SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 606: The Glass Atrium

In the cloak of night, Aurevane exuded a grandeur that dwarfed its daytime persona, a realization that struck Trafalgar the moment he and Cynthia set foot on its streets. This city, unlike the sprawling expanse of Velkaris or the bustling clamor of Mariven Port, was smaller, more compact, and possessed an air of stringent control. It seemed as though every thoroughfare had undergone meticulous examination, judgment, and taxation before being granted existence.

Alchemical lamps, encased in glass, cast a verdant-golden luminescence upon the avenues. Shopkeepers secured their establishments with shimmering barriers woven from mana, while guards, positioned beneath grand archways, scrutinized invitations. Merchants, clad in opulent attire, meticulously locked away crystal cases brimming with vials, monstrous bones, polished cores, and an assortment of tools that, by their very appearance, evoked Trafalgar's distrust.

Aurevane was undeniably beautiful.

Yet, Trafalgar's experience had taught him that such refined aesthetics often served as a veneer, masking considerable danger with a façade of civilization.

Cynthia walked alongside him, her initial hesitancy replaced by an open curiosity as she absorbed the city's ambiance. Her gaze flickered from one luminous sign to another, pausing frequently when an intriguing display in a shop window captured her attention.

"It feels different from Velkaris," she remarked, her grip tightening on the strap of her satchel. "Smaller, yet somehow more formidable to breach."

"That's likely the intention," Trafalgar responded. "Aurevane doesn't strike me as a city that welcomes unsolicited visitors."

"No," Cynthia agreed, a hint of observation in her tone. "They don't seem particularly fond of them, do they?"

They proceeded past a cluster of stalls that had yet to close. One showcased recovery vials nestled in plush velvet boxes, while another presented alchemical arrowheads beneath hovering labels, each tip encased in its own crystalline tube. A third vendor displayed metallic capsules, meticulously arranged by color, accompanied by multilingual warnings.

Reassuring, indeed.

Nothing screamed 'secure metropolis' quite like potent ammunition displayed alongside invigorating breakfast tonics.

Cynthia's steps faltered near the stall offering the arrowheads.

Trafalgar took note.

"Intrigued?"

"A bit." She leaned in, careful not to touch the display case. "These aren't mere coatings. This one, for instance, is said to stabilize venom without compromising the arrow's trajectory. And that one utilizes pulverized monster bone to channel mana upon impact."

"You sound just like Barth when someone brings up ancient records."

Cynthia shot him a sidelong glance. "That's rather harsh."

"It was accurate, and you know it."

"He would adore this place," she conceded, her gaze returning to the arrowhead display. "Not for the weaponry, mind you. But for the historical markers, the lore, the disused alchemical laboratories. He'd probably stop every ten paces to read."

"Then perhaps it's fortunate he didn't accompany us," Trafalgar mused. "We'd still be two streets behind."

Cynthia emitted a soft laugh, a sound that, surprisingly, seemed to harmonize with the city's nocturnal charm.

The vendor, a woman sporting silver-rimmed spectacles and gloves adorned with intricate runes, began to raise a hand in their direction. Sensing the imminent sales pitch, Trafalgar gently guided Cynthia onward, his hand a light pressure on her elbow.

"We should continue."

Cynthia allowed herself to be steered away, an amused smile playing on her lips. "Were you concerned she'd try to sell us something?"

"I was concerned she'd feel compelled to explain everything before attempting to sell us something."

"That might have proven useful," she countered lightly. They advanced into a wider boulevard, where the architecture ascended into taller structures and the alchemical lamps transformed into more ornate designs. Aurevane's opulence was not indiscriminately applied; beauty was reserved for areas frequented by those with substantial means, a candid, if somewhat unappealing, reflection of its priorities.

Ahead, a substantial edifice loomed, shielded by a fence of wrought iron and glass.

It was not a palace, yet its imposing presence commanded a similar degree of caution. The building featured a broad, transparent facade supported by slender, pale metal arches, revealing meticulously stacked laboratories visible through its layered, clear walls. Within, lights flickered like captive fireflies, and several guards stood sentinel near the entrance, beneath a suspended crystalline sign.

Cynthia was the first to decipher the inscription.

"The Glass Atrium."

Trafalgar paused, allowing the structure to register.

The building presented a polished image, akin to a public research institution, all glass expanses and confident affluence. Reputable alchemists likely entered through the main doors, while affluent patrons probably mingled in the upper levels, purportedly observing without inquiring into illicit matters in more discreet chambers.

However, its security apparatus was far more extensive than any truly benign establishment would warrant.

Guards at the front. Wards integrated into the glass. A secondary, partially concealed entrance along the side. An absence of windows on the rear lower wall.

Subtle.

As subtle as a hidden dagger beneath a banquet table.

'The Glass Atrium. I should commit that name to memory.'

Cynthia studied it intently, her admiration evident. "Is it a laboratory?"

"More likely a private research facility."

"It certainly appears significant."

"It looks costly," Trafalgar stated. "Significance tends to follow wealth."

As they passed, a couple exited through the main entrance, both clad in formal coats and carrying locked document cases. A guard meticulously inspected the mark on each case before granting them passage through the gate, highlighting the strict protocols even for departure.

Aurevane truly was a delightful place.

It was a city constructed by individuals who firmly believed that paranoia should be a fundamental element of its architecture.

Cynthia turned away from the imposing building and continued walking beside him. "Do you believe we'll be entering the building during the Conclave?"

"Perhaps. Selara likely knows a significant number of the dangerous individuals residing in this city."

"That does not directly answer my question."

"It provides sufficient information."

Cynthia accepted his response with a subtle shake of her head.

The street gracefully curved, leading them toward a more tranquil area where a few food stalls remained operational, catering to late arrivals. Warm vapor emanated from copper pots, and the inviting aromas of roasted meat, spiced vegetables, and sweet bread temporarily masked the city's sharp, chemical undertones, lending it an almost welcoming atmosphere.

Cynthia paused before a pastry stall, her gaze drawn to the trays artfully arranged under a glass cover. Each pastry exuded a faint but alluring scent of butter, honey, and an unfamiliar floral note that Trafalgar couldn't identify. She didn't immediately reach for her coin pouch, but her deliberate deceleration made her desire evident.

Trafalgar observed her internal struggle, a conflict she was clearly losing.

"Would you care for one?" he inquired, his gaze flicking towards the tray she had been subtly scrutinizing.

Cynthia crossed her arms, a gesture lacking any real conviction. "I am contemplating. There's a distinction between desiring something and deciding if it's financially prudent."

"You ceased walking directly in front of it," Trafalgar pointed out. "That typically signifies the decision has already been made."

"That's a rather dramatic interpretation of purchasing a pastry," she retorted, though her eyes betraying her words drifted back towards the tray. "Besides, I was merely curious. They appear quite different from those found in Velkaris."

The vendor, adept at discerning hesitant customers, had already begun to wrap a pastry in delicate paper. Trafalgar swiftly paid before Cynthia could retrieve her coins, earning him an immediate, reproachful glance and the formation of a clear complaint on her face.

"I could have purchased it myself," she stated, accepting the pastry from the vendor with a palpable mix of reluctance and delight, a difficult balance she somehow managed.

"I am aware," Trafalgar replied, guiding them a step away from the stall before the vendor could launch into an exhaustive description of the ingredients.

Cynthia followed him, cradling the wrapped pastry with both hands. "You say that, yet you still paid before I had any opportunity to act."

"Yes."

"That was not an invitation to concur with me."

"It was the simple truth."

She exhaled softly, the sound devoid of any genuine anger. The warmth of the paper in her hands had considerably diminished her capacity for a proper argument. "You truly do make it challenging to complain sometimes."

Cynthia lowered her head slightly, concealing a faint smile behind the edge of the wrapped pastry. She broke it in half, offering a portion to him discreetly, as if sharing it had been her intention from the outset.

He accepted it, primarily to avoid another lengthy discussion, as he had no desire to be bested by a dessert in the heart of Aurevane.

They resumed their stroll, savoring the treat.

For a time, their conversation flowed effortlessly. Cynthia offered observations about the city, the peculiar individuals they encountered, and a man accompanied by a miniature bronze lizard perched on his shoulder, as if it were a living, mechanical ornament. Trafalgar provided just enough engagement to encourage her continued chatter, allowing her to find enjoyment in the moment. After the ordeal on the train, the subsequent events, the explosion, and the disorienting awakening that revealed the entire journey had devolved into a catastrophe, she undoubtedly deserved at least one peaceful walk.

Aurevane gradually began to recede around them.

More stalls systematically closed their glass covers, and guards started directing latecomers away from restricted thoroughfares. Shopkeepers extinguished their illuminated signs behind shimmering mana barriers, and numerous side streets sealed themselves off with faint green lines that snaked across the pavement like docile serpentine creatures.

The Conclave had yet to commence, yet the city already operated as if every discernible shadow required explicit authorization to exist.

Cynthia finished the final bite of the pastry, brushing the residual crumbs from her fingers with a deliberate slowness. "I needed this," she murmured, her voice softer as the street narrowed around them.

"The pastry?" Trafalgar inquired.

"The walk." She adjusted the strap of her bag and continued walking beside him. "Following the events on the train, I didn't want to go directly to my room and sleep. I suspect I would have continued to hear the storm."

Trafalgar chose not to pursue the topic further.

He recalled her head resting on his shoulder, the tale concerning her mother, and the manner in which the gas had nearly consumed him before the explosion shattered everything. Cynthia had inflicted enough of that particular hurt upon him for the time being.

"A walk was indeed a beneficial choice, then," he remarked.

Cynthia offered a nod, her shoulders shedding a fraction of their burden. "Yes. It was."

They made their way back to their lodgings just as the streets began to seal off for the night.

The attendants at the main entrance verified their academy credentials before granting them passage. The fourth floor exuded tranquility upon their arrival. The majority of students had already retreated to their chambers, weary from their journey and the recent assault. Even the edifice itself seemed to adopt a calmer demeanor now, its mana lamps casting a gentler luminescence, and the corridor resonating with only the faintest vibration of the ward formations concealed beneath the floorboards.

Cynthia paused at her door.

"Good night, Trafalgar," she bid, her hand hovering near the handle. The verdant-gold radiance from the corridor's lamp softened the residual fatigue etched upon her visage, yet a newfound serenity now permeated her presence, a stark contrast to when they had departed.

"Good night, Cynthia."

She hesitated, as if a subsequent remark had surfaced only to be suppressed. Ultimately, she bestowed upon him a subtle nod, stepped into her room, and softly closed the door.

Trafalgar remained in the corridor.

The silence enveloped him once more, but this time, it carried a different quality than the quietude of their earlier stroll. This silence harbored an undercurrent of tasks yet to be accomplished.

He waited patiently until not a single footstep echoed on the fourth floor. Once the hallway was deserted, he lowered his hand and summoned the object from his inventory.

[Shadowlink Echo]

The artifact materialized in his palm with a chilling pulse, its intrinsic darkness swirling beneath the surface, akin to smoke ensnared within glass.

Cynthia had concluded her business with Aurevane for the night.

Trafalgar, however, had not.

He gazed down at the echo cradled in his hand, allowing the city's nocturnal embrace to transform once more into the backdrop for his endeavors.