SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 521: After the Final Test [I]

An hour had finally elapsed, with every first-year student now returned to the Academy hall.

The hall looked identical to how it appeared that morning, yet its vibe had transformed entirely. Previously brimming with anxiety and drive, it now carried a heavier burden following the practical exam—exhausted students, soiled uniforms, and visible traces of their recent trials. The elevated balcony at the distant end still dominated the view over the hall, but it stood empty at the moment.

The directors hadn't emerged yet.

That fact alone prevented the tension in the room from fully dissipating.

Trafalgar lingered with his usual crew: Zafira, Bartholomew, Xavier, and Cynthia. Reuniting post-exam ought to have lightened the mood somewhat, and it did to a degree, yet exhaustion clung to them all too obviously to overlook.

Even Xavier, typically radiating unbreakable vigor, had dimmed in his customary spark. Cynthia appeared composed from afar, but the strain in her shoulders betrayed her. Zafira showed the least outward impact, though Trafalgar knew she had truly strained herself. Bartholomew, meanwhile, resembled someone on the brink of collapse.

Such a state came as no surprise.

Those aiming for top spots in the rankings couldn't afford to slack on the practical final test. Every first-year here grasped that reality. The Academy might emphasize passing, surviving, teamwork, and adapting, but students craved dominance over peers—memorable names, recognized achievements, secured ranks. That burning ambition permeated the hall as palpably as the stench of sweat and grime.

Still, a basic truth resonated with all.

The pinnacle spots rarely strayed from familiar faces.

Heirs of the Eight Great Families typically seized the loftiest ranks, followed by scions of wealthy clans able to lavish unmatched resources on their offspring. That's how the world always spun. Talent mattered. Effort counted. But lineage, elite mentors, scarce elixirs, and a cradle-to-grave path of supremacy amplified everything.

This year, the top three spots had felt predetermined for ages.

Zafira.

Alfons.

Trafalgar.

Three heirs from the Eight Great Families graced this first-year batch, and most had long conceded those trio would claim the summit—question only their sequence.

Cynthia ignored such speculations entirely.

She had pivoted completely toward Bartholomew, and upon truly seeing him, her face hardened. Sweat slicked his brow, his hair lay disheveled, and a profound weariness etched deeper than mere fatigue gripped him. This wasn't the satisfied glow of a successful hunter; it screamed someone who had danced on the precipice of their limits, now safe enough to confront the toll.

"Are you alright, Barth?" Cynthia asked immediately. "You look completely exhausted. You didn’t fail, did you? Don’t tell me that’s why you’re so down. That would be awful."

Bartholomew raised his head as though the motion demanded Herculean effort. He swiped sweat from his face with a sleeve, adjusted his glasses into position, and only then replied. That minor gesture restored a hint of his normal self.

"N-no..." he managed, still gasping for steady breath. "I didn’t fail. But I am exhausted because of what I had to face. It was something above my level, I think. I was lucky I managed to kill it."

Trafalgar whipped his gaze toward him without delay.

"What do you mean lucky?" he demanded.

Bartholomew blinked, startled by the swift retort.

Trafalgar pressed on before he could respond. "I watched the whole thing live. You had everything you needed to kill it, and that’s exactly what you did. Give yourself more credit. You won because you worked for it."

The statement rang blunt, yet utterly genuine—no mere pity pat or empty flattery. Trafalgar conveyed pure conviction, and that conviction shifted everything.

Bartholomew gazed at him briefly, his doubt easing into calm resolve. Exhaustion lingered, the battle's shadow loomed, but creeping self-doubt receded notably.

Xavier, hooked by the exchange, leaned forward eagerly.

"What did you hunt?" he pressed. "For him to say that, it must have been something serious."

Bartholomew flushed under the spotlight. "A rock serpent," he confessed.

Xavier went rigid.

In that fleeting instant, it seemed he hadn't quite comprehended the words. Then, his entire expression transformed.

"A rock serpent?" he echoed. "Barth, that’s crazy."

Xavier moved in before Bartholomew had a chance to respond, draping an arm over him in an abrupt, exuberant hug that nearly knocked the boy off balance immediately.

"That’s amazing," Xavier declared. "Honestly, I figured it’d be something okay, perhaps a bit troublesome, but a rock serpent? That’s genuinely impressive."

Bartholomew’s cheeks flushed red right away. "I-it wasn’t anything like that," he stammered, more embarrassed by the response than the compliment. "It was incredibly tough. I nearly died several times."

"That only makes it greater, not lesser," Xavier replied. "You took it down anyway."

Bartholomew was at a loss for how to handle that. He remained standing, a mix of delight and embarrassment on his face, which widened Xavier’s grin even further.

Cynthia, on the other hand, fell silent.

Her focus had drifted from her brother and fixed on Trafalgar.

She understood Bartholomew too well to need the full story spelled out. Her brother wouldn’t stumble into such a battle by chance alone.

Not without some force guiding him there, even if that force was trust instead of coercion.

By that point, Bartholomew and Xavier were deep in their own chat, with Xavier firing questions and Barth replying clumsily, but Cynthia tuned them out.

Trafalgar picked up on it right away.

"What?" he questioned.

His voice stayed flat and neutral, yet it caused Cynthia to eye him sharply.

She dropped her tone low. "I bet you’re behind him throwing himself into peril."

Trafalgar showed no shock. "What makes you say that?"

"Because you constantly urge him on," Cynthia shot back. "You always drive him to push too far and risk himself."

Her response came swift, as though she’d prepared it in advance. No true fury laced it—just worry, the kind a sister feels, frayed by repetition.

Trafalgar regarded her briefly, his tone remaining steady when he spoke.

"I get that you still wish to shield Bartholomew," he stated. "But you ought to have more faith in your brother. You sell him short far too often."

Cynthia held back her immediate reply.

That pause allowed Trafalgar to press on.

"He’s transformed," he continued. "Far beyond what you acknowledge. A battle like that would’ve broken him once. This time, it didn’t. That wasn’t mere luck."

Cynthia’s lips parted a bit, yet nothing emerged.

For the harshest truth was she recognized his accuracy.

She did crave protecting Bartholomew. It had rooted into instinct ages ago, barely registering now. She’d grown accustomed to being the tougher, bolder sibling who charged ahead while Barth trailed, striving to match her. For years, that dynamic had defined them. It felt natural viewing him so, since it matched reality.

Yet therein lay the issue.

It had matched reality.

Not anymore, perhaps.

This year, Bartholomew had evolved. He’d built strength, gained poise, shown readiness to face fears that once paralyzed him. Timid and clumsy as ever, unmistakably himself, but no longer frail like before. Cynthia had witnessed it. Still, some inner piece clung to the old image of him.

That piece struggled to adapt.

What struck her oddest wasn’t just Trafalgar voicing it, but his assured tone about Bartholomew. No sarcasm tainted it, no offhand remark to shift topics. Trafalgar spoke as one who’d assessed Barth thoroughly and formed a firm judgment.

And truthfully, her brother’s growth stemmed from him.

That thought hit heavier than anticipated.

She remained silent, and Trafalgar didn’t belabor it. He’d delivered his message. No more needed saying.

Still, Cynthia’s gaze lingered on him.

The hall’s clamor swirled around in vast, choppy surges. Students buzzed about their kills, near-misses, the wounded returnees, early quitters, and those brimming with pride. Off in the distance, a voice boomed about a swamp beast. Nearby, a group debated if a teamwork-assisted kill equaled a solo effort. None pierced their small group.

Beside them, Xavier kept chattering at Bartholomew with undimmed, brazen vigor.

"I’m telling you," Xavier declared, "that’s among the finest news I’ve heard since our return. The Academy has it wrong if you end up ranking below those who chased after something so pitiful."

Bartholomew appeared utterly helpless. "Please, stop with remarks like that."

"No."

"Xavier."

"No."

Even Zafira looked subtly entertained by their banter, evident only in the tiniest twitch at the edge of her lips.

Her gaze wandered away, bypassing Bartholomew entirely to settle on Cynthia.

She’d caught the exchange with Trafalgar. Cynthia’s ensuing silence revealed far more than any words exchanged.

Zafira observed it all for just a moment, lost in thought.

Then, she shifted her focus to Trafalgar.

"And what did you hunt?" she inquired.