SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant-Chapter 416: The Fall of the Thal’zar [XXX]

A descending sword forced him into a shallow pivot. Another passed close enough to graze fabric from his sleeve.

"And now I do understand," he said quietly, almost thoughtfully. "It is we—the other races—who see the world incorrectly. They see it as it truly is. They see it with the proper eyes."

Valttair’s gaze sharpened by a fraction. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

He stepped forward.

[Morgain’s Linebreaker].

His advance carved a straight path through the chamber, a dense wave of cutting mana tearing across the floor as two suspended blades synchronized with the charge, reinforcing the trajectory into a layered front of force. The air split under the forward pressure, driving Icarus backward across cracking stone.

"You truly are mad, Icarus," Valttair said, his voice calm as the advancing edge forced displacement. "Listen to yourself. I expected something coherent, something rooted in logic. Instead, you offer admiration for creatures that would erase us without hesitation."

Three blades descended in near unison, their angles staggered to remove escape routes. Icarus slipped between them with narrow efficiency, coat trailing just beyond the edge of one cut.

"It does not matter," Valttair continued, as though the exchange were administrative rather than lethal. "The Void Creature will not survive much longer. Elenara has already finished with Kaedor. By now she is clearing what remains. Everything proceeds according to the plan that should have unfolded from the beginning."

He shifted his stance slightly and the blades followed, recalibrating.

"Soon House Thal’zar will rise again, but under our guidance. You may consider that your unintended contribution. The Morgain will remain among the strongest of the Eight. Our influence in the Council will expand accordingly."

Icarus smiled faintly, distortion bleeding into the chamber as he invoked [Septic Mirage]. Perspective shifted subtly; distances bent by degrees, shadows duplicating at the edges of perception.

"And what," Valttair asked, his tone unchanged as one blade pierced through the densest fold of warped space, dispersing it like mist under pressure, "is the objective of those monsters?"

Icarus’ laughter was soft, almost amused.

"You think I would simply tell you?" he replied. "History repeats itself, does it not? Why not deduce it yourself?"

The floor darkened again under a reinforced [Plague Dominion], the thin grey sheen deepening like ink pressed into cracks. [Vector Spread] stirred along prior contact points, microfractures threatening to widen under mana flow. A fresh [Organ Decay Pulse] condensed, aimed with quiet precision toward Valttair’s core.

Valttair answered with [Morgain’s Dual Crest]. Two intersecting lines of black mana traced through the distorted air and collided at center mass, rupturing the warped perception and fracturing the incoming pulse before it could anchor. One floating blade cut cleanly through the most saturated portion of the corrupted ground, thinning the field by sheer pressure.

The internal pulse died before it could bloom.

Valttair did not blink.

"Another war?" he asked.

Icarus’ lips curved slowly.

"Bingo... hehehe. How long has it been since the last one?" His eyes lifted slightly toward the open sky above the shattered ceiling, where the moon hung unobstructed. "Back then, the Primordials were still present, were they not? Now not a single one remains. That bloodline that sacrificed itself for the sake of the other races... gone."

The violet glow of his core intensified again as [Apex Contagion] surged once more, pressing every active corruption in the chamber toward its upper limit. The grey sheen across the fractured floor thickened subtly, and the invisible infections within the air pulsed with heavier rhythm, seeking expansion, seeking purchase.

"What remains," Icarus continued, voice almost conversational despite the tightening perimeter of blades, "are fragmented families chasing power and prestige, each pursuing their own advantage. Good luck when that moment comes, Valttair... because you will truly need it."

A faint chuckle escaped him.

"I have had such interesting conversations with her. It is almost unfortunate that I may not continue speaking with her."

Above them, one of the ten floating swords shifted.

There was no flare of mana. No widening of stance.

[Morgain’s Verdict].

A single clean line appeared across Icarus’ abdomen. The blade had already passed through him before the motion registered. It emerged from his back in a straight exit, precise to the degree that fabric parted without tearing beyond the cut.

Silence followed.

Only a dark line opening along his midsection as the sword withdrew with measured calm and resumed its position among the remaining blades.

Icarus remained standing.

Moonlight washed over the two figures in pale silver.

The cut opened slowly.

For a moment, Icarus simply stood there, eyes steady, posture unbroken. Then the delayed reality of the strike reached his nerves. A thin line of dark blood slipped past his fingers as he instinctively pressed his palm against his abdomen.

"...Tch."

The sound was low. Irritated.

The wound did not behave like a normal injury. The edges refused to knit. His core pulsed in response, attempting to stabilize internal flow, but something in the cut resisted restoration. Mana faltered around the damaged region, as if the blade had severed more than flesh.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, the word escaping before refinement could mask it.

Valttair observed without expression.

He did not advance immediately.

One of the floating swords lowered, hovering closer to Icarus’ throat, while another drifted toward his exposed flank. They did not strike. They waited. Measured.

"You endure better than most," Valttair said calmly. "But you misunderstand something fundamental."

A second sword traced lightly across Icarus’ sleeve, not deep enough to maim, only enough to remind. Fabric parted. Skin beneath followed with a shallow red line.

Icarus stepped back, attempting to re-center his footing despite the instability in his core.

Valttair moved one pace forward.

The distance between them shortened by inches, yet the pressure increased by degrees.

"You speak of cycles," Valttair continued, voice even, almost patient. "Of wars repeating. Of vision."

Another blade flicked past Icarus’ cheek. A single strand of violet hair fell, severed cleanly.

"But you stand in front of the wrong variable."