SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 512: Final Trial [IV]

"T-Trafalgar?"

Slightly lowering Maledicta more from habit than any real need, Trafalgar responded. "Yes, it’s me, Barth. Relax now. And get your hands off that string. As you know, we’re not permitted to attack one another."

Bartholomew gulped, obviously embarrassed, and immediately eased his hold on the bowstring. "Y-yes... sorry. I was actually watching your fight." With a trembling hand, he pushed up his glasses. "It was surprising."

Trafalgar cast a quick look at the corpses strewn across the clearing and offered the briefest reply. "Thanks."

He slung Maledicta over one shoulder and peered beyond the trees in front. "I’m heading to the desert. I figure there’ll be better fights there than in this forest." His eyes returned to Bartholomew. "Want to join?"

Bartholomew blinked in surprise. "You mean... form a team?"

Trafalgar let out a light snort. "No, sorry, Barth, but I’m aiming for first place this time. Can’t team up with anyone, even a friend." He gestured at the slain monsters in the clearing. "Feel free to take one for your grade. The strongest should still give you a solid score."

Bartholomew appeared tempted for a moment.

Then his face shifted subtly.

He drew himself up straighter, still anxious and pale, yet showing more resolve than months before. "No, thank you."

Trafalgar arched a brow. "Oh? Why not? You sure?"

"Y-yes." Bartholomew nodded faster this time, pushing the words out before his nerve faded. "I want to hunt something myself. You’ve helped me plenty, and it’s made me better. Now I need to test how far I’ve really progressed."

A subtle smile touched Trafalgar’s lips.

Barth had improved.

That was positive.

His class held too much potential to stay weak indefinitely. Archivist lacked flashiness and the prestige of a sword talent, but such classes often proved underestimated regrets. Knowledge, utility, support, control—in skilled hands, they could reshape whole battlefields. Bartholomew lagged behind, but he was grasping a key truth.

He couldn’t depend on others eternally.

’Share a few solid skills, ensure he masters them, put a little more into his growth, and he’ll turn even more valuable,’ Trafalgar mused. ’Like with Sleep. After this, I’ll teach him some truly powerful ones.’

The notion didn’t bother him one bit.

If Trafalgar planned to keep Bartholomew nearby long-term, nurturing his strength wasn’t mere kindness. It was practical.

"Good," Trafalgar stated. "That’s the right attitude, Barth."

Bartholomew seemed ridiculously relieved at those words.

Trafalgar nodded toward the denser forest ahead. "Still, want to walk together a ways? You might spot something suitable along the path."

This time, Bartholomew agreed instantly. "Let’s go."

They departed the clearing, advancing through the woods shoulder to shoulder, though their postures starkly contrasted. Trafalgar strode like he owned the terrain, navigating roots and underbrush with effortless precision. Bartholomew proceeded cautiously, bow ready, scrutinizing each shadow to confirm it harmless.

As they ventured deeper, exam traces grew evident.

Student groups clashed through the forest in various spots. Some encircled alpha wolves with far greater struggle than Trafalgar had faced. Others tackled Thornhide Ursids in teams of four or five, syncing spells, spears, and shields to barely contain one beast. Roars and mana flares echoed frequently between trees, banishing any sense of silence. The woods buzzed with activity.

Bartholomew observed one group intently as they passed. Five students had pinned an Ursid amid shattered trunks, fighting desperately to fell it without being smashed. One nearly lost an arm getting too near. Another had drained his mana, face ashen.

Bartholomew’s gaze fixed on them overly long.

Those matched the monsters Trafalgar had soloed effortlessly, without a drop of sweat.

’How far has he advanced while gone?’ Bartholomew wondered.

The thought clung stubbornly.

Trafalgar’s progress defied logic. A late awakener—ridiculously so by noble measures—had no business surging ahead like this. Many heirs from mighty houses trained from childhood, some at three years old, amid endless resources, mentors, arts, and pressure. Trafalgar hailed from one of the Eight Great Families, true, but that alone didn’t account for it.

He lacked that upbringing.

He hadn’t enjoyed heir-level protection.

If anything, the reverse.

That amplified the absurdity.

’It’s unbelievable,’ Bartholomew reflected.

Yet here he walked beside such a figure.

Not as a distant observer, but a companion.

Bartholomew sometimes still doubted it. Trafalgar du Morgain would undoubtedly etch his name into history. That seemed inevitable now. Even Academy folk sensed the shift. Trafalgar’s aura had evolved. His bearing screamed someone outpacing the rest relentlessly.

Yet he conversed with Bartholomew casually.

Still aided him. Still acted unchanged.

For an ex-orphan with zilch, that outweighed easy words.

He valued Trafalgar’s support more deeply than the other likely knew.

Trafalgar halted abruptly.

Bartholomew almost collided before stopping.

"W-what is it?" he asked hastily.

Trafalgar raised a hand, pointing forward. "Desert lies that way." His voice remained steady. "But a monster over there might fit you perfectly."

Bartholomew traced the gesture, squinting. Initially, only disrupted earth amid thinning trees met his eyes. Then, adjusting his glasses, he froze.

A colossal form stirred in the clearing ahead.

An eight-meter serpent, bulky enough mid-body to flatten a person. Sand-brown scales dulled it, but jagged rocks protruded like armored layers over back and neck in crude stone slabs. Each shift ground fragments with a deep rasp. Its wide, grotesque head bore a dark mineral wedge fused along one jaw edge.

Bartholomew clenched his bow tighter.

Tremors shook him.

That was expected.

Never before had he faced such a massive monster this close, especially one poised to become his challenge. Even in Academy grounds, it radiated menace—like terrain come alive, not mere beast.

Trafalgar remained utterly unfazed.

That was typical too.

In his first stint in this world, he’d seen Valttair dispatch far larger horrors effortlessly. Against that, this rock-clad eight-meter snake scarcely registered. Next to the Leviathan, it paled further.

Trafalgar eyed Bartholomew, noting the evident dread. He didn’t mock or coddle.

"Don’t worry," he assured. "I know you can take it."

Bartholomew glanced from the beast just long enough to gape at him. "You really think so?"

"Yes."

The swift reply brooked no question.

Trafalgar crossed one arm, eyeing the serpent. "Fear stems from its size. Normal. But it’s within your reach." He cocked his head. "That rock armor slows its bulk. Powerful, yes, but dumb. Panic spells death. Think, and you claim victory."

Bartholomew eyed the serpent anew. It hauled part of its length along, stone plates shoving soil and roots aside effortlessly.

Fear lingered.

Yet it sharpened.

More precise now.

Trafalgar saw the shift and pressed on, voice level in that parched tone that drove words home deeper. "Plus, to truly gauge your growth, go all in. Else, that talk of standing alone was empty show."

Bartholomew flinched.

"That’s not fair."

Trafalgar shrugged. "Probably not."

Oddly, it steadied him.

Shuddering a breath, Bartholomew readjusted his bow grip. Legs wobbled, and part of him yearned to flee for tinier, safer prey—anything sparing his pounding heart’s frenzy.

But Trafalgar stood serene nearby, outcome seemingly foregone.

Bartholomew studied the beastly serpent once more.

Then his hands.

Then the serpent again.

He swallowed hard.

"O-okay," he murmured.

Trafalgar’s lips twitched faintly. "Good."

The serpent lifted its head, detecting motion. Stone rasped over scales. A deep hiss slithered across the forest fringe.

Bartholomew’s fingers grasped an arrow.

Fear persisted.

Shaking too.

But this time, he held his ground.