SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant-Chapter 440: The Aftermath [IV]

The wind carried a thin veil of dust across the outer wall as reconstruction continued in disciplined motion around them. Workers moved in structured rotations, beams rising under guided mana, fractured stone dragged and sorted into ordered piles. The world did not pause for uncertainty. It rebuilt around it.

Trafalgar slowed.

Then stopped entirely. Aubrelle halted with him without asking why, her grip still resting around his forearm. Pipin circled high above, maintaining a wide view of the grounds.

Trafalgar turned slightly toward her, head angled just enough to signal the shift from observation to inquiry.

"Aubrelle... if you were an heir of one of the Eight Great Families, and your house just fell, and you were suddenly in a delicate position... what would you do?" he asked, head slightly tilted.

She released his arm slowly, fingers sliding away before her hand rose to her chin. Her posture stilled as she thought, gaze unfocused beneath the band of cloth.

"It depends," she said after a moment, voice thoughtful.

One of Trafalgar’s brows lifted faintly.

"Depends on what?" he asked, brow raised.

"On the person," she replied.

Her fingers tapped once lightly against her chin as she continued.

"If he has the temperament of a leader, he won’t collapse. He’ll see opportunity inside the instability. He would try to position himself immediately, present himself as the most viable option before your father — or Lady Elenara — solidify whatever course they seem to be moving toward. He would attempt to sell himself, make it clear he can maintain order internally and align externally. Especially now, when everything is being reorganized."

A distant crash of stone echoed behind them as a beam was set into place. Neither of them turned.

"You’re repairing the structure efficiently," she went on, her tone steady. "The message is clear. Thal’zar will continue, but under guidance. Anyone watching closely can tell that decisions are forming at the top. Someone ambitious would move quickly to become the acceptable face of that continuation."

She lowered her hand slightly, voice softening.

"If he’s weaker... if he dislikes confrontation or fears being tested... then he wouldn’t step forward at all. He would try to avoid attention, avoid scrutiny. I would hide, or distance myself from the center. This is not a comfortable position for any heir. The wrong move could end them."

Silence settled briefly between them.

Trafalgar listened without interruption, gaze fixed ahead, absorbing each angle of her reasoning. The battlefield had required force. This required interpretation.

He gave the faintest nod.

The crash of stone behind them faded into distance as reconstruction resumed its rhythm. Dust drifted along the battlements. Voices blended into background noise. The castle was rebuilding itself piece by piece, as if survival were muscle memory.

Trafalgar remained still for a moment longer, gaze fixed ahead.

Then he spoke again.

"When you saw him earlier... how would you describe him?" he asked, chin slightly lowered.

Aubrelle’s hand dropped from her chin to rest lightly at her side. She tilted her head a fraction, replaying what Pipin had shown her.

"Cautious," she said, lips pressed thin. "Like someone trying not to be noticed. He avoided groups. Whenever he came near workers, he slowed, then shifted away. He didn’t look angry. He looked... unsure."

Her fingers curled lightly.

"Afraid of being seen. Like he didn’t want to be near anyone."

A short pause followed as she searched her memory more carefully.

"I might be wrong though," she added, one shoulder lifting faintly, "but he didn’t look like someone preparing to step forward. He looked like someone waiting for something to happen without him. And then reappear and carry on as if nothing had happened."

Trafalgar absorbed that quietly.

’Reserved. Avoidant. Not positioning himself.’

That aligned.

Someone ambitious would have approached Valttair already. Someone calculating would have found a way to appear useful. Someone bold would have gathered allies or at least stood where he could be seen.

Darian had done none of that.

"Yes," Trafalgar said at last, a small nod. "I think so too."

His gaze shifted toward the higher sections of the castle, toward balconies and outer towers where isolation was easier to maintain.

"Can Pipin search somewhere... isolated?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

Above them, pale wings adjusted course.

"Of course," she said, chin lifting slightly and hand found his forearm again.

They remained still.

Pipin climbed.

The pale bird cut upward through open air, wings steady, rising above scaffolds and fractured battlements until the courtyard spread wide beneath him. Through that distant vantage, the castle revealed its true state, something in between ruin and stability.

Reconstruction had advanced further than it appeared from the ground.

Humans hauled timber toward reinforced gates. Elves traced fine threads of mana along cracked stone, sealing fractures with controlled precision. Dwarfs reinforced foundations at the base of the outer wall, their movements compact, efficient. Lycans worked in coordinated clusters, lifting slabs that would have required siege equipment before. Beastkin moved between groups, carrying tools, repositioning supplies, filling gaps wherever labor thinned.

Further out, beyond the inner perimeter, Sylvanel banners were already lowering.

Columns of elven soldiers withdrew in disciplined silence, silver-green cloaks shifting in unison as they moved toward the forest line beyond the outer ridge. Their task was complete. Their presence receded without spectacle.

The war was being folded away.

Pipin swept across upper corridors first.

Open passageways.

Half-cleared stairwells.

Balconies overlooking inner courtyards.

He drifted past gallery windows, dipped briefly into exposed chambers where doors hung open and servants moved through disordered rooms gathering what had been displaced.

Nothing.

No striped ears.

No restless tail.

He climbed higher.

Towers.

Watchpoints.

Rooftop walkways.

Empty.

Aubrelle’s fingers tightened faintly.

Then Pipin rose again, pushing above even the highest battlement, circling once to widen the angle.

From that height, the castle became geometry—lines, angles, stone terraces and narrow extensions jutting outward in deliberate asymmetry.

And there.

Farther from the main repair zones.

Farther than before.

A narrow balcony partially hidden by a protruding section of wall, positioned where it overlooked the lower reconstruction grounds without being directly visible from them.

A single figure stood there.

The figure did not move.

From above, he stood apart from the rhythm of reconstruction, framed by stone and distance, untouched by the motion below.

Aubrelle inhaled softly.

"I found him," she said, hand lifting from Trafalgar’s arm. "He’s farther than before. And he doesn’t look like he plans to move."

"Where?" Trafalgar asked, eyes already narrowing.

She extended her arm and pointed.

"There. Upper section. Narrow balcony, partially concealed by the western wall."

Trafalgar followed the line of her finger.

At first, it was only shape and shadow.

Then detail settled into place.

Human in build.

Tiger ears rising through dark hair that fell loosely around his temples, the stripes faint but distinct even at distance. A matching tail moved behind him in slow, restless arcs, the motion unconscious, betraying what his posture tried to hide.

One hand rested against the stone railing.

The other hung at his side.

His shoulders leaned slightly forward, weight angled toward the courtyard below.

Observing workers who no longer needed him.

Observing a castle that no longer answered to his house in the same way.

He stood high enough to see everything.

Far enough not to be seen easily in return.

"Let’s go," Trafalgar said.

Aubrelle lowered her hand.

Pipin descended, pale wings folding as he returned toward her shoulder while they turned toward the path that would lead them upward.

The ascent was quieter than the courtyard below, the noise of reconstruction fading into a distant murmur as they moved through a side passage that curved upward along the outer structure. The stone here bore fewer cracks, the damage more superficial, as if this section had been spared the worst of the collapse. The narrow balcony they had seen from below connected to a private chamber tucked into the wall itself, positioned deliberately away from main corridors and common routes.

They stopped before a wooden door reinforced with iron bands.

Trafalgar placed a hand on it and pushed.

It did not move.

He pulled instead, testing the hinge.

Nothing.

He tried the handle, turning it slowly once, then again with slightly more pressure.

Still nothing.

"Locked," he said, flat.

Aubrelle’s lips pressed together faintly. "And now?"

Trafalgar turned his head slightly toward her. "Step back."

She released his arm and took two measured steps away, staff angled lightly at her side.

"You’re going to break it?" she asked, one brow lifting.

A faint curve touched the corner of his mouth.

"No. I’ll ask first."

He glanced at the door as if assessing its sentimental value.

"It is, after all, Thal’zar property. I would hate to add unnecessary debris to what is already a very impressive collection. If he prefers the balcony to remain attached to the rest of the structure, he’ll open it."

Maledicta materialized in his hand with a low hum, dark steel drinking in the light along the corridor.

Trafalgar lifted his voice just enough to carry through wood and stone.

"Darian du Thal’zar," he called, chin slightly raised. "Open the door. This is Trafalgar du Morgain. The one who saved your life."

Silence answered him.

No shuffle of feet.

No reply.

His gaze remained on the door.

"I know you’re on the balcony," he continued, fingers tightening around Maledicta’s grip. "Open it. Or I break it."

Mana gathered along the blade’s edge, not wild, but dense, a low pressure forming in the confined space of the corridor. The air grew heavier, faint darkness coiling close to the steel.

Another second passed.

"Well," Trafalgar said lightly, shifting his stance. "I’ll break it then."

He drew the sword back just enough to begin the strike—

And before the motion completed, the lock clicked.

The door opened.