reminder."

That sparked an instant shift in Bartholomew. He stood taller, a quiet pride breaking past his nerves.

"Count on me," he declared. "I said it already. I’ve got this."

"That’s the spirit." Trafalgar’s voice warmed. "Much more like you."

They pressed on under the crisp academy sunlight, shoulder to shoulder, the upcoming classroom nearing. The vibe remained relaxed, the natural sort needing no effort. Up ahead, a figure loomed by the path, white hair gleaming from afar.

Trafalgar identified her first.

"Seems your sister’s waiting as well," he noted. "Skipped going with her to stick around for me? You’re a true friend, Barth."

Bartholomew let out a tiny embarrassed noise, but Cynthia had already spotted them. She stood by the entrance in her typical no-nonsense style, geared for action over show, long white hair cascading neatly down her back, yellow eyes unwavering. Seeing her brother next to Trafalgar, she perked up and closed the gap with a few strides.

"Good morning, Traf," she greeted. "You okay?"

The question mildly surprised him.

Cynthia’s fierce protectiveness over Bartholomew had long kept her at arm’s length from him. Such open worry from her felt fresh.

"I’m good," Trafalgar assured. "Why do you ask?"

Cynthia scanned him top to bottom, instinctively hunting for injuries. "Rumors of Eryndor’s class are flying. Wanted to ensure he didn’t wreck anything vital."

Trafalgar nearly grinned. "He nearly did, possibly. But I’m still kicking."

"Good," she replied curtly, dropping it.

Bartholomew eased up nearby, relieved the spotlight shifted off him. Trafalgar caught on and granted the reprieve. The trio veered toward the classroom door, merging with the inbound student crowd.

"Xavier and Zafira are inside already," Cynthia mentioned. "We should join them."

"Onward, then," Trafalgar agreed.

He trailed them down the hall, the atmosphere more subdued now. Such simplicity—strolling to class amid peers, casual chatter buzzing, folks toting books not blades—struck him as oddly foreign. The academy pulsed with its unique beat, and reentering it felt more alien than expected.

At the door, Trafalgar placed a hand on it briefly before shoving it wide.

"Been ages," he remarked. "Haven’t entered a classroom like this in a while."

He swung the door open and entered.

Professor Rhaldrin stood ready, organizing the board and materials with his signature sharp efficiency. From afar, his small frame in oversized scholar robes might fool a stranger into seeing a child.

Up close, illusions vanished fast. His rat-like humanoid form featured rough gray fur, piercing crimson eyes brimming with sharp wit, whiskers flicking as he handled chalk, papers, and a hefty tome that’d seem cumbersome for anyone shorter. For him, it was routine.

Trafalgar headed to his spot instinctively. Xavier lounged there, half-swiveled, as Bartholomew slid in next to him. Ahead sat Zafira and Cynthia, prepped in their styles.

Xavier flashed a lopsided grin as he settled. "They beat me to it. Was eyeing a spar, but that old uncle Eryndor—"

Trafalgar angled toward him. "Odd hearing you say that."

Xavier shrugged casually. "Normal for me. He’s like family." He reclined slightly. "Mom’s tight with Selara, Eryndor, and Kaelen. They’ve been fixtures forever, so it slips out."

It clicked perfectly. Trafalgar pictured it easily. Xavier shared that effortless bond with select folks, forged from years not status.

Xavier dropped his voice slightly. "Oh, Mom wants a word. Aubrelle too. Some war-related others."

"Got it," Trafalgar said. "Eryndor mentioned. Appreciate it."

Xavier dipped his head and let it rest. No more needed saying. The room filled rapidly now—chairs scraping lightly, books flipping open, pens and notes aligning. Murmurs hummed softly, pure student prelude to class.

Professor Rhaldrin spun from the board, rapping a clawed hand on the front desk.

"Seats, everyone. Focus up."

No repeats required.

Order snapped in swiftly. Trafalgar eased back as talk faded and the lesson coalesced. Rhaldrin’s crisp, exact voice dominated, chalk scratching the board as morning steadied into calm routine.

For the first time lately, Trafalgar sat in a standard classroom, Xavier nearby, Bartholomew at his side, Cynthia and Zafira upfront, with the professor launching into a routine history session.