SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 506: Meeting with the Directors [III]

After Selara uttered her words, the room cleared out in moments.

Chairs scraped backward. Footsteps echoed over the floor. The four students departed first, each bearing the meeting's burden differently. The wolf-lycan exited steadily. The bat-lycan threw no look over his shoulder. The two elves took their bitterness with them, now hushed, subdued by Kaelen’s admonition but far from extinguished.

Kaelen followed next, his crystal staff striking the floor once before he pivoted. Althea trailed him seamlessly, her dark robes whispering past the table like fleeting darkness. On his exit, Eryndor shot Trafalgar a quick glance blending mirth and endorsement, then vanished through the doorway too.

Only three remained in the room.

Selara.

Aubrelle.

Trafalgar.

The shift hit instantly. Authority's pressure lingered, yet the space shed its formal sharpness. Trafalgar released a bit of his own rigidity alongside it.

"You wanted something, Selara?" he inquired.

Selara’s head snapped up right away. "Selara?" Her hand flew to her chest in mock indignation. "Director Selara, if respect strikes your fancy. Or Professor Selara. I toiled hard for those honors."

Trafalgar skipped any pretense of regret. "You wanted something, Director Selara?"

"Far improved." Her grin flashed back immediately. "Indeed. I crave details on the wedding."

That stunned him more than the gathering had.

’I figured she’d discuss the war. Or something graver.’

Aubrelle appeared utterly at ease with the topic’s turn. She’d claimed a chair already and, blindfold discarded, seemed even more serene than before. Selara bent forward over the table a touch, her sharp elven ears flicking with eager curiosity.

"I also observed," Selara noted, facing her, "you’ve ditched that blindfold at last. It fits you better bare-faced."

"Thank you, Professor," Aubrelle answered, a gentle smile gracing her lips. "Care for the full story? Take a seat. I’ll share it all."

Selara dropped into a chair quicker than her rank allowed. Documents shoved aside. A quirky gadget by her arm almost tumbled off before her two fingers snatched it back, promptly forgotten.

Trafalgar held his ground, lingering steps off while the pair dove into chatter with effortless familiarity that bordered on rude.

Aubrelle spoke in her even, fluid tone, and Selara hung on every word like vital intelligence. The juicier the bit, the more her ears perked.

Trafalgar observed quietly for several moments.

’I’m the odd one out here.’

That unease swelled as Selara fired probing questions.

"And what did he say when—"

"Did Pipin act up at the ceremony?"

"Hold on, back up. Describe Aubrelle’s gown under the lights."

Trafalgar massaged his forehead once and called it quits.

"May I go?" he asked.

Aubrelle offered a slight nod, as though it made perfect sense.

Selara raised a finger. "Hold on. One matter first."

Trafalgar halted midway in his turn. "Which is?"

"Final exams." Selara clasped her hands atop the table, abruptly all instructor again. "They loom near. Eight Great Families status buys no favors."

"I know," Trafalgar responded. "The academy drills that in repeatedly."

"Excellent. Truth there." Her smirk reemerged, softer. "So I’m thrilled to announce you’ve passed the cooking elective already."

Trafalgar gaped at her.

"What?"

Selara beamed at his shock. "You heard right."

"No further effort needed?"

"Nope. Call it a present." She flicked her wrist casually. "You need it. Frees you for theory-heavy courses. Practical bits..." Her grin grew cunning. "From war tales, I bet that’s no hurdle."

He hadn’t foreseen that. Not from her, not now.

"I see," he said after a beat. "Thanks. Caught me by surprise."

"Imagination’s your weak spot." Selara rested her chin on a hand. "You’re dismissed, dear Personal Chef. But heed this: keep that grade pristine, and you owe me a fine meal."

Trafalgar skipped a real reply. He raised a hand in quick farewell and aimed for the exit.

He’d just passed the threshold when Selara’s voice trailed him.

"Always so brusque?"

Aubrelle’s response flowed swift and sure.

"He’s chillier with you around."

"Ah." Selara’s tone held amusement over slight. "Got it. Carry on."

Trafalgar didn’t linger for more.

As their voices dwindled, he strode the hall toward the dorms. Evening hushed the academy further, though stray motions lingered. Students crossed him on the stairs. Distant laughs swelled then faded.

His thoughts had pivoted already.

He must reach Caelum.

Two issues: Mayla first. Darian next.

Trafalgar’s stride held steady as plans took shape.

’Void Creatures? Unsure about revealing yet. Face-to-face first. Gauge his state myself.’ His lips twitched sourly. ’Commanding such power thrills. One of Eight Great Families, linked to Morgain’s outcast. Solid beginning. Yet Euclid dwarfs it—like a nation by a realm.’

The notion sharpened to purpose by the round lift platform. It whisked him skyward to the top level, home to Great Families’ heirs.

Three dwellers there.

Zafira.

Trafalgar.

Alfons.

Platform halted; he stepped free.

’Haven’t crossed Alfons lately. For the best. Drains me. Wondering his antics.’

Soon he entered his quarters, door sealed. Shoes flung aside casually, he traversed and collapsed on the bed with a deep exhale.

Mana pulsed softly above his palm.

The object appeared instantly.

[Item – Shadowlink Echo, Rank - Rare]

Description: A compact mana-infused node capable of recording and transmitting encrypted voice messages over long distances. Requires a small infusion of mana to activate.

Trafalgar spun it once in his grasp.

’Long time no use.’

Mana flowed in.

No pending word from Caelum—ideal. Simpler thus. Trafalgar gripped it lightly and spoke.

"Caelum, two tasks. First, tell Father another wife joins: Mayla. He knows her, but marriage? Unlikely guessed. If objections rise, note my SSS talent stays mine alone by choice. Second, first year wraps soon. Set a meet with Darian. Say I demand his presence. Roughly a month out."

Mana in the Shadowlink Echo faded post-send.

It buzzed in his palm almost at once.

Trafalgar infused mana anew and tuned in.

Caelum’s voice rang crisp and steady.

"Young Master, got it. I’ll manage Darian’s meet. Visiting him myself to relay your wishes. He thrives, truly. I’ve watched his moves closely. Date set, you’ll know. No worries. Timed to your schedule."

A short lull.

"On the second wife: frank talk, Young Master. Gossip will fly. I’ll quash what’s possible, but this risks backlash. Mayla stayed shadowy till now. Few knew—your adoptive father mainly. Going public endangers her."

Trafalgar reclined on the bed, absorbing silently.

Caelum pressed on evenly.

"Still, Lord Valttair won’t fight it. His stance set prior. Back the family, honor lines, and it stays smooth. Note it, but don’t fret. Updates on the meet soon. Eyes on exams now."

Message closed.

Shadowlink Echo unraveled from Trafalgar’s hold, splintering to faint glows before vanishing.

He gazed ceiling-ward long, arm pillowed behind head.

’Settled. Nice.’

Relief came smoothly this round.

’Exams next.’