SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 509: Final Trial [I]

The theoretical exams had concluded.

Beyond Professor Rhaldrin’s classroom, three figures awaited the emergence of the final two. Zafira rested against the wall in her typical serenity, unaffected by the surrounding mood. Xavier seemed at ease too, hands stuffed in his pockets, whereas Cynthia appeared as though the Academy had dedicated the whole day to wrecking her world.

Xavier noticed how ashen she had become.

"You okay?" he inquired. "You seem pale. Was it that rough?"

Cynthia tsked her tongue. "No. Or yeah. Not sure."

That response alone tickled him.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Xavier questioned, grin already forming.

Cynthia crossed her arms more firmly. "A question came up on the Primordials’ ruins. From our trip there." Her lips pressed thin. "I couldn’t recall it fully, so I scribbled what I knew and padded the rest."

Xavier burst into laughter.

Cynthia whipped around to face him. "What’s so funny?"

"You," Xavier replied. "It’s uncommon to hear you confess to padding answers."

"I didn’t confess."

"You literally just did."

"I said I wrote what I remembered."

"And filled in the gaps."

"That’s entirely different."

"Sounds pretty similar to me."

Cynthia appeared ready to throttle him right there in the hallway with one more word.

Zafira remained silent. The subtle smile tugging at her mouth spoke volumes.

Before Cynthia could retort, the door to the classroom swung open at last. Several students exited first, murmuring about timelines, ancient conflicts, and if Professor Rhaldrin had crafted the test from sheer spite. Trailing them were the pair still lingering inside.

Trafalgar and Bartholomew emerged side by side.

The contrast between them was striking.

Trafalgar appeared utterly composed, one hand pocketed, face relaxed, like he’d just finished a routine class.

Bartholomew seemed on the verge of hurling.

His complexion had drained to a sickly shade unlike Cynthia’s, shoulders hunched, breaths ragged, as if he’d envisioned a dozen catastrophes and accepted them all as inevitable.

"What if I flunk and get kicked out of the Academy?" Bartholomew mumbled. "What then for my future?"

Trafalgar caught the words, moved nearer, and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Should that occur, I’ll hook you up with a job," he stated. "No sweat. You could tidy my place, say."

Cynthia overheard every bit.

She spun toward him instantly. "Ignore him, Barth. Won’t happen."

Bartholomew, though, seemed truly touched.

"Thanks, Trafalgar," he expressed earnestly. "I’m grateful. If it comes to that, I’ll rely on you."

Cynthia gaped at him, incredulous.

Trafalgar shot her a look and remarked, "See? He actually values his friends’ offers."

Cynthia eyed him as if torn between which one annoyed her more. The earlier pallor shifted to outright fury.

Zafira detached from the wall and posed the sole practical query.

"How’d it go?"

"Good," Trafalgar answered. "Fairly straightforward. Bartholomew deserves the credit, so no need to fret. Practical’s tomorrow, then we’re through."

Bartholomew appeared marginally less wretched upon hearing it.

Xavier raised his arms overhead in a stretch. "With theory behind us at last, anyone up for grabbing a bite?"

Cynthia shot back right away. "Can’t, not before tomorrow’s big test. My mom’s no Academy director. Heck, I don’t even have one..."

Xavier scowled. "Whoa, I wasn’t suggesting a tavern or idiocy. Just unwind somewhere. Day was brutal. Cafeteria dinner, group hang, ease into tomorrow."

Some sharpness faded from Cynthia’s features.

"Framed that way, I’d feel guilty saying no," she admitted. "Barth and I are in."

Bartholomew blinked in surprise. "Huh? Me too?"

"Yep, you included," Cynthia affirmed. "You’re liable to collapse without food soon."

Xavier shifted to Zafira next.

She shrugged lightly. "Sure. Count me in."

Then all four turned expectantly to Trafalgar.

He skipped any theatrics.

"Alright. I’m joining."

That settled it.

The group wound up at the Academy cafeteria that evening, not for wild festivities, but because solitude in their rooms with the looming practical exam felt unbearable. Xavier dominated the chatter. Cynthia fought to remain stern, crumbling whenever he spoke. Bartholomew devoured his meal like a battle-weary soldier. Zafira observed far more than she contributed. Trafalgar kept mostly mute, allowing the rest to dominate the conversation.

Simplicity proved most effective that night.

When they parted ways, the strain had lifted somewhat.

Dawn of the following day arrived swiftly.

First-year students had assembled en masse before the Academy’s central structure. Hundreds crammed the space, amplifying its vastness, chatter swelling and dipping under a rune-etched ceiling that sparkled above like distant stars. The platform had ferried batch after batch to the entrance, funneling them now into the majestic hall in an unbroken stream.

Within, seats brimmed with hundreds. Thrill intertwined with anxiety, electric and jittery, rippling through the rows uncontrollably. At the distant end rose a lofty balcony surveying the throng.

Trafalgar positioned himself amid the first-years alongside Zafira, Cynthia, Bartholomew, and Xavier.

Bartholomew displayed fresh anxiety.

Cynthia donned her rigid mask again, concealing her own jitters.

Xavier radiated curiosity over concern.

Zafira stayed impervious to the ambient buzz.

Trafalgar tilted his chin up, absorbing the chamber, the peers, the grandeur. Hundreds of first-years united for this climax. The ultimate trial. The gateway to second-year status.

Silence enveloped the hall as four silhouettes ascended the balcony.