SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 544: One Week Left

Questions far outnumbered answers as Trafalgar emerged from Selara's laboratory.

The corridor seemed to carry a deeper chill than before, though perhaps this was more a reflection of the name that had just been introduced into the unfolding events than the temperature of the Academy itself. Vaelion. A legendary alchemist believed long gone, yet his century-long absence was now called into question, suggesting it may not have been an absence at all.

'Are they truly involved, or is this merely a grim coincidence?'

His steps were measured, hands clasped within his coat, his mind racing far ahead of his physical pace.

The possibility of Selara's master still being alive did add a layer of sense to the situation. Prolonged existence, after all, was a consequence of profound strength. The higher one's mana core, the more resilient the physical form, especially when augmented by inherent bloodline advantages. Every race—Human, Vampire, Beastkin, Elf—possessed unique strengths. An individual of Vaelion's caliber, if he had continued his cultivation and if the Vaelion house had devised methods for his preservation, could plausibly have endured for such an extended period.

However, confronting this particular issue was not feasible for Trafalgar at the present moment.

Nearly a full week of his respite had already elapsed, and other urgent matters necessitated his attention first. For the interim, the volatile situation involving Caelum and Darian had been stabilized, which was sufficient. At a later juncture, Darian would inevitably sever ties with both House Morgain and House Sylvanel. Once that critical threshold was crossed, his allegiance would fall solely to Trafalgar, placing the entirety of House Thal'zar under Trafalgar's command without the necessity of initiating another conflict or resorting to public displays of power. Darian, too, was disinclined to risk his life. Trafalgar had already made his position abundantly clear to Lucien. Darian possessed knowledge extending beyond his admissions, and this alone was a potent leverage. Lucien's demise, Darian's subsequent ascent to the leadership of House Thal!zar; neither of these pivotal events had occurred in isolation.

This underscored why Darian grasped the underlying stakes. Trafalgar found no need to issue direct threats. He had already demonstrated the decisive nature of his actions when the circumstances, the opportune timing, and the right conditions converged favorably.

Naturally, Trafalgar recognized that such potent interventions could not be readily replicated at will.

The preceding war had created the necessary opening. The ensuing chaos had obscured the orchestrator's hand. Widespread pressure had transformed the seemingly impossible into a fleeting reality. Against another of the Great Families, under conventional circumstances, executing a similar maneuver would prove considerably more challenging. The established Great Families had endured precisely because they never allowed their most formidable members to remain idle. Power was typically concentrated, poised for immediate deployment at the slightest hint of discord.

Consequently, Darian's situation could not serve as a repeatable precedent.

It had been a surgical strike, not a template for recurring application.

With a slow exhalation, Trafalgar released that line of contemplation. There was no benefit in dwelling on the same issue repeatedly.

What lay before him was a week of tranquility prior to Zafira's return. An agreement was already in place for him to accompany her on a procurement trip for essential supplies he genuinely lacked. Armaments were not a concern; neither was defensive attire. He possessed both, of a quality that individuals his age would scarcely dare to envision.

What eluded him were the less conspicuous, yet critical, items—the practical necessities that dictated whether a confrontation remained manageable or devolved into disarray.

Utility items.

Tools for storage, concealment, swift movement, elemental resistance, enemy detection, emergency recovery, and disposable implements—anything that could provide the crucial difference between seamless adaptation and being trapped. Until this point, he had relied on sheer talent, innate instinct, and on-the-fly improvisation. While effective, these methods also had inherent limitations.

This was precisely where Augusto's involvement became relevant.

"That man really does arrive precisely when he's useful," Trafalgar's lips quirked slightly. "Let's just hope he doesn't try to make me work for it the way he did last time!"

Admittedly, the previous endeavor had yielded substantial rewards. The mithril mines alone had proven to be worth the considerable effort, and the subsequent financial gains were far from insignificant. The city of Euclid consumed resources at a voracious rate, a pace that would have plunged a lesser domain into ruin. The upkeep of a metropolis was never inexpensive, and a perpetually expanding one presented even greater financial demands. Labor, raw materials, transportation, defensive structures, modifications to the Gate district, various payments, ongoing maintenance—the expenditures seemed endless.

While many envisioned territorial holdings as pure profit, the reality was that, barring extraordinary events, a territory primarily functioned as a drain on resources.

Euclid consumed resources like a ravenous beast.

Or, to be more precise, like a vampire drawing sustenance from another's lifeblood.

The majority of Trafalgar's earnings no longer remained in his possession for extended periods. Funds were immediately reinvested into Euclid—for infrastructure development, bolstering defenses, rebuilding obsolete sections, enhancing internal systems, and fostering the subtle, incremental growth that outsiders only recognized once it had already become substantial. While the city's scale might not rival that of the world's grander territories, its ownership was unequivocally his. This possession carried considerable weight. More importantly, Euclid had begun to generate an asset even more valuable than revenues or prestige.

An army.

Not one sworn to the allegiance of House Morgain. Instead, it was his own personal force.

Trafalgar's expression shifted to contemplation as he ventured further down another hallway.

"Still, I haven't gotten a glimpse of the family's primary battle formations."

That sense of wonder had persisted for some time. Arthur had been a member of the rear-most echelon, and even that lowest tier comprised individuals of considerable skill. They were disciplined and posed a significant threat, capable of making many regions falter if they encroached upon a border. Yet, Trafalgar was acutely aware that Arthur and his cohort represented the lowest rung of a much grander structure.

The main Morgain squadrons were an entirely different caliber of force.

Trafalgar could envision it, even without having witnessed these forces arrayed in their full might. Arthur had been part of the final squadron, and even that bottom-most stratum consisted of capable personnel. Their discipline was unwavering, their nature hardened, and their potential for destruction was immense, enough to carve through most armies if properly deployed. This realization only served to heighten the unsettling nature of picturing the rest of House Morgain's sword-wielding squadrons. If the base level was already so formidable, the upper echelons had to be something extraordinary.

Senior figures rarely spoke of them casually. Even those who had dedicated their lives to navigating the currents of power seemed to choose their words with greater care when the subject of the main Morgain squadrons arose.

Valttair had opted not to mobilize them during the previous conflict. This decision stemmed not from a lack of confidence in their abilities, nor from their unsuitability for combat. It was a deliberate choice. Valttair preferred not to reveal the full extent of his strategic assets unless absolutely necessary. His aim was to maintain an aura of mystery, allowing the world to speculate about the true reach of House Morgain.

Consequently, the true might of those squadrons remained unknown to many. Arthur's group had merely been the outermost layer of a far more extensive entity.

'I suppose one day I might witness the true capabilities of the main forces!'

The contemplation brought no sense of warmth.

By the time Trafalgar arrived at the section of the dormitory designated for heirs and the select few students the Academy treated with extraordinary caution, his mind was already quite full. Rest would be beneficial. Organizing his thoughts further would prove even more helpful.

He was nearing his quarters when a familiar voice echoed down the corridor.

"Trafalgar!"

He turned his gaze towards the training area situated near the expansive window.

There he was.

As was his custom, Xavier had dispensed with attire below the waist and embraced a strict adherence to discipline. His crimson hair cascaded around his face in its characteristic disheveled manner, his scarf tightly wound around his neck as if challenging the very elements, and his heterochromatic eyes blazed with distinct hues – one red, the other yellow. His summoned spear rested casually in his hand, the weapon propped against his shoulder with an air of effortless confidence, though the marbled floor beneath his feet bore silent witness to his recent activities.

He had not been idle.

Faint markings crisscrossed the floor in intricate patterns, each etched by relentless practice, swift pivots, expert spear manipulations, and explosive bursts of footwork. Sweat glistened on his chest and shoulders, catching the dim corridor light in a subtle sheen. Even during this period of respite, Xavier trained with the intensity of a warrior seeking to seize a piece of the future before it could arrive.

Trafalgar altered his course and proceeded towards him.

It was typical of Xavier to dedicate a break to aggressively pursuing rigorous training, effectively banishing any notion of relaxation.

Upon reaching him, Xavier's grin widened instantly, a brilliant and provocative expression that, in his unique way, managed to avoid being grating.

"You took your sweet time," Xavier remarked. "I was beginning to suspect that the esteemed top-ranked prodigy had succumbed to an overload of contemplation."

Trafalgar cast a brief look at the spear, then surveyed the floor surrounding Xavier.

"Are you seriously training right now?"

Xavier emitted a scoff. "What, you assumed I'd spend my break slumbering?" He rotated a shoulder, the movement fluid despite the evident exertion he had already undergone. "Some of us possess a certain pride."

"That would explain the shirtless state, then," Trafalgar retorted. "You must be airing out that pride."

Xavier erupted in a hearty laugh.

"You see? This is precisely why I enjoy conversing with you. Most individuals exhibit too much deference. It becomes monotonous."

Trafalgar allowed the jibe to pass, folding his arms across his chest.

"You say that now. Give it a few years, and you'll begin to appreciate tranquility."

"Impossible."

"I admire your conviction."

"You ought to." Xavier executed a single, fluid spin of the spear between his fingers, catching it cleanly, the motion perfected through relentless repetition. "In any case, enough chatter." The palpable heat radiating from him carried the clean aroma of strenuous effort, the sharp intensity of someone who relentlessly pushed their physical limits rather than conserving energy. There was an undeniable alertness in the way he held the spear, too. Even at rest, Xavier consistently conveyed an aura suggesting that the ensuing moment could erupt into conflict should he find a sufficiently compelling reason.In his past existence, Trafalgar had encountered individuals similar to this, although none possessed the ability to conjure a spear and impale stone. It was the first instance since his departure from Selara's facility that the tightness in his mind eased somewhat. Xavier possessed a peculiar aptitude for such displays. His sheer presence commanded such an immense aura that other thoughts were compelled to recede, if only temporarily. Xavier firmly planted the base of his spear onto the earth, leaning into it with a broad grin that already hinted at impending mischief. "So," he proclaimed, "are you ready for that sparring match you pledged to me now?"