SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant-Chapter 503: Back to Ordinary Days

Trafalgar had barely stepped out after changing when he found Bartholomew waiting nearby, books held close against his chest as if he had been standing there long enough to start wondering whether he should leave and come back later. The moment he noticed him, Bartholomew straightened so abruptly that his glasses nearly slipped down his nose, and he had to catch them with one hand before they fell properly.

Trafalgar stopped in front of him, faint amusement passing through his face. "Were you waiting for me, Barth?"

Bartholomew blinked at him, caught a little off guard by how direct the question was. "Y-yes... I thought we could go together." His voice dipped at the end, shy in the way it always did when he was not talking about history or books. "If you wanted to, I mean."

"Good," Trafalgar said, already starting to walk. "Let’s go."

Bartholomew fell into step beside him almost at once, and the two of them began heading across the academy grounds toward their next class. Students passed them in ones and twos, some carrying books, some still smelling faintly of the training fields, others moving with the dazed expression of people whose mornings had started earlier than they would have liked. It was ordinary in the best possible way.

Trafalgar broke the easy quiet first.

"What did you think of the little celebration we had?"

Bartholomew’s ears reddened almost immediately. "O-oh... I liked it. A lot, actually." His fingers shifted awkwardly against the spine of one of his books. "It was the first time anyone invited me to something like that, so I really appreciated it. Thank you. Truly."

Trafalgar glanced at him, the answer straightforward enough that it almost made him snort. "Why are you thanking me like that? We’re friends, aren’t we? That kind of thing is normal."

Bartholomew lowered his head a fraction, though the corner of his mouth gave him away. He was pleased, even if he seemed unsure what to do with it.

Trafalgar let the moment breathe for a step or two before adding, "Just remember that means you have to invite me too. Your celebration, your party, your wedding, whatever comes first."

Bartholomew turned red so fast it was almost impressive. He tugged lightly at the collar of his shirt as if he had suddenly found the morning warmer than it was, exposing a little more of his neck in the process. The movement drew more attention than he noticed. Two girls passing in the opposite direction slowed just enough to glance at him again before continuing on, one of them whispering something under her breath with a smile she probably thought neither of them had seen.

Trafalgar caught it.

He let his eyes rest on Bartholomew for a brief beat, taking in the clean line of his jaw, the pale hair, the fine features buried under far too much hesitation.

’He really has no idea, does he?’

The thought almost made him laugh.

’He’s absurdly handsome. If he had even a little more confidence, he’d probably be popular without trying.’

"Hm," Trafalgar murmured. "Anyone in mind? You got nervous fast."

Bartholomew nearly choked on nothing. "N-no. No, I don’t— I haven’t had time for that." He gripped his books tighter, as if they might somehow rescue him. "And anyway, who would want to be with someone like me?"

Trafalgar’s expression flattened at once, not harsh, but firm enough to stop that line before it sank any deeper.

"Don’t talk about yourself like that."

Bartholomew went quiet.

"You’ve got plenty going for you," Trafalgar continued. "More than you seem to notice. Sooner or later someone’s bound to get captivated."

That only made Bartholomew redder, which, in Trafalgar’s opinion, did him no favors at all. If anything, it made him stand out more. Another student glanced their way while crossing the path ahead of them, and Trafalgar had to resist the urge to point it out directly just to make the embarrassment complete.

Bartholomew seemed to sense the danger and changed the subject with obvious desperation.

"W-we should talk about you instead," he said. "You’re the one who caused a huge stir after coming back."

Trafalgar raised a brow. "Me?"

The answer came to him a second later.

Ah. Eryndor.

Bartholomew nodded quickly. "There are already people talking about what happened in class. That Trafalgar du Morgain managed to withstand a strike from Director Eryndor." His voice lowered as he said it, though the admiration in it remained. "Is it true?"

"Yes," Trafalgar replied. "It’s true. Director Eryndor got a little carried away." He thought back to the shattered wall and the cracks torn through the ground behind him, and the corner of his mouth moved faintly. "A little more than a little, maybe. But I’m fine. I’m not going to die from something like that."

Bartholomew stared at him with the kind of disbelief reserved for people who had stopped measuring their own lives against normal standards.

Trafalgar paid it no mind and kept going. "By the way, one of these days you’re going to have to catch me up on everything. Properly. And help me with the exams." He shot him a side glance. "I asked you last time already, but I’m reminding you."

That did something immediate to Bartholomew. He straightened a little, modest pride slipping through the usual nerves.

"Leave it to me," he said. "I told you before. I’ll handle it."

"There we go." Trafalgar’s tone lightened. "That sounds more like you."

They walked on beneath the clean academy light, side by side, with the next classroom slowly drawing closer. The mood stayed easy, the kind that only came when neither of them had to force it. Somewhere ahead, another figure waited near the path, white hair bright even at a distance.

Trafalgar recognized her before Bartholomew did.

"Looks like your sister’s waiting too," he said. "You didn’t go with her so you could wait for me? What a good friend you are, Barth."

Bartholomew made a small, embarrassed sound, but before he could answer, Cynthia had already noticed them. She was standing near the entrance with her usual practical look, more ready for movement than for appearance, long white hair falling cleanly behind her back, yellow eyes steady as ever. When she saw her brother beside Trafalgar, she straightened and walked the last few steps toward them.

"Good morning, Traf," she said. "Are you alright?"

That caught him slightly off guard.

Cynthia had never been subtle about how protective she was with Bartholomew, and for a long time that had meant keeping a certain distance from him too. Hearing direct concern from her like that was new.

"I’m fine," Trafalgar replied. "Why?"

Cynthia glanced at him from head to toe, as if checking for damage on instinct. "There are already people talking about what happened in Eryndor’s class. I wanted to make sure he hadn’t broken anything important."

Trafalgar almost smiled at that. "He came close, maybe. But I’m still alive."

"Good," she said, and left it there.

Bartholomew relaxed a little beside them, clearly grateful the attention had moved away from him again. Trafalgar noticed and let him have that mercy. The three of them turned toward the classroom entrance together, folding into the flow of students heading inside.

"Xavier and Zafira are already in," Cynthia said. "We should go."

"Let’s go, then," Trafalgar answered.

He followed them through the corridor with a quieter mood than before. It was a simple thing, walking to class with other students, hearing ordinary conversation around him, watching people carry books instead of weapons meant to kill. The academy had its own rhythm, and stepping back into it felt stranger than it should have.

When they reached the door, Trafalgar rested a hand on it for a brief instant before pushing it open.

"It’s been a while," he said. "I haven’t walked into a classroom in some time."

He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Professor Rhaldrin was already there, arranging the board and a stack of materials with the brisk efficiency that seemed permanently woven into him. He was small enough that, at a distance, someone unfamiliar with him might have mistaken him for a child in oversized scholar’s robes.

Up close, the mistake never lasted. His body was that of a humanoid rat, grey fur coarse and uneven, crimson eyes bright with quick intelligence, whiskers twitching every few seconds as he adjusted chalk, notes, and one heavy book that would have looked awkward in anyone else’s arms at his height. In his case, it looked ordinary.

Trafalgar moved toward his usual area without needing to think about it. Xavier was already there, half-turned in his seat, and Bartholomew slipped in beside him. In front of them sat Zafira and Cynthia, both ready for class in their own ways.

Xavier gave him a sideways grin the moment he sat down. "So they got to you first. I was thinking the spar myself, but that old uncle Eryndor—"

Trafalgar turned slightly toward him. "It feels strange hearing you call him that."

Xavier shrugged, unbothered. "For me, it’s normal. He’s practically family." He leaned back a little in his chair. "My mother’s always been close with Selara, Eryndor, and Kaelen. They’ve been around for as long as I can remember, so it comes out like that."

That fit well enough. Trafalgar could see it without effort. Xavier had that kind of ease with certain people, the kind born from long familiarity rather than position.

Xavier lowered his voice a fraction. "By the way, my mother wants to speak with you. Aubrelle too. A few others as well, from everything that happened with the war."

"I know," Trafalgar replied. "Eryndor already told me. But thanks."

Xavier nodded and left it there. The exchange did not need more than that. Around them, the room was filling quickly now. Chairs scraped softly against the floor, books opened, pens and notebooks shifted into place. A low layer of conversation floated through the classroom, light and ordinary, the kind that only belonged to students before a lesson properly began.

Professor Rhaldrin turned from the board and tapped one clawed hand against the desk at the front.

"Take your seats and pay attention."

He did not need to say it twice.

The room fell into order with practiced speed. Trafalgar leaned back slightly in his chair as the last scraps of chatter died away and the lesson began to take shape around him. Rhaldrin’s voice filled the classroom, dry and precise, chalk already moving across the board while the morning settled into something quiet and structured.

For the first time in a while, Trafalgar found himself sitting in an ordinary classroom again, with Xavier at his side, Bartholomew beside him, Cynthia and Zafira in front, and a professor beginning a normal history lesson.