SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant-Chapter 437: The Aftermath [I]

In a secluded chamber deep within the castle, far from the corridors still being cleared of debris and blood, more than three hundred Morgain guards maintained a silent perimeter. Every blade and piece of equipment rested inside inventories now that the immediate threat had passed.

The war had ended.

The Aftermath had begun.

Among them, one presence stood above the rest without needing to assert it.

Arthur.

Broad-shouldered, short blond hair graying at the sides, sharp brown eyes that had seen more campaigns than most of the younger soldiers combined. His armor was gone, dismissed like everyone else’s, yet nothing about him suggested ease. He stood relaxed in posture, alert in awareness. Trafalgar’s direct commander.

Leaning against the stone wall nearby, Lysandra remained awake despite her injuries. The healers of House Morgain had stabilized her quickly, closing wounds that would have ended lesser warriors, but exhaustion clung to her. Sweat still traced along her temple. Her breathing was steady, though heavy.

Arthur inclined his head respectfully.

"Lady Lysandra, are you truly well? You may rest. You were the one holding back the Void creature." There was no exaggeration in his tone.

Lysandra lifted her gaze toward him. "You and the others fought as well. The number of Void creatures you eliminated was significant. You deserve rest too."

Arthur gave a faint shake of his head.

"No. We should have done more so our Lord would not have had to do all that."

He was right.

Trafalgar had carried more than he should have. Higher-core individuals had been present. Some had sought glory. Others had pursued their own objectives.

He had chosen slaughter and protection of his girl.

Trafalgar was there.

In the same protected wing, behind reinforced doors and layers of Morgain guard rotation, he lay unconscious on a bed prepared in haste once the fighting ended.

The mana potion Valttair had given him lasted precisely twenty-four hours. When its effect faded, it did so without transition. During that window, Trafalgar had spent more mana than his core could naturally circulate. Even with a Primordial body, capacity was not without boundary. Power had reserves. He exceeded them.

The depletion struck like a collapse from within.

Then Sword Insight activated.

In the middle of exhaustion, he learned [Morgain’s Last Dusk]. The knowledge did not flow into him smoothly. It forced itself into his mind, technique, structure, sequence, pressure points, angle correction—everything written at once. The backlash was immediate. A violent surge inside his skull. Vision fracturing. Nerves igniting.

He remained standing only because his body had not yet registered failure.

For several seconds he did not fall. He simply stopped.

It was Aubrelle who reached him before gravity completed what exhaustion began.

Now he slept.

The chamber assigned to him was secured at every layer. Rotations of Morgain guards remained stationed beyond the reinforced entrance, their presence silent but absolute. Inside, the atmosphere was controlled, steady, untouched by the distant sounds of reconstruction.

Trafalgar lay on the first bed, his body finally allowed to rest after being forced beyond its limits. The tension that usually defined him had eased into stillness, not weakness but suspension, as if even his instincts had retreated for the sake of survival.

Aubrelle sat beside him.

She had not moved far since catching him before he fell. Her posture remained still, head lowered slightly, though her awareness extended far beyond the walls of the room. Through Pipin, who circled above the castle exterior, she observed everything—the lycans already repairing broken stone, structures rising as though the battle had been an interruption rather than a catastrophe.

Across from them, on the second bed, Garrika rested under layered bandages. The wound she had taken had nearly emptied her of blood; survival had depended on timing and the efficiency of Morgain healers. Color had not fully returned to her face, yet her breathing was stable, faint strength gradually reclaiming ground.

Through Pipin’s eyes, the castle grounds unfolded beneath a pale sky still veiled by the aftermath of battle. From above, destruction appeared organized. Stones that had been shattered only hours before were already being lifted into place. Wooden supports replaced fractured beams. Mana-infused mortar sealed cracks in outer walls.

Thal’zar lycans worked without complaint.

Orders were short, movements efficient. Teams rotated with practiced coordination, as though the siege had been another seasonal hardship rather than a near collapse of their house. Broken battlements were reinforced. Courtyard stones were cleared of scorch marks. Barricades were dismantled and reassembled into structural scaffolding.

It looked... functional.

As if nothing irreversible had occurred.

The war was being absorbed into routine.

Pragmatism moved faster than grief.

From that height, the castle did not resemble a fallen power. It resembled a house adjusting to loss with mechanical resolve. Servants carried supplies. Guards resumed assigned routes. The banner of Thal’zar still hung from its tower, slightly torn but intact.

And among that movement, one figure stood apart without meaning to.

Darian du Thal’zar.

Twenty-two.

Human in form, though striped tiger ears rose faintly through his dark hair, and a matching tail moved behind him with restless, unconscious tension. He walked across the courtyard without direction, steps slowing whenever he neared clusters of workers before shifting away again.

He observed. As someone waiting.

Through Pipin’s distant vantage, Aubrelle watched him pause near a half-rebuilt archway. His gaze moved across the stone, across the lycans working under Morgain oversight, across the guards who now controlled entry points that once answered only to his family.

Darian lowered his head slightly.

’What happens now?’

’Who will take Father’s seat?’

’Is he truly dead... or is this just another stage of something we were never meant to understand?’

His steps resumed, slower.

’Has House Thal’zar fallen, even if the walls still stand?’

The wind shifted his hair lightly as he walked.

’Icarus is gone. His influence is gone. The sickness that lingered in the air... it has lifted. I should feel relieved. I should feel free.’

His jaw tightened faintly.

’Then why does it feel the same?’

He glanced toward the main tower where negotiations had likely concluded hours earlier.

’We survived the war and Icarus. But are we survivors... or prisoners?’

Morgain banners were visible along the perimeter.

Sylvanel observers had not withdrawn.

Darian’s tail stilled behind him.

’It does not matter what I think. I was never meant to lead. I do not want that weight. Let it be someone else. Adrian. Lucien. Anyone.’

A breath left him slowly.

’Just not me.’

He resumed walking, though nothing guided his direction.

He did not know he had already been dismissed as an option.

He did not know another name had been chosen.

He did not know his future depended on decisions made in a room he had not been invited into.

From above, Pipin continued to circle.