SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 508: The Day of Finals

Trafalgar awoke not to the demands of training, endless meetings, or the heavy burden lurking beyond his door. This day appeared far simpler, at least outwardly. All theoretical exams were crammed into a single day, back-to-back, and though his subjects were fewer than back in his Earth university days, he had buried himself in books for days until the text swam before his eyes. Without Bartholomew's help, he might have hurled half of Professor Rhaldrin’s notes straight out the closest window.

Now, he stood in the hallway beyond his room, fully attired and prepared, simply waiting.

The top level of the dorm stayed hushed as always. Only three residents occupied it, leaving an eerie void, like space set aside for many more heirs than the academy actually welcomed that year. Polished stone floors gleamed under the dawn light, the air sharp, still, nearly chilly enough to nip at the skin.

Trafalgar had emerged a bit too soon, anticipating Zafira. He rested a shoulder against the wall by the round lift platform, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other dangling freely, as his thoughts wandered to the trials ahead.

Another door creaked open before hers.

Alfons emerged first.

It had been some time since Trafalgar last glimpsed him clearly. Even at the Council, Alfons had stayed aloof. Here now, he appeared unchanged: blond locks impeccably groomed, vivid red eyes holding that fragile arrogance, attire tailored so precisely it hinted at more time spent on his look than the tests warranted.

He stood as Trafalgar's near-perfect foil in every aspect.

One sported long black hair pulled into a tie. The other favored short, tidy strands. One's eyes held deep blue depths, the other's blazed with intense scarlet. Even their auras collided like clashing halves of the heavens.

'Sun and moon,' Trafalgar mused, a touch of humor stirring. 'He'd despise hearing that from me.'

Alfons spotted him right away, naturally. Trafalgar sensed it before the boy shifted course.

'Will he actually speak up? He's been oddly silent these days.'

Alfons strode directly to the lift, passed him by, and paused just a heartbeat. He kept his gaze forward. Yet his voice rang out distinctly, laced with the scorn he never concealed.

"I’m going to rank higher than you in the exams."

Trafalgar caught the words, let them sink in, and chuckled despite himself. Not a hearty burst, just a brief, arid huff, but sufficient.

Alfons showed no visible response. He pressed on, boarded the round platform, and sank out of sight without a backward glance. Trafalgar felt sure the laugh had stung worse than any retort.

He observed the platform vanish and exhaled softly through his nostrils.

'Rankings for the exams exist?'

That detail was fresh.

He eased upright from the wall, mulling it over. Valttair had omitted it entirely. Not surprising—Valttair only shared details he deemed useful. He'd stressed just one point: uphold the family honor aloft.

'This fits right in.'

A door swung open at his back.

Now it was Zafira.

Trafalgar pivoted to see her enter the corridor, dressed for the occasion. She chose comfort over flash, which fit her far better than stiff formality. Her lengthy hair was bound in a ponytail, pairing with the sensible outfit to lend her a sharper, swifter vibe than normal.

"Good morning, Trafalgar," she greeted. "Were you waiting for me?"

He stepped from the wall. "Good morning, Zafira. Yes. Shall we head out?"

"Yes. Let’s."

The platform lingered below, so they stood together, the subtle mana drone rising from beneath.

Trafalgar eyed her sidelong. "Tell me—do the exams really have student rankings?"

Zafira faced him, mildly startled. "You didn’t know?"

"No. I had no clue, or maybe I just forgot."

A faint smile tugged her lips. "There is one. The practical exam follows suit."

He furrowed his brow. "How so?"

"You know our practical subjects vary by class and specialty, right?"

Trafalgar dipped his head once.

Zafira folded her arms casually. "In the practical, everything merges into one big scenario. First-years face off against fellow first-years, seconds against seconds, thirds against thirds. Paths differ, but the ranking unites them all."

Trafalgar took it in silently.

"I see." His eyebrow arched. "Who typically dominates?"

Zafira answered promptly. "The Eight Great Families’ heirs. So you, me, and golden curls ought to top the list."

Trafalgar faced her squarely. "Golden curls?"

"Yes," she affirmed solemnly. "Alfons."

That drew a genuine laugh from him, richer than Alfons's earlier provocation.

The platform ascended at last, humming softly, and they boarded as one. Mana glowed underfoot before the drop commenced.

Trafalgar crossed his arms during the descent.

'That settles it. I must excel.'

The notion didn't weigh on him. Rather, it sharpened the challenge.

As they sank further, Zafira tilted her head his way.

"By the way," she noted, "when are we heading out?"

He grasped her meaning instantly. "To Augusto’s?"

"Yes."

"Post-exams makes sense," he said. "We get a brief respite before second year. Plenty of time then."

Zafira's face stayed neutral, yet relief softened it subtly. She'd marked his recall.

"Good," she replied.

The platform hit bottom, and they exited side by side. Lower dorm levels buzzed with energy, students milling in clusters, clutching last-minute notes amid frantic cramming. Exam-day tension hung thick.

When Trafalgar and Zafira emerged outdoors, the group awaited them.

Cynthia posed with her signature athletic poise, arms crossed, white tresses cascading down her back. Xavier brimmed with improbable alertness for theory tests, though subtle dark circles betrayed his grueling prep. Bartholomew clutched a tome to his chest, as though one more chapter en route could clinch his fate.

Xavier beamed on sight. "Ready for today?"

Trafalgar assessed him quickly. "You look far more pumped than I figured."

Xavier shrugged a shoulder. "I just crave the end. Studying's been brutal. Post-this, I want calm."

Trafalgar's lips quirked. "Practical's still tomorrow."

Xavier's smile faltered. "Yeah. That." He jabbed a finger. "No peeking at my moves beforehand. Keep my new Echo hidden till our duel."

Trafalgar met his gaze steadily. "No fears. Secret or otherwise, it won't shift the outcome much."

Xavier gaped, torn between ire and mirth. "You drop that so casually."

"Am I wrong?"

Bartholomew stifled a tiny chuckle, hiding it as Cynthia shot him a look. Zafira seemed utterly unfazed.

"Can we hold the bravado till after?" Cynthia cut in. "Some want to pass first."

"That wasn't bravado," Trafalgar countered.

"It totally was," Zafira shot back.

He skipped rebuttal.

The five set off for the central lecture hall, swept along with scores of fellow first-years masking their nerves. The campus vibe had shifted that morn. Even courtyard breezes felt buoyant, aware students inside already endured torment aplenty.

Exams had arrived.

And thus, the year's true close ignited.