SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant-Chapter 357: The Gathering [IV]

The transition was seamless.

The great hall of House Morgain was already alive when Trafalgar entered—full, yet unnervingly quiet. Long stone walls rose high above, etched with the family’s crest and veined with dark metal that caught the torchlight in muted silver. Circular tables filled the chamber, arranged with deliberate hierarchy: outer rings for collateral branches and distant bloodlines, inner circles for those who still mattered.

Food had been prepared. Wine poured. Everything necessary for the appearance of unity.

At the center stood the table that mattered.

The heirs’ table.

Nine seats. 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

That fact registered immediately.

Once, Trafalgar’s place had been an afterthought—set apart, misaligned, positioned just far enough to remind him that he didn’t truly belong. A visual cue reinforced at every gathering.

Not this time.

Maeron was already seated. Rivena beside him, posture elegant and predatory. Helgar leaned back with careless arrogance, Sylvar silent and watchful. Nym sat upright, eyes sharp with interest. Darion rigid, hands folded precisely. Elira angled slightly toward the center, composed and observant.

And Lysandra.

She sat where she always did—straight-backed, composed, her presence steady rather than loud.

There was an empty chair beside her.

Trafalgar didn’t hesitate.

He walked straight to it and sat down.

The placement put him between Elira and Lysandra.

Conversation around the hall didn’t stop—but it thinned. Glances shifted. Eyes lingered longer than before, measuring instead of mocking. The younger heirs watched with something close to caution now, recalculating where he stood. The older ones didn’t bother hiding it at all.

They were assessing him.

Once, those looks had carried laughter. Open contempt. The certainty that he would never matter.

Now, there was none of that.

Only attention.

Trafalgar felt it settle over him like cold air. Not pressure—calculation. The kind reserved for something that might become dangerous if left unchecked.

He didn’t react.

He simply rested his hands on the table and lifted his gaze calmly, fully aware of the shift that had already taken place.

Rivena was the first to break the quiet.

Her cyan-blue eyes swept over Trafalgar openly, unhurried, assessing him from head to toe as if he were an object placed on the table for her inspection. Platinum-blonde hair framed her face perfectly, immaculate as ever, her posture relaxed in a way that suggested confidence rather than comfort.

"Well," she said at last, her voice smooth, almost fond. "You’ve grown well, dear little brother."

A faint smile touched her lips. "It’s been a while since I last saw you. I was busy with a task Father assigned me." Her gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary. "But seeing you now... I think you’ve grown even more than Darion."

The words landed softly.

The effect was anything but.

Darion stiffened immediately.

His grey-blond hair was cut short and precise, his posture rigid enough to look carved rather than trained. He turned his head sharply toward Rivena, then toward Trafalgar, jaw tightening as irritation bled into his expression.

"You shouldn’t compare me to trash like him, dear sister," Darion said coldly. "I have far more value than that." His eyes narrowed. "A little respect would be appropriate."

The tension sharpened.

Trafalgar met Darion’s gaze calmly.

There was nothing to gain from engaging. Darion had always barked loudest when he felt threatened, and Trafalgar had learned long ago that silence unsettled him far more than words ever could.

He simply watched him, expression unreadable, as if Darion’s outburst hadn’t been worth acknowledging.

That was when Lysandra moved.

She turned her head slowly, eyes settling on Darion with unmistakable clarity. There was no heat in her expression.

"Darion," she said evenly, "I think the comparison was an insult—to Trafalgar."

Her gaze didn’t waver. "I’m curious. What accomplishments have you earned lately?"

A pause.

"Because from where I’m standing," she continued, voice calm but cutting, "it might be time for you to stop hiding behind Mother and start doing something of actual worth."

Her eyes flicked briefly toward Trafalgar.

"As far as I’m aware, he was recently sent on a mission near the warfront. He returned with intelligence—and killed a Leviathan alone." A beat. "While still at Flow Rank."

The words landed like a blade laid gently on the table.

"I don’t recall you achieving anything comparable," Lysandra finished.

Darion tried to speak.

His mouth opened, breath drawn sharp as if something was ready to spill out—but nothing came. The moment stalled there, awkward and exposed, his earlier confidence collapsing under the weight of Lysandra’s words. Whatever he’d planned to say dissolved before it could take shape.

Nym didn’t let the silence linger.

She leaned back slightly in her seat, one leg crossing over the other with deliberate ease. Her blond hair, braided neatly along the sides, framed a smile that wasn’t warm so much as curious in the way a blade might be curious about flesh.

"Don’t say anything, Darion," she said lightly. "Unless you want to embarrass yourself even more."

Her eyes shifted, settling on Trafalgar at last.

"So," Nym continued, tilting her head just enough to seem interested, "Flow Rank, huh?" A pause, calculated. "How long ago did you awaken your core, little brother?"

The table stilled.

Trafalgar met her gaze.

There was no affection in his eyes. No irritation either. Just a cold, steady look—cold as the winter in Morgain—that made it clear he understood exactly what she was doing, and how little it mattered.

"You know perfectly well, dear sister," he said calmly. "It was a year before I was sent to the academy."

The words fell into the room and stayed there.

No one spoke.

They all remembered. Every one of them. How late his awakening had been. How it had been whispered about, mocked, dismissed as proof that he would never amount to anything. Awakening late was a stain in House Morgain. A mark that rarely faded.

And yet—

Flow Rank.

In barely a year.

Faster than Lysandra. Faster than Rivena. Faster than Maeron.

The silence thickened, heavy with recalculation, as the truth settled where denial no longer fit.