SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 522: After the Final Test [II]

Across the hall, Alfons was joined by three first-year students who circled him much like others always did whenever a powerful family lineage backed an individual.

True friendship didn't exist between them. Such bonds demanded parity, which was utterly lacking here. They were just lads who had glued themselves to him via blood connections, rank, expediency, and the faint expectation that hanging close to Alfons au Vaelion could yield benefits down the line. In an institution like the Academy, that dynamic alone stretched smiles beyond their natural duration.

Alfons paid scant heed to their chatter.

His focus repeatedly wandered over to Trafalgar.

That scoundrel lingered amid his typical crew, appearing far too composed for Alfons's liking. He didn't act like a man anxiously awaiting the ultimate verdict. Instead, he seemed utterly at ease, as if the results had lost all relevance to him even prior to the directors' arrival.

That composure grated on Alfons more than he'd care to confess.

’What did the bastard hunt?’ he pondered, his jaw clenching faintly. ’Since his SSS talent came to light, he’s turned even more insufferable.’

That summed up Alfons's view of him these days. No longer a straightforward rival, nor merely an object of disdain. The emotion had escalated far past those stages. Pure hatred now defined it.

A chunk of that loathing stemmed from Zafira.

Alfons once assumed events would unfold predictably. His pedigree, heritage, aptitude, and evident destiny made it all seem inevitable to him. Proclaiming his intentions hadn't struck him as bold. It had seemed downright logical.

Yet Zafira turned him down.

Her refusal left no space for delusion, delivered with Trafalgar already claiming the position Alfons coveted. That rejection by itself scarred deeply.

The Council only deepened the cut.

Alfons recalled that duel with unwelcome vividness. Back then, true wariness hadn't gripped him. He'd held back, sure, but even restrained, victory over Trafalgar seemed effortless. Looking back, that overconfidence stung worst. He hadn't just anticipated triumph. He'd banked on it being a breeze.

Because Trafalgar had registered as such in his mind at that point.

Trash.

A lowborn from House Morgain, perpetually lagging in matters of import, dismissed by Alfons as unworthy of regard. He'd entered the clash brimming with innate arrogance, never pausing to question it.

Humiliation had been his reward.

That scar refused to heal properly. It burrowed further instead, where ego soured into a sharper venom.

His father offered no solace.

Roderic au Vaelion avoided public outbursts post-Council. Outsiders might deem his response elegant. Cordial, perhaps. The bet was upheld. A fabled artifact shifted from Vaelion possession to Valttair du Morgain due to Alfons's loss, managed by Roderic with the poise that influential figures display under scrutiny.

Yet Alfons understood his sire more intimately than any kin.

He recognized the facade.

He grasped the gap between Roderic's public demeanor and the raw expression emerging in hidden moments. Losing the artifact itself didn't enrage his father. Such treasures could be regained, reclaimed, or offset eventually. What repulsed him was the manner of defeat. Alfons had strutted in arrogant, belittled a Morgain, and sullied Vaelion honor before the rival Great Families.

That constituted the true crime.

That was the sin Roderic struggled to absolve.

The Vaelion ranked among the Eight Great Families. Alongside the Morgain, theirs was one of just two human lineages in that elite circle. Roderic never voiced it aloud in company, but rivalry with House Morgain had ingrained itself deeply. All benchmarks of achievement subtly aligned against them. Heirs from other houses served as yardsticks. Outcomes inevitably faced Morgain scrutiny.

For years, Alfons embodied his father's covert retort to that feud.

His gifts outshone any Morgain scion of his era. That reassurance lingered. The concealed edge. The assurance Roderic cherished inwardly: here, at least, Vaelion eclipses Morgain.

Then Trafalgar emerged.

Once Trafalgar's talent truth surfaced, Alfons witnessed a shift in his father's expression he'd never erase. No yells ensued. No scolding or theatrical reprimand.

Merely that gaze.

As though siring Alfons marked a miscalculation now incarnate before him.

That recollection haunted him more persistently than the Council event itself.

’I refuse to rank beneath him in these exams,’ Alfons pondered fiercely. That notion alone filled his mind now, scoured bare of all distractions. ’I won’t let it happen.’

The other three boys nearby wouldn’t cease their chatter, clueless about the right moment to hush.

A brown haired boy with green eyes cocked his head subtly toward Trafalgar’s group and murmured, "What do you think the Morgain bastard hunted?"

Another scoffed derisively. "Nothing all that remarkable, I bet. Perhaps a solid find in the woods, but hardly beyond. He wouldn’t dare tackle a higher level beast." He cast a sycophantic glance at Alfons. "He’s not like Alfons."

The third leaped in right away, keen to stay in the mix. "Exactly. There’s no way he snagged something with a Flow Core or a Prime Core. Folks say he only awakened two or three years back, right? They clearly kept it under wraps. Progressing between cores that swiftly is flat-out impossible."

Alfons stayed mute, though irritation swelled thicker inside him with each remark.

He knew full well they were mistaken.

Not on the basics. Under different circumstances, their take might hold water. The pace they mocked as absurd was exactly that—supposedly. Their flippant brush-off grated on him for that very reason. They derided the concept as preposterous, even as Alfons himself proved lightning-fast advancement possible with ideal factors. His talent fell short of SSS. Yet his own rise had still vaulted him over nearly every peer his age.

Trafalgar’s talent outshone his.

By a vast margin.

That fact was the bitter toxin.

Should Alfons wield Trafalgar’s talent, his father’s gaze would shift toward him entirely. No question there. Roderic pitted all against each other. Alfons wasn’t spared, nor were his brothers. First heir measured against Maeron du Morgain. Second versus the top contender in rank and lineage. House Vaelion’s every offspring toiled under balances they never selected.

That side of his father fueled Alfons’s deepest loathing, born of too keen an insight.

No family member pierced Roderic’s veil like Alfons did. To the rest, Father embodied grace, poise, virtue. Alfons alone had witnessed depths revealing reality. Roderic donned a mask so seamless, the world saw it as his essence.

Alfons remained utterly helpless against it.

The brown haired boy geared up to spout more, no doubt another empty conjecture, but Alfons sliced through their prattle before it fully escaped.

"You shouldn’t underestimate the Morgain bastard."

Response hit like lightning.

All three bolted upright on reflex, the words yanking them rigid as a lash. Just moments prior, they’d lounged in loose talk, safely shredding Trafalgar with Alfons listening. In a flash, the vibe around them flipped.

With Alfons cautioning against underestimating Trafalgar, none craved the role of contrarian fool.

One snapped back quickest, bobbing his head fast. "That’s true. Alfons is right. The war rumors about him are far from ordinary. What he accomplished was utterly insane."

The second chimed in without delay. "Yeah. I can only picture it dimly, but I really would’ve wanted to witness it live."

The third strained harder to realign, declaring, "I kind of want to go talk to him."

The pair whipped toward him in blatant horror, like he’d bared a foul secret.

The first scrambled to fix it. "Talk to him, sure, but to make a few things clear."

The second nodded with excessive vigor. "Right. That. So his ego doesn’t go straight into the clouds."

Alfons squeezed his eyes shut for a beat, drained by the whole trio at once.

Could they fawn competently? Sneer effectively? Reason at all? Every answer rang no.

"Can you shut up?" he uttered finally, voice dull with vexation. "The directors are here. They’re about to announce the results."

It sufficed.

The three fell utterly silent.

By that point, stirrings overhead had seized the hall’s focus skyward. The barren balcony afar brimmed no more with emptiness. Four forms stepped forth in sequence, their aura blanketing the chamber swifter than any barked order.

The four directors had arrived.

The hall clenched tight around them instantly, the chaotic din of hundreds of first years dwindling as universal awareness struck.

The results stood poised for unveiling at last.