SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant - Chapter 265

Chapter 265: Chapter 265: Morgain’s Position
Trafalgar pushed open the tall doors, stepping back into the waiting hall of House Morgain. The air inside was heavy—soaked in tension, silence, and unspoken fear.

No chatter or arrogant laughter, none of the usual posturing of the Morgain heirs.

Just a suffocating stillness.

He had barely taken three steps in when a familiar voice cut through the quiet.

“Trafalgar.”

Rivena.

Her tone wasn’t warm—it never was. It carried that same unsettling softness she used whenever she wanted something from him. Her eyes tracked him with a familiarity that made his stomach twist in reflexive disgust.

Trafalgar’s jaw tightened.

‘Great. Exactly who I didn’t want to see.’

She moved toward him with that predatory grace he knew too well.

“I was wondering where you wandered off to—”

Before she could get any closer, a figure slid between them like a shield of steel and velvet.

Lysandra.

She raised a hand, stopping Rivena mid-step without even touching her.

“Sister,” Lysandra said, her voice calm but edged, “we need to speak.”

Rivena’s polite expression flickered—annoyance flashing beneath it. “About what?”

Rivena’s polite mask cracked further, irritation bleeding through. “About what?” she snapped, the softness in her voice gone—replaced by her usual venom.

Lysandra didn’t flinch. “About not approaching him.”

Her tone stayed level, but the meaning struck like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

Rivena frowned, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Lysandra replied. “This isn’t the time. And you know why.”

A pulse of hostility surged between the two sisters—sharp, cold, and dangerously familiar.

Rivena’s jaw clenched. “I don’t take orders from you.”

Lysandra stepped closer, her voice quiet but unyielding. “You will take this one.”

For a moment, Trafalgar thought Rivena might shove her aside.

He recognized the twitch in her fingers—the same twitch she had the night—

He forced his jaw to unclench.

But then Rivena scoffed, tossing her hair back.

“Fine. Whatever.” Her gaze cut toward Trafalgar, sharp and mocking. “I was only being polite.”

Trafalgar’s stomach churned.’Polite my ass. More like stalking.’

Lysandra held her stare until Rivena clicked her tongue and turned away, heels striking the marble with irritated force as she stormed toward another corner of the hall.

Only when she was completely gone did Lysandra’s shoulders relax.

She flicked a glance back at Trafalgar, subtle but protective.

“You’re safe,” she murmured without moving closer, as if saying more would break the fragile boundary she held.

Trafalgar dipped his chin in acknowledgment. ‘Well thanks, finally you help once.’

Then he noticed something strange.

The usual sharp gazes, sneers, whispers, and mocking smirks from the Morgain heirs…

None of them came.

Maeron stood statue-still, arms crossed.

Helgar cracked his knuckles in silence.

Sylvar’s eyes were fixed on the floor, calculating.

Nym leaned against a pillar, unreadable.

Darion and Elira spoke quietly but cast no glances his way.

Seraphine didn’t even look at him.

It was as if Trafalgar wasn’t even there.

‘Huh… weird. They’re all ignoring me. Normally by now someone would’ve made a comment about how I walk, breathe, or exist.’ His eyes narrowed slightly.

‘Is it fear? Tension? Or did they finally realize I don’t give a shit about their approval?’

He huffed silently. ‘Whatever it is… I’ll take it.’

The room straightened all at once as footsteps echoed from the inner corridor.

Valttair entered.

Tall. Platinum hair falling loosely. Eyes sharp as winter steel.Aura coiled around him like a wordless decree: silence.

The four wives stiffened immediately. The heirs braced.

Valttair reached the center and spoke with the calm finality of a guillotine dropping.

“Sit.”

Chairs scraped softly as the Morgains obeyed with military precision.

“We will discuss what transpired in the chamber,” Valttair continued, expression unchanged. “And what House Morgain will do next.”

Valttair waited until every chair had stopped moving—until silence became so heavy it felt like part of the walls themselves—before he began.

“The Council ended,” he said, voice even and cold, “with a declaration that will reshape the Eight.”

A ripple moved through the wives. Even Seraphine, who never flinched, lowered her gaze by a fraction.

Valttair continued.

“Thal’Zar has chosen war. Sylvanel accepted. The Elders ratified it.”

Helgar leaned forward, massive arms crossing over his chest. “So we’re going to war too, right? If those bastards—”

Valttair turned his head.

Just his head.

A single, sharp motion.

Helgar froze mid-sentence, spine locking like he’d been struck by a paralysis spell.

Valttair didn’t say a word to him. The message was clear enough.

‘Holy shit,’ Trafalgar thought. ‘One look and he shuts up the guy who punches through boulders. Yup. Normal Morgain family meeting.’

Valttair shifted his eyes away from Helgar and addressed the room again.

“House Morgain,” he said, “will not engage.”

Another shockwave of tension ran across the table.

Seraphine frowned deeply. “Not engage? Valttair, if two Houses destroy each other, the balance—”

“—is an opportunity,” Valttair finished for her, tone razor-smooth. “Let others bleed. Let them burn. Let the Eight become Seven.”

Naevia bit her lip. Ysolde held her children closer. Verena nodded sharply, approving of any plan involving dominance through strategy.

Maeron finally spoke, his deep voice controlled. “Father. If we remain spectators, how do we justify it?”

Valttair leaned back, fingers threading together.

“The Elders themselves forbid intervention unless we are attacked first.”

His gaze lingered on each face in turn.

“If Thal’Zar or Sylvanel targets Morgain—in any form—we retaliate. And annihilate whichever side struck first. Simple.”

Trafalgar exhaled slowly through his nose.

‘Simple, he says… like choosing which nuclear bomb to hug.’

Darion, ever the honorable one, raised a hand slightly. “Father, what of neutral cities? The Gates? The people caught between—”

“They do not matter,” Valttair said without a flicker of emotion. “They are not Morgain.”

Darion’s words died in his throat.

Valttair continued, unbothered.

“The Eight have agreed: any House harming a neutral city, capital, or civilian population will face the wrath of the remaining ones.”

He paused.

“Kaedor will ignore this. He already has. Which means Thal’Zar is finished.”

A quiet hum of approval spread across the heirs—except Trafalgar, who remained still.

‘So that’s his angle… Sit back, watch a centuries-old Great House implode, swoop in later. Efficient and terrifying.’

Then Valttair’s expression sharpened further.

“And lastly,” he said, “Icarus di Valtaron.”

Almost every younger heir exchanged confused looks.

“Who?” Nym asked under her breath.

Valttair’s eyes glinted like steel under moonlight.

“A man with an SSS-rank talent. Standing behind Thal’Zar.”

Lysandra leaned forward. “Why is a talent like that supporting their House?”

“That,” Valttair said quietly, “is the most dangerous question in the world right now.”

A silence rippled outward from Valttair’s final words—slow, creeping, suffocating.

For a moment, even the crackling mana lanterns seemed to dim.

Maeron, who rarely showed anything resembling surprise, leaned forward with a tightened jaw. “An SSS talent… aligned with Thal’Zar?” His voice was low, cautious—like someone discussing a bomb sitting under the table.

Lady Seraphine’s eyes widened by a fraction, the closest she ever came to a gasp. “Valttair… you’re certain?”

Valttair nodded once. “Icarus di Valtaron. Confirmed.”

A murmur erupted across the wives.

Verena’s fingers dug into the armrest. “But that makes no sense. Thal’Zar’s bloodline hasn’t produced anything beyond A-rank in centuries.”

Naevia clasped her trembling hands. “To control someone like that… impossible.”

Ysolde whispered, almost fearfully, “An SSS talent is a catastrophe made flesh… why stand behind a House doomed to war?”

Trafalgar’s gaze flickered across the room, catching each reaction.

‘Shit. Even the wives are panicking. And they all know this world’s ranked-system better than I ever will.’

His fingers drummed lightly against his leg. ‘S-rank siblings—and even THEY look terrified.’

Helgar finally broke the tension, voice rough. “Why the hell would someone that powerful take orders from Kaedor?” He frowned deeply. “Everyone knows SSS talents don’t follow anyone

Valttair’s gaze sharpened in agreement. “Exactly. Such independent power rarely—if ever—bends to another House.”

Lysandra glanced at Trafalgar subtly, remembering the secret she guarded. Her voice was steady. “Father, you’re implying he isn’t serving Thal’Zar… but using them.”

Valttair nodded. “That is one possibility. A troubling one.”

Sylvar crossed his arms. “Another is worse. Perhaps Kaedor has something that binds him. A relic. A pact. A threat.”

Grumhald scoffed quietly from the corner, beard bristling. “Or maybe the idiot stumbled into power he can’t control.”

Trafalgar felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine. ‘A decade missing… showing up here… behind the family picking a fight with the elves…’ He swallowed. ‘Yeah. This is bad. This is really fucking bad.’

Maeron exhaled slowly, his expression sharpening. “Regardless of motive… an SSS talent involved in this mess will influence the balance. Not overturn it alone—but tilt it enough to matter.”

Valttair nodded once. “Correct. One man cannot topple a Great Family by himself. But”—his gaze darkened—”an SSS talent of his age and experience can push a war toward one outcome or another. And that alone is dangerous.”

A quiet shiver ran through the room.

“He is not a prodigy still rising,” Valttair continued. “He is fully grown. Seasoned. Hardened by years we cannot account for. That makes him far more problematic than any newly awakened talent.”

Trafalgar felt a jolt run down his spine.

‘Right… he’s had decades to grow stronger. While I’m barely getting started in this world.’

Lysandra leaned forward. “So if he sides with Thal’Zar… Sylvanel may not lose, but they’ll bleed heavily.”

“Exactly.” Valttair’s tone was cold as iron. “The war’s outcome will still be decided by the armies of two Great Families—but Icarus can make every clash far more lethal. He can drag the conflict out. Make the wounds deeper. Push Sylvanel into losses they would otherwise avoid.”

The heirs exchanged uneasy looks.

Valttair’s eyes narrowed, voice dropping lower.

“He is not their victory. He is a multiplier of damage. A catalyst that can turn a controlled war into something… uncontainable.”

Trafalgar clenched his jaw lightly. ‘A living disaster zone. That’s what he is. And I saw him up close without even knowing… great.’

Valttair let the silence linger for a breath. Then he straightened, shoulders broad beneath the black folds of his coat.

“As I said,” he continued, voice cold and absolute, “House Morgain will remain spectators. We will not stand at the front of this conflict.” His gaze swept across the room, pinning each heir and each wife in place. “But make no mistake…”

A faint curl of disdain touched his lip.

“…the outcome we desire is the collapse of Thal’Zar.”

Several heirs stiffened. A few exchanged quick looks—hesitation, fear, calculation.

Valttair continued, unbothered.

“We will not intervene directly. That is forbidden. But we will ensure the war leans toward the side that benefits us.”

Helgar frowned. “Meaning?”

Valttair turned his eyes on him—one glance, sharp enough to silence him instantly.

“Meaning,” he said slowly, “that we will position ourselves so that when Thal’Zar falls, we are there to claim what remains. Influence. Territory. Reputation. Whatever advantages present themselves.”

He folded his hands behind his back.

“War between two Great Families is a tragedy for the world,” he said, though his tone carried not a shred of grief. “But for us? It is an opportunity. And opportunities are not wasted.”

Trafalgar watched him quietly, the faint weight of inevitability tightening in his chest. ‘Of course. He doesn’t care who dies as long as Morgain rises. Cold bastard… but predictable.’

Valttair glanced toward Lysandra next, his voice dropping to a low command.

“We will not move unless provoked. But we will prepare. Thal’Zar must lose. And we will ensure it—one way or another.”