SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 541: What Was Written

Trafalgar remained by the table, one translated page held in his hand with the original documents spread out beside it. The first hints of dawn had already infiltrated the room, casting a pale, thin light across the desk, the papers, and Bartholomew, who slept as if he had just lost a grueling battle against exhaustion.

The translated texts were unexpectedly straightforward.

A great deal of it mirrored what Icarus had already committed to his own notes, with the researcher’s detached perspective removed. These were direct transcriptions of thoughts from the void creature itself, fragmented pieces of consciousness painstakingly scratched into language after it had acquired sufficient understanding to articulate its meaning.

Trafalgar proceeded to read in silence.

His thumb applied more pressure against the page.

An underlying idea pulsed through the translations like a sinister current. Human bloodlines had grown weaker. The ancient races had diminished. Their past triumphs had devolved into mere legends. Whatever entity existed on the other side had not forgotten. It had observed. It had meticulously assessed this world from a distance, arriving at a singular, recurring conclusion.

Trafalgar exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair, his boots finding a resting place on the table's edge as he advanced to the subsequent page.

'So, these were written before it encountered me.'

The realization was now apparent.

At that time, the creature held the firm belief that the Primordials were irrevocably gone, interred with the ancient conflicts, completely removed from the grand scheme. A defunct bloodline. A threat reduced to a mere memory. Now, that perception had been altered. It had witnessed him. It had returned, carrying the crucial knowledge that a remnant of their kind still persisted.

This revelation alone would necessitate greater caution from the other side. It would compel them to reconsider before treating this world as an unoccupied domain, devoid of any guardians at its threshold.

Trafalgar perused another line.

He clicked his tongue softly and placed that page aside.

There was little aesthetic appeal in these writings. What created a sense of unease was precisely the opposite: the sheer precision. The entity had composed these fragments with a clear objective, a methodical structure, and the enduring patience characteristic of something that had analyzed bloodlines, lineages of authority, ancient power, and inherent weaknesses with the detached clarity of a strategist delineating a battlefield.

'Dravok indicated we have at least a decade before any significant events unfold.'

On paper, that sounded like a considerable grace period. Ample time to accumulate strength, forge alliances, unearth forgotten histories, and prepare for the impending challenges. In practical terms, however, it felt more like a veiled threat disguised as a favorable prognosis. Ten years would dissipate with alarming speed in a world such as this. A decade dedicated to rigorous training, intricate political maneuvering, inevitable bloodshed, strategic movements, clandestine operations, and outright warfare could easily slip by unnoticed by the majority of the populace.

Nevertheless, it was still time.

Trafalgar remained there for a while longer, contemplating the underlying nature of the entity's perspective rather than the explicit wording. The creature had erred in one critical aspect. However, it had been alarmingly correct in all other regards.

A faint sound drew his attention away from the documents.

Behind him, Bartholomew began to stir.

He had shifted during the night, his arm bent beneath him at an awkward angle, a small trail of saliva visible at the corner of his mouth. The instant he became aware that Trafalgar was awake, he hastily wiped his mouth, jolting upright so rapidly that his chair nearly emitted a protest.

"Trafalgar!" he exclaimed, his voice slightly muffled. "I figured out what it said."

The sleepiness vanished from his face in an instant. The emotion that replaced it was altogether unsuitable for him. Bartholomew typically exuded an aura of nervousness, quiet inquisitiveness, and occasional bursts of excitement when confronted with matters of books or history. What now clouded him was a palpable coldness. A heavy seriousness. It lent him an unfamiliar gravity.

Trafalgar subtly lifted one of the translated sheets.

"Yeah," he confirmed. "I saw."

Bartholomew swallowed, his throat working. "It's... worse than I anticipated."

"It is." Trafalgar carefully placed the paper back onto the table. "That changes nothing. This remains between us."

Bartholomew nodded immediately, without a hint of hesitation.

"Of course. I won't mention it to anyone."

Trafalgar observed him for a brief moment, detecting no sign of wavering resolve, and allowed the building tension to dissipate.

"By the way," he said, shifting the subject, "aren't you planning to acquire some new skills soon? I've noticed you've been seeking knowledge more actively lately."

This question resonated with Bartholomew in a much more positive aspect.

His shoulders straightened perceptibly. The oppressive weight from moments before receded sufficiently to allow a glimpse of his usual demeanor to re-emerge.

"I am," he confirmed. "I've been setting aside funds to purchase scrolls. I've decided to focus on long-range abilities. Mage-based skills."

Trafalgar gave a single, affirming nod.

"Mage skills, hmm." A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. "That truly suits you. You would excel far more with ranged capabilities than with any form of close-quarters combat. An excellent decision."

Bartholomew's ears tinged a faint red. "Th-thank you."

Trafalgar gathered the translated sheets, arranging them into a neater pile, and slid them back towards the original documents.

"I must depart shortly," he announced. "Thanks for your assistance, Barth. I owe you one."

He closed the hand-case, secured its clasp, and rose from the chair.

"I'll treat you to a meal or a drink soon."

Bartholomew also stood, still showing a careful reverence around the scattered pages. "I would like that."

Trafalgar retrieved the case from the table.

That portion of the morning was now concluded.

His next objective was to meet with Selara.

If there was anyone within the entire Academy who could provide insight into the creator of the vial, or at least guide him towards understanding the intellect required to produce such an item, it would undoubtedly be her. She possessed the potential to either solidify his current suspicions or, conversely, exacerbate the entire predicament by introducing three new complications.

With Selara, either of these possibilities held an equal likelihood of occurring.

He turned towards the exit, with Bartholomew falling into step behind him as they entered the corridor.

Behind them, the chamber they had vacated retained its faint, early morning illumination. The pale light cast shadows across the desk and the vacant chair, while the meticulously translated pages lay undisturbed, bearing the weight of words that had subtly diminished the world's perceived vastness, rendered it more ancient, and infinitely less forgiving than it had appeared just the night prior.