SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 507: Buried Under Theory

With final exams just days away, Trafalgar had dedicated the recent period to a task he’d rather evade if the academy allowed any choice.

Studying.

The hands-on sections didn’t trouble him at all. They’d resolve on their own. The real challenge towered before him as massive volumes, duplicated notes, highlighted pages, and a mountain of historical lore that could push even the most enduring person toward desperate measures.

Professor Rhaldrin embodied the greatest ordeal.

Not owing to the content’s complexity alone, but its sheer endless bulk.

Trafalgar gazed at the sprawled-open books ahead, one palm resting softly on his forehead. Opposite him at the table, Bartholomew had already conquered half another page, spectacles slipped down his nose, utterly comfortable amid that bastion of paper. Cynthia joined them too, not as submerged as her sibling yet attentive enough to offer companionship and, in her unique style, ensure neither boy crumbled from fatigue onto the ground.

They’d claimed a secluded nook in the academy’s vast library, nestled deep among soaring shelves where few ever wandered by. The space felt immense despite repeated visits. Infinite lines of tomes rose overhead, aged timber and ink saturating the atmosphere with that parched, weighty aroma unique to such halls. Faint afternoon rays pierced through far-off windows, while the library’s silence draped the shelves like a shroud.

Bartholomew claimed he’d stumbled upon the location by pure luck.

Trafalgar dismissed that notion instantly.

Someone like Barth didn’t chance upon secluded library nooks accidentally. He sought them out like a treasure seeker on the hunt. A spot silent, isolated, perfect for endless hours buried in books without interruption. For a history fanatic like him, this academy library wasn’t just practical—it was hallowed territory.

Trafalgar raised his gaze from the volume before him and observed Bartholomew briefly as the boy remained engrossed in reading. The table’s exposed section covered Primordials, a prime exam candidate, particularly following the academy excursion to the ancient ruins in Myrrhvale lands. Tremendous events had unfolded there. Far beyond what most pupils could grasp.

That’s where he’d secured the second shard.

His arm tattoo had transformed as a result.

Fingers drummed once on the sheet.

’I wonder if additional shards exist beyond those two.’

A solid query. Unsettling as well. He still grasped little of what those cursed items were destined to form.

’On second thought, Dravok and Rhosyn could provide answers. I’ve never shared this with them. They might hold greater knowledge than me.’

Bartholomew across from him finally raised his head, adjusting his lenses. He caught Trafalgar’s unwavering dark blue stare, unblinking, and tensed right away.

"Tra-Trafalgar?"

The summons yanked him from his reverie.

"Yes?" Trafalgar responded.

Bartholomew paused. "Is something amiss? You stared right at me, and it started making me uneasy."

Before Trafalgar answered, Cynthia’s focus jerked up from her notes.

"Hey," she uttered, tone hushed yet sharp. "Don’t pull anything weird on Barth."

Trafalgar exhaled softly via his nostrils. "I wasn’t up to anything. My mind wandered. Apologies if it appeared different."

Bartholomew eased somewhat, though intrigue swiftly overtook the first jolt. Around Trafalgar, he could unwind far more than with nearly anyone else. That truth had grown clear over the past year.

"What crossed your mind?" he inquired. "You seemed deeply intent."

"Primordials," Trafalgar stated, dropping his hand from his forehead. "They’re a key focus for Rhaldrin’s test, aren’t they? I pondered the sheer madness of their bloodline. They banished the Void Creatures to another realm via raw might, sacrificing their own kin, allowing the world to endure and advance."

Bartholomew’s features lit up instantly. Moments like this revealed his inner excitement so plainly that Trafalgar marveled how anyone debated him successfully.

"Exactly?" Barth exclaimed, surging forward with fresh vigor. "Their bloodline was unbelievable."

Cynthia shut her book, finger holding the spot. "Was it truly that amazing?" she questioned. "Our readings suggest so, but perhaps half morphed into myths across time."

Bartholomew denied it at once, resolute as seldom seen beyond historical matters.

"No way. And anyway, heard the whispers? Seems one appeared during the recent war."

That jolted Trafalgar bolt upright internally.

’Damn.’

Such knowledge in an average student’s hands spelled trouble.

’How’d it leak? A family slip-up? Or loose lips?’

Bartholomew pivoted to him before Trafalgar concealed the reaction.

"True, Trafalgar?" he pressed, voice hushed yet brimming with eager wonder. "You played a central role in that conflict. Know any details?"

The query rang pure. Its impact didn’t.

Bartholomew posed it thoughtlessly, registering only later Trafalgar’s shifted demeanor. The prior casual weariness vanished. In its place loomed something subdued, burdensome, prompting instant withdrawal.

Trafalgar noted it and tempered the sharpness before it deepened.

"Firstly," he murmured, "settle down. Library or not, secret spot included, they’ll boot us out."

That flushed Bartholomew’s cheeks.

"Secondly," Trafalgar continued, "I truly don’t know. Just whispers, right?"

Bartholomew bobbed his head fast. "Yes. Correct. Mere rumors. Possibly false."

Trafalgar reclined slightly in his seat. "Precisely. Rumors can’t be trusted. Recall what they once claimed about me?"

Bartholomew furrowed his brow. "Not much comes to mind. Bad ones?"

Cynthia interjected first.

"The illegitimate spawn of one of the Eight Great Families," she declared. "The worthless Morgain."

Trafalgar glanced her way, faintly startled. "You caught wind of those too."

She shot him a level gaze over the table’s rim. "Hard not to." Her voice softened marginally. "But as you noted, rumors. Yours proved false."

Those words struck softer than likely meant.

Trafalgar valued them regardless, though inwardly he recognized that for the former Trafalgar, the gossip held some truth.

He dismissed the notion.

"Fine," he declared, finger prodding an open page. "Break down this section for me, Barth."

That ignited Bartholomew fully.

He sat tall immediately, dragged the tome nearer, and dove into the text with rising assurance as Cynthia attended from nearby, tossing in brief remarks now and then. Exams neared fast. Much remained to tackle. Vast amounts.

For the moment, however, the conflict, the gossip, and the shadow they cast receded under sheets of parchment, ink, and the reliable timbre of a companion whose history passion exceeded all reason.