SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant Chapter 614: Old Names in Bright Halls

Trafalgar's fingers brushed against Selara's just before she pulled her hand away.

"Did something occur?" he inquired, his voice low enough that it wouldn't convey interest to anyone nearby.

Selara remained silent. Her gaze swept across the hall, past every detail, to the very structure of the place - the arcs, the supporting glass beams, the mana conduits woven into the columns, the intricate patterns hidden beneath the opulent facade. Whatever had confronted her at the entrance wasn't a simple clue; it felt like a memory pressing against the building itself.

"No," she finally responded, her tone lacking firm conviction. "He contributed to the design of this area years ago. Some structural habits are difficult to unlearn after years of having them drilled into you during lectures."

Trafalgar followed her gaze around the hall. "Your master was involved in this construction?"

"Partially. Aurevane would summon him for projects that were utterly impossible, unlawful, or so costly they had to be presented as neither." Selara adjusted one of her gloves and resumed her public persona. "Don't adopt that expression. We haven't uncovered anything concrete yet. This structure is ancient, and old constructions bear the marks of their creators everywhere."

"I wasn't making a face."

"You most certainly were."

"It must be the glasses again."

"It is never the glasses."

Before he could reply, a stout figure pushed through the throng of guests with the assurance of someone who had known many in the room since their youth. Short, broad-chested, and grounded like a cornerstone, his presence commanded such gravity that the crowd instinctively parted for him. His white beard was adorned with silver clasps, and his matching hair was braided into tight plaits that rested against a dark, formal coat reinforced at the shoulders. He was a dwarf, clad for a formal occasion yet uncompromised in his comfort.

His face lit up the moment he recognized Selara.

"Well, well. If it isn't our brilliant alchemist and the esteemed director of the world's foremost Academy." His voice boomed, warm yet with a hint of gravel. "Selara, how has the world been treating you?"

Her expression softened with remarkable agility into a warmth beyond her usual demeanor. "Bjorn. Still alive, still boisterous, and still feigning indifference to these social events?"

Bjorn chuckled heartily. "Someone has to maintain the pretense. If we all confessed our enjoyment of seeing old rivals falter in fancy attire, the entire profession would crumble under the weight of honesty."

"That would be a dire outcome."

"A very expensive one." His gaze shifted to Trafalgar, and the old dwarf's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Before I delve into a tale nobody asked for, who is your companion? I don't believe we've been introduced."

Trafalgar stepped forward, extending his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Bjorn. I am Tom, Selara's personal assistant for the past few years."

Bjorn grasped his hand with a pressure that would have crushed an ordinary person's fingers. Trafalgar reciprocated with just enough force to acknowledge the greeting without making a statement.

"Oh?" Bjorn turned back to Selara, genuinely taken aback. "Our prodigious genius has finally hired an assistant after all this time? Excellent. We've been advising you for years that you needed someone to prevent you from undertaking everything solo."

Selara's smile held a precise degree of warning, a reminder that she answered to no one. "I value your concern, Bjorn. Tom has proven quite capable. He possesses dexterity, a steady mind, and sufficient judgment not to disturb me when I am engrossed in my work."

Trafalgar maintained a polite expression.

'A capable assistant with good hands and a steady mind. Splendid. My role has been elevated from chef.

Bjorn nodded approvingly. "That already surpasses most assistants. A significant number either pass out from the fumes or bombard you with questions while something is cooking."

"Tom only exhibits one of those tendencies," Selara interjected.

Trafalgar quickly cut her off, preventing her from savoring the moment. "I endeavor to select my errors with care."

Bjorn erupted in laughter. "Excellent. Truly excellent. You might just manage to keep her, then."

Selara folded her arms casually. "You speak as though I frequently lose assistants."

"Selara, you once dismissed three senior researchers from a committee simply because they mispronounced an ingredient."

"They should have mastered the pronunciation before speaking in public."

"You see? This is precisely why I've missed interacting with you."

The interaction drew a few looks from other attendees nearby, though none seemed particularly suspicious. Old acquaintances catching up was standard social behavior, providing a splendid facade for more clandestine purposes. Trafalgar remained a step behind Selara, listening intently and allowing his disguise to settle.

Bjorn reduced his volume slightly – not enough to create manufactured tension. "Are you planning to present anything during this event? I would genuinely appreciate seeing one of your creations again. Your work invariably leaves others feeling either envious or incensed, and both reactions are quite amusing."

Selara's smile tightened. "You will witness it when the opportune moment arrives. I cannot disclose further details at this juncture."

"A regrettable situation. I was rather hoping for an advance warning, at the very least."

"Should my work necessitate a caution, you will undoubtedly perceive it with sufficient speed."

"That precisely is what causes me concern." Bjorn lightly tapped two fingers against his forehead in a casual gesture. "I shall not monopolize your valuable time further. There are numerous familiar faces present, and if I fail to acknowledge them now, they will levy accusations of arrogance against me, rather than attributing it to my advancing age."

"That has never been a deterrent for you in the past."

"Indeed, but advanced age offers more convenient justifications." Bjorn inclined his head toward Trafalgar. "Master Tom. Endeavor to prevent her from immolating any official structures, unless the orations become truly unbearable."

"I shall exert my utmost effort."

Bjorn emitted a soft chuckle and melted back into the throng of expensive fabrics, gleaming footwear, and professional self-importance.

Once he had departed, Selara tilted her head slightly, allowing her words to be murmured.

"Tom? Seriously?"

Trafalgar maintained his gaze upon the bustling hall. "I had to improvise. The name is straightforward and simple to recall, which makes it practical."

"It makes you sound like a stable hand from a children's theatrical production."

"Preferable to selecting an absurd moniker and then forgetting it midway. Furthermore, I had not anticipated you possessing such a degree of refined etiquette."

"I am your director, Trafalgar."

"Ah, yes. That clarifies the nature of the threats and the fabricated assignments."

"Continue in this vein, and I shall elevate both."

He nearly offered a smile – a fleeting approximation – despite the surrounding environment teeming with influential individuals feigning attendance solely for scientific and commercial pursuits. Every exchange held an underlying tension, and every burst of laughter was subtly funded by a sponsor.

Trafalgar lowered his voice. "Shifting the topic – our primary objective. If anyone within this assembly possesses knowledge regarding the veracity of your master's presence in Aurevane, who would that individual be?"

Selara paused, withholding her response. Her gaze swept across the room once more, this time actively searching for a specific face instead of recalling a memory.

"Matteo."

"Matteo?"

"Matteo was a close confidant of my master. Among the select few who could engage in a debate with him for over an hour without either resorting to employing lethal measures." Her lips thinned slightly. "If anyone present has encountered a rumor of significant weight, it would undoubtedly be him."

"And he is in attendance?"

Selara subtly indicated a position on the far side of the hall with her chin. "The eastern gallery. He's wearing a gray coat with a gold clasp, deliberately appearing not to seek attention while occupying the most conspicuous spot in the room."

"Remarkably discreet."

"Matteo possesses numerous admirable qualities. Discretion, however, was never on the list of his attributes."

They began to navigate through the crowded hall.

Selara took the lead, responding to greetings with the cultivated poise of someone who had weathered decades of academic rivalries and learned precisely where to direct each smile to inflict maximum impact later if necessary. Trafalgar followed in his guise as Tom, the temporary assistant, carrying the document case and offering brief nods when acknowledged. A few guests cast second glances, perhaps detecting a hint of familiarity beneath the spectacles and altered hairstyle, though none paused long enough to pose a significant threat.

The hall expanded as they traversed it. Elevated platforms showcased displays amidst clusters of attendees. Alchemical apparatuses rotated within containment fields. Mana-infused instruments emitted a low hum from velvet-draped stands. Three engineers were engaged in a spirited debate beside a conduit model adjacent to a crystalline diagram of considerable size, potentially capable of bankrupting a small municipality. Everything radiated gleam, hummed with energy, refracted light, and exuded opulence with impeccable presentation.

Selara largely disregarded the surroundings, a behavior that revealed more to Trafalgar than any explicit explanation could have. She paused only once, standing before a cylindrical glass column through which a faint stream of mana pulsed within a coiled housing. Her fingers twitched imperceptibly at her side, but she moved onward before the emotion could manifest visibly on her face.

'So, not definitive proof,' Trafalgar mused internally. 'Merely recollections, and troublesome ones at that.'

They arrived at the eastern gallery, and there he was.

Standing by a lavish spread of refreshments, Matteo was clad in a somber gray coat, its clasp a gleaming gold in the shape of a bifurcated feather. His tall, lean face bore the distinguished lines of a wealthy scholar, weathered by age yet meticulously preserved—a testament to a life of careful cultivation, expensive endeavors, and the stubborn belief that elegant posture could conquer the ravages of time. Silver hair was swept back from a high brow, and his hands rested upon a cane, an accessory he likely had no practical need for.

The instant his gaze fell upon Selara making her way across the room towards him, his expression shifted, settling into a rigid mask. It was recognition, undeniably, but beneath that surface lay the profound quietude of a man who precisely understood the reason for her approach.