SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant - Chapter 262

Chapter 262: Chapter 262: The Breaking Line
The declaration of war still hung in the air like a lingering curse when the Elders reacted.

Three of them stood so quickly their chairs scraped harshly against the obsidian floor. Another slammed a palm onto the table, robes trembling with barely contained outrage. Even the eldest among them—those who had lived through the last great succession crises—looked shaken.

Valttair simply watched.

‘Hundreds of years without a fracture… and Kaedor is the fool who finally snaps the spine of this Council. And for what? Pride? A lie Icarus fed him? You really are dumber than I ever thought.’

The Elder Matriarch, the same elf who had opened the session, turned toward Kaedor with an expression caught between disappointment and disbelief.

“You reject all peaceful resolutions?” she asked slowly, as if giving him one last chance to think.

Kaedor didn’t even blink. “I do.”

Another Elder hissed under his breath. “Madness. Absolute madness.”

Valttair exhaled through his nose—quiet, steady, almost bored.

‘He thinks stubbornness will make him look strong. But it only paints a target on his back. Elenara won’t let this go. She’s been waiting for an excuse ever since the sanctum fell.’

Roderic leaned back, swirling the wine he’d brought into the chamber. “Well,” he muttered, “there goes our peaceful century.”

Nyssara pressed a hand to her temple, her usually calm voice laced with genuine concern. “This will spill into the merchant isles… into the river routes… and many Gates between major cities will be forced to close. What of the civilians in neutral territories? Independent towns? Trade hubs? They will be the first to suffer.”

Kaedor scoffed loudly, folding his arms with open disdain. “And what do their insignificant lives matter to me? Ants die under the feet of giants every day. That is the way of the world.”

A wave of disgust passed through the chamber.

Even Roderic lowered his glass.

Malakar frowned. Lysaria’s smile vanished. Grumhald muttered a curse so vicious it shook his beard.

Elenara’s roots slammed against the floor with a sharp crack, vines writhing like enraged serpents.

But it was the Elders who reacted with the most force.

The elven Elder leader struck her staff against the ground, the sound vibrating through the obsidian chamber like a thunderclap.

“Kaedor du Thal’Zar,” she said, voice trembling with controlled fury, “hear this clearly. If your actions endanger a neutral city, a capital, a trade hub—or even a single innocent civilian—your House will be condemned by the remaining Houses.”

Another Elder stepped forward, face pale with controlled rage.

“Should you strike the innocent, House Thal’Zar will cease to exist. Not even Icarus di Valtaron will be able to shield you.”

For the first time, Kaedor’s but cheeks tightened.

Icarus remained still but even he flicked his gaze toward Kaedor, a faint shadow crossing his features at the weight of the warning.

Valttair watched the exchange keenly.

‘There it is. The Elder Council drawing a line thick enough to choke on. They don’t care about the pride of Thal’Zar—only the stability of the world.’

Elenara leaned forward, her voice cutting the air like a blade. “Destroy my sanctum if you must, Kaedor. But know this—if your war touches a single innocent soul, the remaining Six Houses will strike your name from history.”

The words rang noble, righteous, protective.

But Valttair saw through the performance instantly.

‘None of us give a damn about the weak,’ he thought, watching the other patriarchs.

‘Not Malakar, not Roderic, not Lysaria, not even Nyssara. We all just want our Houses untouched. Our power untouched.’

Around the table, the faces of the other Heads remained composed, their expressions severe and principled… yet their eyes betrayed something else:

Calculation.

Opportunity.

And above all—political convenience.

Elenara’s stance wasn’t about civilians.

It was about optics.

And it was working beautifully.

Nyssara gave her a respectful nod.

Roderic leaned back with interest.

Even the Elders seemed moved by her “principled” fury.

Kaedor, meanwhile, had nowhere left to step.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Valttair tapped the armrest once, a faint clicking echoing in the chamber.

‘She’s playing the room well,’ he noted. ‘Positioning herself as the righteous victim. Clever. The Elders will favor her now—neutrality be damned. And Kaedor? Cornered like an animal.’

Kaedor’s jaw clenched, shoulders stiffening as the weight of the chamber pressed down on him.

Valttair’s lips twitched into the faintest, coldest shadow of a smile.

‘Good. The more desperate he becomes, the sooner Thal’Zar collapses under its own incompetence.’

The Elders exchanged glances, and the spokeswoman—the same ancient elf who opened the Gathering—stepped forward. Her presence carried the weight of centuries, her voice steady but sharp as carved stone.

“Very well,” she declared. “If House Thal’Zar chooses war, then the Council must impose conditions to prevent catastrophe.”

The chamber fell into absolute silence.

She lifted one hand, fingers poised with ritual precision.

“First: no civilians are to be harmed. Not elves, not beastkin, not humans, not dwarves, not any single race. Should House Thal’Zar endanger non-combatants, the remaining Six Houses will intervene immediately.”

A wave of agreement passed through the heads of Houses.

The Elder raised a second finger.

“Second: no neutral cities may be targeted. Merchant capitals, trade hubs, and all settlements independent of Sylvanel and Thal’Zar are off-limits. Violate this, and all Six Houses shall strike.”

Kaedor’s gaze flickered with restrained rage, but he held still.

“Third,” she continued, “no other Great House may support either side. No secret pacts. No hired armies. No hidden alliances. This conflict is between Sylvanel and Thal’Zar alone.”

Even Lysaria’s playful smile faded.

Roderic straightened.

Malakar’s eyes glinted.

The Elder lifted a fourth finger.

“Fourth: all Gates connecting both territories will close until hostilities end. Only this Council may reopen them.”

This provoked a murmur—closing Gates meant isolation, logistical strangulation… but also safety.

Finally, she raised her last finger.

“And fifth: should House Thal’Zar endanger the world beyond these conditions—should they attack capitals, merchant cities, or innocents—the Council grants House Sylvanel the right to call for extermination. If invoked, the Six remaining families must comply.”

Silence crushed the room.

Execution of a Great Family.

A punishment untouched for centuries.

Kaedor’s fists trembled.

He turned—not to Elenara—

but to Icarus.

Every head followed.

Icarus inclined his head once.

Kaedor exhaled. “…I accept.”

Valttair’s eyes narrowed—no shock, only analysis.

‘Icarus didn’t persuade him. He pushed him. Kaedor is acting like a man with a knife pressed to his spine. And no SSS-rank monster works as anyone’s hired help.’

The Elder raised both hands, drawing a circle of shimmering mana.

“Then let it be recorded. War between House Sylvanel and House Thal’Zar is hereby sanctioned. All conditions are binding. All Houses are witness.”

The seal detonated in a pulse of ancient energy.

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

– Trafalgar POV –

The obsidian doors shut behind the Eight with a heavy thud—one that echoed through the marble corridors like the heartbeat of a dying star. Guards immediately crossed their spears, sealing the chamber.

Trafalgar exhaled.

“Great,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Perfect excuse to not sit around with my beloved family.”

He walked away before any of them could call his name. Not that they would.

Besides Lysandra, none of them liked having him around—and the feeling was mutual.

The floating island stretched before him like a dream carved from gold, marble, and open sky. Bridges hung suspended over clouds. Mana lamps flickered with soft blue fire. Gardens bloomed with impossible flowers fed by pure mana.

It was beautiful.

And peaceful.

A sharp contrast to the political slaughter happening behind sealed doors.

Trafalgar strolled along one of the bridges, cold wind brushing against his black hair.

Below him?

Nothing.

Just endless mist and the faint roar of distant storms drifting beneath the floating mass.

‘Great. The world might be ending and I’m here sightseeing,’ he thought dryly.

A few heirs and members of the other Houses clustered along the balconies, whispering nervously. Servants hurried between rooms with anxious steps. The entire island felt like a giant held its breath.

Trafalgar didn’t care. Anything was better than being boxed in with the Morgains.

Footsteps approached.

He turned.

A young woman stood a few meters away, leaning casually against a moonlit pillar. Skin pale as moonstone. Black hair cascading in waves down her back. Eyes a deep crimson-red. And when she smiled—two sharp fangs glinted faintly.

House Nocthar. Vampires.

She inclined her head politely.

“Good evening… Trafalgar du Morgain.”

He blinked.

That was unexpected.

“Good evening,” he replied, voice even.

She stepped forward with graceful, almost soundless footsteps. “I didn’t expect to see you wandering alone. Most heirs cling to their families during this Council.”

He shrugged. “Let’s say I’m not… sentimental.”

Her lips curved. “So I’ve heard.”

Before Trafalgar could ask what that meant, another presence approached—much louder, much less ethereal.

“Trafalgar!”

Zafira crossed the bridge toward them, purple dress flowing behind her, her long purplish hair catching the light. She stopped beside him with the easy familiarity of someone who had known him for years.

Her eyes flicked to the vampire girl.

“Oh. Lady Selendra au Nocthar. I didn’t expect you to attend this Council.”

Selendra inclined her head. “Nor I you, Zafira du Zar’khael.”

‘Selendra… so that’s her name.’

“I came to take a walk,” she said casually. Then, with a small smirk: “And probably to look for you, since knowing you, you wouldn’t be with your family. Same as the last Council—you drifted off on your own the moment you had the chance.”

Trafalgar rolled his eyes. “You say that like it’s some sort of habit.”

Zafira raised an eyebrow. “Maybe.”

Selendra watched them with a faint, amused sharpness—like a cat observing two puppies argue. “I’ll leave you both to your… reunion.”

She bowed once more to Trafalgar, her fangs briefly catching the light. “A pleasure, Trafalgar. Until next time.”

She vanished into the fog-lined path, silent as smoke.

Zafira exhaled dramatically. “Vampires. They always walk like they’re floating.”

Trafalgar snorted. “Maybe they are.”

They leaned against the railing together, gazing at the glowing palace where their parents decided the fate of entire nations.

Zafira spoke softly. “You think they’ll actually go to war?”

Trafalgar traced the mist below with his eyes.

“I think,” he said quietly, “that whatever happens in there… none of us can stop it.”