SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant - Chapter 261

Chapter 261: Chapter 261: Price of Desecration
The Elders exchanged looks—brief flickers of silent consensus—before their leader stepped forward again. Her hands folded neatly over her ceremonial sleeves, her expression carved from calm neutrality.

“The destruction of the Sylvanel sanctuary cannot be undone,” she said. Her voice was soft, but the weight behind it pressed into the room like an iron seal. “The roots of the World Tree touched that site. Its resonance is broken. No restoration is possible.”

Valttair watched Elenara’s knuckles pale around her staff. ‘Ancestral wounds do not heal. And she will not forgive.’

The Elder continued.

“Given the severity of the offense, the Council of Elders proposes three resolutions.”

Silence rippled outward. Even Icarus lifted his gaze.

The Elder raised one finger.

“First: full compensation.

Resources, artifacts, items, sacred offerings—whatever House Sylvanel deems appropriate for reparations.”

Roderic smirked as if he anticipated negotiation profits.

A second finger rose.

“Second: House Thal’Zar must send an heir to live under Sylvanel custody until trust is reestablished.”

This time the entire table stiffened.

A hostage. A symbol. A guarantee.

Valttair’s thoughts clicked into alignment. ‘Elenara doesn’t just want justice—she wants leverage. Permanent insurance.’

Finally, the Elder lifted a third finger.

“Third: open war.”

A thrum of mana pulsed through the air as if the very chamber rejected the idea.

But she pressed on anyway.

“If House Thal’Zar refuses both peaceful resolutions, House Sylvanel will hold the right to declare hostility.”

Grumhald muttered a curse under his breath. Lysaria’s smile sharpened. Malakar’s eyes gleamed with sudden, predatory interest.

Valttair remained motionless. His expression unreadable.

But inside? ‘Three choices… and only one destroys a rival without Morgain lifting a finger.’

The Elder folded her arms again.

“All eight families must now speak in turn before deliberation proceeds. Each voice will be heard.”

Valttair exhaled quietly through his nose. ‘Let them speak. Let Kaedor drown in his own pride. And let Sylvanel sharpen their knives.’

He could already see the outcome forming.

A kingdom falling.

An opportunity rising.

The Elders’ words still hung in the chamber when Elenara rose again, the vines at her feet curling and uncurling like restless nerves beneath the surface.

Her tone remained controlled, but the bitterness beneath it was unmistakable as she spoke of the sanctuary, the centuries of spiritual resonance woven into its roots, and the irreversibility of the damage done.

Valttair watched her carefully, noting the restraint—she wanted far more than justice; she wanted a lesson carved into history. And that alone made her dangerous.

Across the table, Kaedor sat rigid, the tension in his shoulders betraying what his voice tried desperately to hide. He spoke of wandering beasts, of distorted mana, and of energy signatures that could easily be mistaken for intentional sabotage.

Icarus, at his side, added the claim of “primordial residue” with calm ease, as if fabricating such a lie required no more effort than drawing breath. The delivery was flawless, but the theory itself? Flimsy. Transparent. Beneath Valttair’s cold gaze the lie sagged like wet parchment.

‘Primordial residue… a foolish choice,’ he thought, leaning back slightly. ‘Too rare to invoke without proof, and too alarming to ignore. A transparent attempt to muddy the waters.’

But the silence in the room told him the others saw through it as well. Even Roderic, who loved a spectacle, had lost his amusement.

Malakar’s crimson eyes sharpened with interest, but not belief. Lysaria watched Icarus the way a predator watches something equally predatory—curious, wary, and unwilling to blink first.

Grumhald finally broke the quiet with a grunt that echoed like a hammer against an anvil. “So what? A phantom primordial spirit wandered by, tore apart a holy site, and fled into thin air?” He leaned forward, beard brushing the obsidian table. “Give me a damn break. If you want lies, at least make them clever.”

Valttair allowed himself the faintest exhale through his nose, the closest thing to a scoff he’d ever show in public. He didn’t need to speak yet; Grumhald had already laid the foundation for the dismantling of Kaedor’s narrative. And Valttair preferred to analyze a battlefield before stepping onto it. This one was no different.

‘Kaedor is cornered,’ he noted as the Thal’Zar patriarch’s jaw tightened. ‘And desperation makes men sloppy. Good. Let him break himself with his own tongue.’

Elenara’s gaze sharpened like the edge of an enchanted blade. Her voice, when it returned, was far colder than before, threaded with rising fury. “There were no void rifts. No primordial signatures. No beasts of any kind. Do not insult this Council with fabrications.”

A faint tremor of strained mana pulsed through the roots at her feet.

Valttair didn’t flinch.

But inside, he finally allowed the thought to settle:

‘Kaedor is out of moves. And war is already choosing its first casualty.’

Kaedor’s fingers curled against the obsidian table, knuckles whitening as the full force of Elenara’s accusation slammed into him. The chamber remained suffocatingly quiet—no shifting chairs, no murmured objections, no sympathetic glances.

Just eight houses watching the Patriarch of Thal’Zar slowly sink under the weight of his own lies.

Roderic broke the silence first, straightening in his seat with a soft exhale. “Kaedor… you realize what you’re asking us to believe.” His tone was almost gentle, almost sympathetic—but the glint in his red eyes carried the same edge as a man watching a building collapse from a safe distance. “You claim you followed a corrupted trail. Yet the only corruption found was your hunters’ blade marks.”

Kaedor grit his teeth. “It wasn’t us.”

Nyssara’s voice drifted into the air like the tide pulling sand from shore. “Your explanation lacks coherence. Mana signatures do not simply vanish. Nor do void-attuned anomalies leave no residue.” She tilted her head. “Your narrative requires us to ignore physical evidence, sensory evidence, and historical precedent. We are not fools, Kaedor.”

Lysaria traced a finger along the table, smiling faintly. “If you wished to deceive us, you should have prepared something better. This is almost embarrassing.” Her fangs flashed in the dim light. “Desecrating an ancestral site… even I wouldn’t be so clumsy.”

Malakar leaned back, arms crossing. His horns cast jagged shadows across the table. “Tell me, Kaedor… if this destruction wasn’t your doing, why summon him?” His crimson eyes flicked to Icarus. “A man whose presence alone implies escalation.”

Icarus did not react. His lilac gaze remained steady, unreadable, like a blade hidden beneath silk.

‘Silent now… convenient,’ Valttair thought, eyes narrowing. ‘The perfect shield—speak only to justify, never to defend.’

Grumhald slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the metal coins in their slots. “Time’s up. Either you tell the truth, or we take your silence as confession. And by the rules of this Council, guilt falls on your house.”

Kaedor straightened, breath sharp. “I told you what I know.”

Elenara’s vines surged, curling around the legs of her chair like hungry roots. “Then your ignorance is either deliberate… or criminal. Choose which.”

Kaedor’s jaw clenched hard enough to tremble. But he said nothing.

Valttair watched him carefully. Not his words—his eyes. His throat. The tiny betrayals of a man too proud to bow and too trapped to run. ‘He’s already decided,’ Valttair realized. ‘Not how to defend himself… but how to fall.’

The Elders stepped forward, sensing the tipping point.

“The Council has heard the testimonies,” the Elder leader announced. “Before presenting the vote, each house may deliver a final statement.”

Roderic glanced at Kaedor with open disdain. “My statement is simple: compensations exist for a reason. Use them. Before you make this worse.”

Nyssara folded her hands, serene. “I stand with truth. Nothing in your account reflects it.”

Lysaria gave a soft laugh. “I’m eager to see how this ends. But do try not to bore us.”

Grumhald glared. “Pay your damn debt. Or get ready to bury your family name.”

Malakar offered only a cold smirk. “Your move, Kaedor.”

Elenara did not even look at him when she spoke. “My sanctuary will not be swept aside as collateral. Either restoration of honor… or blood.”

Then all eyes turned to Valttair.

He leaned back, expression unreadable, fingers interlacing over his lap.

“My house stands for order,” he said smoothly. “And for consequences. You may choose compensation… or the custody of an heir… or war.” His gaze sharpened, cutting into Kaedor’s. “But choose quickly. Your indecision insults all of us.”

Kaedor inhaled sharply.

The moment stretched.

Then his amber eyes slid toward Icarus—seeking reassurance, strength, maybe even permission. Icarus gave none. Just stillness.

Kaedor straightened.

“I will not pay.”

He lifted his chin.

“I will not hand over an heir.”

His voice hardened into something feral.

“And I will not kneel.”

A ripple tore through the room.

Valttair felt his heartbeat shift once—slow, deliberate—before a cold smile ghosted at the corner of his mouth. ‘Idiot. You’ve chosen death wearing your own pride as a crown.’

Elenara rose in a single fluid motion, the air trembling as her roots spread across the floor.

“Then Thal’Zar,” she said, voice shaking with centuries of fury, “has chosen war.”

And for the first time in hundreds of years, the Council of the Eight fractured.