SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant - Chapter 271

Chapter 271: Chapter 271: Preparing for What Comes
Trafalgar pushed open the heavy double doors of the Morgain dining hall, stepping into a room thick with tension. The air smelled of roasted meat, steel polish, and cold mountain wind drifting in from the high windows. Long tables stretched across the chamber, filled with soldiers eating in silence.

Not a single weapon or armor piece was summoned.

But every pair of eyes held the same thing:

Fear.

Trafalgar walked past them, boots tapping lightly against the stone floor. Some soldiers stiffened when they noticed him approaching. Others dropped their gazes entirely, shoulders trembling ever so slightly.

He chose an empty table near the corner and sat down alone. Caelum had told him he would bring breakfast, so for now, Trafalgar simply… watched.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

His fingers rhythmically tapped the wooden surface.

‘They’re shaking,’ he thought, scanning the faces around him. ‘And these are Morgain soldiers… the same proud idiots who strutted around like lords when I first got here. Look at them now. Like flans.’

Two soldiers walked past him, both bowing their heads.

“Good morning, Lord Trafalgar.”

“Good morning, my lord.”

He didn’t bother replying. He didn’t even nod. Their respect meant nothing now, not when they had spent years treating him and the old Trafalgar like garbage. They feared the war, not him.

Still… some of them caught his eye.

A few weren’t trembling.

Their eyes were alight, hungry, almost excited.

‘Those ones… they want war. They live for it. Perfect Morgain soldiers.’

The room was painfully quiet despite being full. Forks scraped plates, boots shifted against the ground, but no one spoke above a whisper. Every man and woman here understood what Valttair had announced: the Council had decided the course of the world, and once the Great Families moved…

A storm would swallow the continent.

‘Technically,’ Trafalgar thought, leaning back in his chair, ‘no family can strike first unless provoked. So they should be safe. Should.’

He watched a young soldier with trembling hands try to lift his cup. The liquid inside shook like it was alive.

Trafalgar exhaled through his nose.

‘They all know. Some of them won’t survive the first month.’

A line of maids moved through the hall carrying trays, bowing every time they passed him.

“Lord Trafalgar.”

“Good morning, young master.”

He barely glanced at them. He wasn’t interested in small talk, fake respect, or comforting terrified soldiers. His mind was on other things—bigger things.

The tap-tap-tap of his fingers continued.

War was coming.

And Trafalgar knew he wouldn’t be on the front lines yet… but his role in all this would be far more important than he realized.

He just didn’t know it yet.

Trafalgar was still tapping the table when a tray suddenly slid into his peripheral vision.

He looked up.

A young butler—dark hair, brown eyes, neatly dressed—set a steaming plate before him. Toast, eggs, sliced fruit, and thick cuts of sizzling meat. A proper Morgain breakfast.

But the butler wasn’t a butler.

Trafalgar’s eyebrow twitched.

‘Of course. Caelum.’

The disguised attendant inclined his head politely. “Your meal, young master.”

Trafalgar couldn’t help the faint snort. “You’re committed to these disguises, huh?”

Caelum gave the smallest smile. “It is best if no one recognizes me while I move through the castle.”

And just like that—he walked off without another word, vanishing into the flow of servants as naturally as smoke disappearing into air.

Trafalgar stared at the food.

His stomach growled loud enough that a pair of soldiers glanced his way.

‘Right… five days asleep. No wonder I’m starving.’

He picked up the fork and tore into the food with zero elegance. Eggs, then meat, then toast—his body demanded everything at once, like a furnace eating fuel after being re-lit.

With every bite, memories of the other day crept back in—the pain, the pressure, the feeling of being torn in half. And Valttair’s face… the way the man slipped into some kind of frenzy while forcing mana into him.

Trafalgar scowled. He stabbed a piece of bacon, chewing slowly as his eyes drifted across the hall again.

‘War… annoying as shit, but expected. Nothing in this world has been easy since I got here.’

His thoughts shifted. Not to Valttair. Not to the Council. But to her.

‘…The Veiled Woman. I completely forgot about that walking headache.’ He swallowed, brows knitting together. ‘She said she’d come for me once I was strong enough. So how long until she shows up again? Days? Months? Years?’

The soldiers around him kept eating, unaware he was contemplating primordial beings between bites of toast.

Trafalgar sighed and leaned back, fork still in hand.

Despite the chaos ahead…

he couldn’t deny it.

‘It hasn’t all been bad. I’ve met good people, gotten stronger, even somehow gotten a girlfriend. Who would’ve thought.’

He finished the last piece on his plate, wiping his mouth with a cloth.

Fuel absorbed. Thoughts sorted. Body recovering.

Time to move.

He stood, stretching his still-sore arms, and headed toward the corridor that led deeper into the castle.

The hallways of the Morgain castle felt strangely empty.

Not silent—servants still moved about, maids carried linens, guards patrolled—but empty of the people who mattered. No heirs roaming, no wives whispering, no Valttair looming like a stormcloud.

Just space.

Wide, echoing, unobstructed space.

‘Huh. Peace in House Morgain… that’s new.’

Trafalgar descended the grand staircase slowly, one hand sliding along the railing as he stretched out stiff muscles. His body still protested every movement, reminding him that he had technically almost died yesterday. Or the day before. Or whenever—time blurred when you were unconscious for five days.

He reached the lower floor and passed by the infirmary.

Through the slightly open door, he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure on a cot—Mayla. Still asleep. Still trapped in the forced coma his family had ordered months ago.

Trafalgar glanced once, impassive.

‘At least she’s alive and safe now in Velkaris. Better than most people who serve this family.’

He kept walking.

The deeper he went into the castle, the colder it became. The Morgain stronghold was carved into the spine of a frozen mountain—so high the clouds formed below the cliffs. Snowflakes drifted in from every crack and balcony like wandering ghosts.

Eventually, he reached the outer doors.

They opened to a field of white and grey—the training grounds. Wide stretches of stone platforms, wooden dummies, snow-dusted weapon racks, all encircled by jagged peaks.

The cold slapped him immediately, sharp and biting.

But Trafalgar inhaled deeply.

‘Tomorrow I go back to the Academy… to the routine. Training, classes, problems that don’t involve world-ending wars.’

He looked up at the sky—ashen, heavy with snow.

‘And I need to get stronger. Fast. Because war is coming whether I like it or not.’

A gust of wind pushed past him, scattering flakes across his coat. He shivered slightly, not from the cold but from the memory of Valttair’s mana tearing through his body like molten steel.

‘If that was only a fraction of what real top-tier monsters can do… I’m nowhere near ready.’

He shoved his hands into his pockets, stepping further into the snow.

Ahead, the peaks loomed like silent judges. Behind him, the giant Morgain castle cast a long shadow across the training field.

And Trafalgar found himself standing exactly between both—

A boy with the future of a family at his back

and a war rushing toward him from the horizon.

He sighed.

“Great. No pressure.”

The wind shifted behind him.

Trafalgar didn’t need to turn to know who it was—only one person in House Morgain moved without sound yet radiated vigilance like a sharpened blade.

Caelum.

“Young master.”

Trafalgar turned slightly. Caelum stood there in his true appearance now—silvery-gray hair swept back neatly, golden eyes sharp beneath the shadow of the mountain peak, gloved hands clasped behind him.

“Thought you’d still be watching the wives and heirs.” Trafalgar muttered.

“I was,” Caelum replied. “Until something required your attention.”

Trafalgar raised a brow. “That sounds bad.”

“It is.” A pause. “They have begun closing Gates across the world.”

“Yes,” Caelum said. “Some Velkaris Gates that connect the most problematic areas have already closed. Several minor territories have also lost connections. Only a handful remain open… and even those will close soon.”

A cold chill—colder than the mountain air—ran down Trafalgar’s spine.

He exhaled slowly. “That means movement between cities is going to be hell.”

“Or impossible,” Caelum corrected. “Which is the point. Chaos is inevitable now.”

Trafalgar massaged his temples. “Fantastic.”

Caelum gave a faint nod, acknowledging the sentiment without reacting to it. “I thought you would want to know before you return to the Academy tomorrow.”

“Yeah… thanks,” Trafalgar muttered, eyes drifting across the snowy training fields. “How do you think this will go, Caelum?”

Caelum didn’t sugarcoat it. He never did.

“It will be a disaster. For the world.” Then, quietly: “But for you… it will be growth. Forced growth… but growth nonetheless.”

Trafalgar snorted. “Great. So I’m leveling up because the world is burning.”

“Correct,” Caelum said without hesitation.

Trafalgar turned his head. “You really don’t hold back, huh?”

“Never when speaking to you.”

Another gust of wind cut across the field, scattering snow between them like drifting ash. Trafalgar looked out at the horizon, fists tightening unconsciously.

“Five days unconscious…” he murmured. “And everything already started moving.”

Caelum studied him carefully. “It only confirmed my decision.”

“Which is?”

“That supporting you,” Caelum said, “was the correct choice. Of all the heirs, none have the potential you now possess.”

Trafalgar’s chest tightened—not from pride, but from pressure.

‘Potential. Right. Potential to survive. Potential to be used. Potential to be targeted.’

He let out a long breath, watching it fog the air.

“War, closed Gates, families ready to kill each other… and I have to go back to school tomorrow.”

Trafalgar stood at the cliff’s edge, staring into the endless white void below the mountain—the kind of drop where even sound died halfway down. Snow drifted past him, dissolving into nothing.

Just like a thousand nameless soldiers would.

Just like countless civilians would.

Just like any idiot who got caught in a war between monsters.

Trafalgar’s jaw tightened.

‘A few months ago I was just a university guy worrying about exams, rent, and whether my laptop would explode during finals week…’

The wind howled past his ears.

‘Now I’m standing on a frozen mountain—one of the heirs of a murderous superfamily—while a continental war brews beneath my feet.’

He exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed on the abyss.

‘This world is insane… but I’m not dying here. I’m not dying anywhere.’

His fingers curled slowly at his sides.

‘I survived everything so far. Being born into this hellhole, the abuse, the training, the awakening, the damn Primordial bloodline, Valttair nearly blowing up my core, the Council, Icarus—’

His heart skipped.

‘—Icarus… a living natural disaster walking around like he owns the sky. If people like him exist… then I need to get much, much stronger.’

A faint warmth pulsed in his tattooed arm—subtle, irregular. Enough to make him tense.

‘And then there’s her… the Veiled Woman. She’ll come eventually. And when she does… I’ll be ready.’

He breathed in sharply, cold air burning his lungs.

Behind him, Caelum spoke quietly—barely above the wind.

“You are thinking too deeply.”

Trafalgar didn’t turn. “That obvious?”

“Only because you stand like a man preparing for battle.”

Trafalgar huffed a tired breath. “I guess in a way… I am.”

Trafalgar stared down into the bottomless valley one last time.

‘I’ll survive this war. I’ll survive the Houses. I’ll survive whatever the hell Valttair plans. And when the Veiled Woman comes for me…’

His heartbeat steadied.

‘I’ll demand every answer she owes me.’

Trafalgar turned away from the cliff, expression carved into resolve.

“Let’s go, Caelum,” he said quietly. “I’ve got work to do.”

Caelum bowed his head once. “As you wish, young master.”