SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant - Chapter 254

Chapter 254: Chapter 254: Family Reunion
The Gate shimmered once before sealing behind him, leaving only the faint crackle of mana in the frozen air. Trafalgar stepped out into Euclid’s main street, boots crunching over a thin sheet of snow. The contrast hit him immediately — after the dry heat of Velkaris, the cold here felt like a slap. His breath came out as a pale mist.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, tugging at his coat collar. “It’s fucking freezing.”

The streets ahead were almost empty, lined with snow-dusted stone buildings and mana lamps burning a dim blue light. Even the usual hum of merchants and chatter was gone. Windows were shuttered, doors closed, and not a single soul lingered in sight.

‘Right,’ he thought. ‘Of course it’s quiet. Every Morgain within three generations is in town. The smart ones are hiding indoors.’

He started down the central street, hands buried in his pockets. Snowflakes drifted lazily around him, melting as they brushed the faint aura that clung to his skin. The silence was unsettling — no carriages, no laughter, no markets. Only the sound of his boots on frozen stone.

‘Last time I walked here… there were hundreds of people,’ he remembered. ‘Mordrek’s funeral. Candles, banners, and tears all over the damn city. Now? Just ghosts and the smell of fear because of the visitors…’

The faint wind carried the scent of frost and iron. He glanced up, catching sight of the mansion that now towered at the end of the road — Mordrek house.

A fortress more than a home.

Trafalgar stopped for a moment, exhaling slowly. “Home sweet home,” he said under his breath, the sarcasm slipping through like frostbite.

Two armored guards at the main gate recognized him instantly. They straightened at once and bowed low.

“Lord Trafalgar. The Patriarch and the family have already gathered inside.”

“Of course they have,” he muttered, brushing past them.

The air grew heavier the closer he got to the doors — mana pressure thick enough to taste. His father’s aura was unmistakable, sharp and cold like the snow itself. Dozens of other presences buzzed around it — his siblings, their mothers, all orbiting the same black sun.

‘Great,’ Trafalgar thought grimly. ‘A full family reunion. What could possibly go wrong?’

The mansion doors loomed ahead.

The guards pushed them open, and the warmth of crimson torchlight spilled out.

Trafalgar stepped forward, his breath still visible in the air.

‘Maeron’s probably waiting to bite my head off. Seraphine too. Wonderful.’

He adjusted his gloves, rolling his shoulders as a smirk tugged faintly at his lips.

“Alright,” he muttered, voice low. “Let’s get this shit over with.”

And with that, Trafalgar du Morgain crossed the threshold into the mansion of his dead uncle — a place that now belonged to him, whether the rest of the family liked it or not.

The grand hall of the Morgain estate was already alive with tension. The air felt dense — not just from the cold that clung to the stone walls, but from the mana leaking off the people gathered around the long obsidian table. Torches burned crimson along the edges of the chamber, their flames flickering like veins of blood in the dark.

Trafalgar’s boots echoed against the marble floor as he entered. Conversation faltered. Every head turned his way.

At the far end of the hall sat Valttair du Morgain, Patriarch of the family — silver-haired, broad-shouldered, his sharp gaze as cutting as ever. Power radiated off him in steady waves, each one heavier than the last. His mere presence made the room feel smaller.

On his right, Lady Seraphine, regal and cold, draped in imperial silk, her red eyes narrowed the moment she saw Trafalgar. On his left, Lady Verena, smiling faintly — loud and brutal in the battlefield, but oddly composed now. The other wives were further down the table, whispering among themselves.

The children filled the sides. Maeron, towering and scarred, leaned casually on the table with a smirk. Rivena lounged beside him, tapping her nails against the glass, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. Lysandra, ever graceful, sat near the center, posture perfect and expression calm. The rest — Sylvar, Nym, Darion, and Elira — filled the gaps, each with varying degrees of curiosity or disdain.

Trafalgar stopped halfway across the room, keeping his hands in his pockets.

“Ah,” Seraphine drawled, her voice smooth and venomous. “The prodigal son finally arrives. How considerate of you to bless us with your presence, Lord Trafalgar.”

He didn’t even blink. “If the Patriarch calls, I come. I’d hate to make him wait. Unlike some people, I still remember manners.”

The subtle insult hung in the air like frost. Rivena stifled a laugh, earning a glare from Seraphine.

Valttair didn’t speak at first — just watched, eyes half-lidded, measuring the tension like a predator gauging its prey. Then he raised one gloved hand. The entire room fell silent.

“Enough,” he said. His tone was calm, but the weight of authority in that single word made even Maeron straighten in his chair.

Valttair’s gaze lingered on Trafalgar for a moment longer before he gestured toward an empty seat. “Sit.”

Trafalgar walked forward, unhurried, and took the place opposite Lysandra — the only sibling who offered him even the faintest nod of acknowledgment.

The Patriarch leaned back in his chair, eyes sweeping across the room. “All of you are here. Good. Then we’ll begin.”

No one dared interrupt. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Valttair’s voice carried, smooth and unrelenting. “I called this gathering for a reason. You’ve all heard the rumors by now — war brews between two of the Eight. It’s no longer a matter of whispers.”

A murmur rippled through the hall, quickly silenced by a flick of his gaze.

“This is not a council of gossip,” Valttair continued. “It’s a council of preparation.”

Valttair’s tone was calm but carried the weight of a verdict. “As of this morning, reports from our agents in Thal’Zar territory have been confirmed. The Sylvanel sanctum was destroyed, and the World Tree — the symbol of their lineage — has been scarred.”

A quiet murmur rippled through the table. Even among the Morgains, who thrived on conflict, the magnitude of that statement hung heavy. To harm the World Tree was to wound the foundation of the elven race itself.

Seraphine folded her hands elegantly, her expression betraying faint amusement. “How tragic. I suppose even the divine can bleed.”

Verena’s brow furrowed. “The Sylvanel won’t let it go unanswered. That means war.”

Valttair inclined his head slightly. “War, yes… but not yet.” His sharp eyes scanned the table. “Before that happens, the Council will convene. The Elders have already begun preparations to mediate. Every family will go.”

Lysandra, ever composed, raised her gaze to meet her father’s. “And what outcome do you expect, Father?”

A faint smile touched Valttair’s lips — cold, knowing. “Peace is what they’ll attempt. But peace has always been a fragile illusion. The truth? It’s already broken. Whether they admit it or not, the Eight are finished pretending harmony exists.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Trafalgar leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, studying his father carefully.

‘So he’s already written off the idea of diplomacy… figures. If there’s a profit to make from bloodshed, he’ll find it.’

Maeron spoke next, voice sharp as the steel he wielded. “Then we should prepare to act first. If the Thal’Zar and Sylvanel destroy each other, Morgain can seize their holdings before anyone else.”

Seraphine’s smile widened in approval. “Exactly. Let the beasts and elves tear each other apart. When the dust settles, we’ll collect what’s left.”

Valttair didn’t correct them. He only steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Perhaps. But we’ll wait for the Council first. Appearances must be maintained, even if peace no longer has meaning.”

Rivena’s voice slid into the mix, soft and venomous. “You speak like a man eager for chaos, Father.”

Valttair’s gaze turned to her, unflinching. “Chaos,” he said simply, “is opportunity.”

Then his eyes shifted — locking on Trafalgar. “And some of us are proof that chaos creates strength.”

The room’s attention turned to him. Trafalgar met his father’s stare evenly, his tone cool. “If that’s supposed to be a compliment, I’ll take it. But I prefer strength that doesn’t involve a continent burning.”

A flicker of disapproval crossed Seraphine’s face. “Naïve words. You can’t have power without fire, boy.”

Trafalgar didn’t bother to look at her. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about arrogance.”

The insult hung sharp in the air before Valttair’s hand rose — silence falling instantly.

“The Council will decide whether the Eight remain balanced or burn,” he said finally. “But I suspect the latter. The age of still waters is over. The cracks have already formed… and once they spread, even the Elders won’t be able to hold them together.”

The silence after Valttair’s final words stretched long enough to feel suffocating. No one dared to speak, not even Maeron. The crimson torchlight flickered across each face — pride, ambition, and veiled fear all painted in red.

Trafalgar finally exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. “So,” he said flatly, “is that all, then?”

Dozens of eyes turned toward him again, some curious, others irritated.

Valttair’s gaze lifted slowly from his clasped hands. “For now,” he said.

“Good,” Trafalgar replied, pushing his chair back with a low scrape of wood against marble. “Then I’ll take my leave.”

Seraphine’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “Leaving so soon? How ungrateful.”

He didn’t even look at her. “I’m sure my absence will make the air easier to breathe.”

A faint chuckle from Verena broke the tension — low, amused — but no one else dared comment. Valttair merely gestured with a flick of his hand, dismissing him.

Trafalgar inclined his head stiffly. “Father.”

“Go,” Valttair said. “You’ll be summoned again when the time comes.”

Without another word, Trafalgar turned and strode toward the exit. The doors of the great hall loomed tall and cold, their steel handles glinting in the firelight. He pushed them open and stepped into the corridor, the air outside sharp with the scent of frost.

The echo of his boots followed him down the empty hallway. Behind him, faint footsteps approached — lighter, quicker.

He didn’t need to turn to know who it was, thanks to Sword Insight he already knew who those footsteps belonged to after seeing them repeatedly without rest for months.

“Lysandra,” he murmured, stopping near one of the tall arched windows. Snow drifted lazily outside, soft against the dim evening sky.

She stopped beside him, her presence calm and deliberate as always. “You left faster than usual,” she said quietly. “Can’t blame you, I suppose. The air in there could choke anyone.”

Trafalgar gave a faint, humorless smile. “That’s one way to put it.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The muffled hum of the estate — guards moving, mana lamps flickering — filled the silence.

Lysandra finally broke it, her voice softer. “How have you been, Trafalgar? Since Euclid… since everything?”