SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant-Chapter 450: Sylvar’s Funeral [I]

The wyverns launched into the sky one after another, powerful wings beating against the freezing wind as the formation rose above the fortress. Snow scattered into the air with each downstroke, spiraling briefly before vanishing beneath them. Trafalgar leaned slightly forward in the saddle as his mount climbed, the creature’s immense muscles shifting beneath him with controlled strength.

Up here the air was sharper, thinner, the wind cutting across his face like a blade. Jagged mountain peaks surrounded them on every side, black stone claws piercing through endless banks of cloud, and snow drifted through the air in scattered veils carried by currents that howled across the sky.

Yet this time, Trafalgar remained perfectly steady. His hands rested calmly on the reins while the wyvern moved beneath him with steady rhythm. The creature banked once, wings spreading wide as it rode a rising current of air, and Trafalgar adjusted his posture instinctively, moving with it instead of fighting against it.

The difference from his first ascent was impossible to ignore. Back then he had barely clung to the saddle, terrified of falling, every movement of the beast threatening to throw him into the abyss below. Now his body responded naturally to the motion. Months of training, endless battles, and war had changed more than just his strength.

Ahead of him, the Morgain formation climbed in disciplined silence. Valttair’s massive wyvern led the ascent, its enormous wings cutting through the storm with commanding ease, while the rest of the family maintained perfect distance behind him. Trafalgar remained toward the rear, but he no longer struggled to keep pace.

Below them, the castle slowly disappeared. First the walls shrank, then the towers faded, until the entire fortress was swallowed beneath a vast ocean of clouds. Soon there was nothing beneath them but endless white mist stretching across the horizon, and only the beating of wings and the distant cry of wind remained.

Then the formation reached the clouds. For several moments they flew through dense white mist, visibility reduced to almost nothing as snow and vapor swirled around them. The world felt closed and suffocating, as if the sky itself had swallowed them whole.

And then they broke through.

Sunlight spilled across the sky in pale silver and faint gold, illuminating an endless sea of clouds beneath them. The mist below rolled like a frozen ocean, smooth and unreal, stretching farther than the eye could see. Trafalgar exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting across the horizon. Even after everything he had seen, the sight was still breathtaking.

Far ahead, the summit appeared. At first it looked like just another mountain peak rising above the clouds, but as the formation climbed closer the true shape revealed itself. Massive stone fortifications encircled the summit, watchtowers rising from the edges like silent sentinels, the entire peak resembling a fortress carved directly into the sky, isolated from the rest of the world.

The Cemetery of Swords.

Trafalgar narrowed his eyes slightly as the wyverns continued their climb toward it, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Finally... we’re here," he muttered under his breath. Then he glanced down briefly at the endless sea of clouds beneath them and snorted. "And this time my balls aren’t freezing off."

The wyverns began their descent as the formation approached the summit, wings tilting against the currents as the enormous bodies glided downward in controlled arcs while the plateau rose steadily beneath them.

From above, the peak revealed its true scale. What had looked like a simple mountaintop from afar was in reality a vast plateau carved from the crown of the mountain itself. A colossal wall surrounded its entire perimeter, thick stone rising high above the snow-covered ground and reinforced by watchtowers positioned at precise intervals along the ramparts. The place did not resemble a fortress built for war alone. It looked older than that. Older than most kingdoms.

The wyverns circled lower, and the truth of the plateau slowly emerged from beneath the snow. Thousands of blades stood planted in the frozen earth, swords of every size and design, ancient spears with weathered shafts, broken halberds, shattered fragments of weapons whose origins had long been forgotten. Some were polished and preserved despite the centuries, others rusted and worn by wind and ice, yet all remained embedded in the ground with unwavering permanence. They stretched across the entire plateau like a silent forest of iron, a graveyard not of bodies but of warriors.

At the very center of the cemetery stood one blade larger than all the others. Its steel was darker and heavier, its hilt towering above the surrounding weapons like a king among soldiers, rising from the frozen earth alone as if watching over every warrior laid to rest beneath the sky.

The wyverns descended toward a wide landing ground near the inner wall. Snow erupted beneath their claws as they touched down one after another, powerful wings folding slowly as the riders dismounted. The moment Trafalgar’s boots met the ground, the cold struck far harder than it had in the air. Up here the wind had nothing to break it, rushing across the plateau like a blade drawn endlessly across the mountain and biting through fabric and armor alike.

Ahead of them, the massive gates of the fortress stood closed. For several seconds nothing moved. Then a deep metallic groan rolled across the plateau as ancient mechanisms stirred within the walls, iron chains shifting and unseen gears grinding under immense strain. Snow crumbled from the seams of the stone as the portcullis slowly began to rise, the sound echoing across the cemetery of blades.

Beyond the gates waited stone corridors, severe architecture, and walls thick enough to endure storms and sieges alike. Everything about the place carried the same spirit that defined House Morgain itself, disciplined, unyielding, and carved to last long after those who walked its halls were gone.

From the shadow of the rising gate, a figure stepped forward. Lady Seradra walked across the snow with measured steps, her boots pressing firmly into the frozen ground. Her blond hair, streaked faintly with silver, was tied high behind her head, shifting lightly with the wind. Crimson eyes swept across the arriving formation with sharp clarity, taking in every face one by one.

At fifty years old, she still stood tall and straight, the posture of a warrior who had never allowed age to soften her discipline. The heavy cloak draped across her shoulders moved slowly in the mountain wind, the Morgain crest catching the pale morning light.

Her gaze moved from Valttair to the heirs, to the wives, and finally across the rest of the family gathered on the landing ground.

"I didn’t expect the main family to return here so soon."

"Collateral damage of the war," Valttair replied, his voice flat. "Nym had to kill Sylvar because he was infected by Icarus. There was no other solution."

Grey eyes steady. Face carved from the same stone as the fortress behind him. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

Seradra looked at him for several seconds without speaking. Then her expression hardened and she stepped forward, her hand seizing the front of his coat before anyone could react.

A ripple of shock moved through the gathering. The wives froze. Several heirs stared openly. Even Trafalgar blinked.

"Valttair." Her voice was low but sharp. "You don’t have to perform strength in front of me." Her grip tightened slightly. "Your son just died."

The wind moved through the cemetery behind them, whispering between the blades planted in the frozen earth.

"This war had nothing to do with our family," she continued. "And yet you dragged us into it. We are not mercenaries. We are Morgains."

Valttair’s response came without hesitation. "Let go, Seradra."

She held him a moment longer. Then her tongue clicked softly. "Tch."

Her hand released the fabric of his coat. To everyone watching, the confrontation ended there. But standing that close, she caught something the others could not. A flicker behind his eyes, brief and quickly buried. Pain. A wound deeper than anything he would ever allow the rest of the family to see.

A father burying his son. The order of the world reversed.

Valttair would never allow that grief to surface. Not in front of his wives. Not in front of his heirs. But Seradra had stood close enough to see the truth beneath the mask, and her voice lowered to something only he could hear.

"You’re a fool," she murmured. "But you’re my brother. Don’t be stubborn about this."

Valttair gave no reply. He simply stepped past her and walked toward the open gate.

The rest of the family followed. Inside, stone corridors stretched beneath towering walls, snow gathered in the corners of courtyards where the wind managed to slip through, and armored knights moved silently between the structures. Everything felt ancient and unforgiving, a fortress that had stood through centuries of storms and war alike.

Valttair did not slow his steps. The pain remained buried exactly where he had placed it. The world was not kind, and it never waited for anyone.