SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

Chapter 333: Chapter 333: Blood Paid Forward

Trafalgar didn’t ask her name. He didn’t ask who sent her, or how many more were waiting beyond the walls of the café. He already knew the shape of this situation, the way it fit too neatly into patterns he had survived before. An isolated place just outside the city. A story vague enough to draw curiosity. Too many armed civilians sitting too comfortably close.

The dagger remained at her throat as his grip tightened, not with rage, but with the same measured control that guided everything else he did. The pressure increased little by little, enough for her breathing to turn shallow, enough for the truth to surface without words. The café stayed frozen around them, cups abandoned mid table, hands hovering uselessly near weapons no one dared to draw. Even Bartholomew, standing just behind Trafalgar, felt it, the moment slipping past the point of return. This wasn’t intimidation. This was a decision being carried out.

The blade cut.

Just enough.

Her body went slack in his grasp, weight dropping forward as life left her with a sound barely louder than a breath. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Shock rippled through the room, sharp and immediate, stripping away any remaining pretense. Someone swallowed too loudly. Another took a step back without realizing it. Bartholomew’s fingers tightened on the bowstring, eyes wide for a fraction of a second before he forced himself steady again, the reality of it settling heavier than he expected.

That hesitation spread. Fear did the rest.

Trafalgar let the body fall and straightened without looking at it again. Widow’s Whisper dissolved into mana in his hand, the weapon fading as if it had never existed. In its place, shadow hardened around him, Shadowhide Leather Armor forming seamlessly over his body, dark plates and layered leather locking into place as naturally as breath. A moment later, Maledicta answered his call, the familiar weight of the blade grounding him as it appeared in his grasp.

Trafalgar moved the moment the armor settled, Maledicta already angled forward as if the decision had been made long before the room caught up to it. He didn’t look back, but his voice carried clearly enough for Bartholomew to hear.

”Don’t hesitate.”

That was all.

Bartholomew swallowed once and acted. Mana flowed fast and uneven at first, then steadied as instinct took over. Two figures nearest to the tables stiffened as [Sleep] took hold, their weapons slipping from relaxed hands as their bodies collapsed into unconsciousness.

He drew the bow and released without aiming for vitals. [Piercing Shade Arrow] struck where it was meant to, shoulders and legs, joints rather than hearts. Cries of pain followed, sharp but alive, bodies hitting the floor unable to stand, unable to fight.

There was no confusion between them. Trafalgar advanced while Bartholomew controlled the space, one ending threats, the other removing them.

Mana twisted and compressed around Trafalgar’s legs as he used [Severance Step]. His movement curved unnaturally, his form blurring for a heartbeat before he reappeared behind the man clutching the firearm. The cut was immediate and precise. Steel passed through flesh and bone alike, and the hand came away cleanly, fingers still wrapped around the weapon as it fell to the floor with a dull tap, then another as it rolled free.

That was when panic broke.

Someone shouted. Chairs scraped back violently. The lancer moved without thinking, lunging from behind with a desperate forward thrust, mana flaring as [Spearbreaker Thrust] drove straight ahead. Trafalgar shifted aside at the last moment. The strike didn’t stop. It passed through the space he had occupied and buried itself into the body of the mutilated man still trying to scream, the force punching through him with a wet sound that cut the room silent all over again.

The lancer froze, realization arriving a fraction too late.

Trafalgar didn’t slow.

Maledicta traced a tight arc as mana poured into the blade, condensing into an inverted crescent. [Morgain’s Final Crescent] released in a single controlled motion, the strike landing with enough force to drop the lancer where he stood. The body hit the floor heavily, unmoving.

For the first time, the remaining attackers understood exactly what kind of fight they had stepped into.

They regrouped fast, steel scraping free as several swords came up at once. Trafalgar took them in with a single glance. Stances were uneven. Footwork sloppy. Grip too tense. Sword Insight stayed silent, and that told him everything he needed to know. There was nothing here worth learning.

One of them charged head-on, a straightforward swing fueled by panic more than skill. Trafalgar met it cleanly, Maledicta turning the blade aside with a sharp parry. Before the man could recover, Trafalgar’s free arm drove into the chest of another attacker rushing in from the side, knocking the air out of him and forcing both of them into the same line.

Mana dropped into his stance.

[Earthsplitter] came down in a two-phase cleave, the first impact cracking the floor, the second releasing a compressed shockwave that rippled outward. Stone fractured beneath their feet, the ground shuddering as both swordsmen were thrown off balance and stunned in place, bodies locked by the force of it.

Trafalgar was already shifting to finish it when movement flickered at the edge of his vision.

A shot from the side.

Bartholomew reacted before the threat could settle. [Piercing Shade Arrow] snapped through the air and struck true, tearing the weapon from the archer’s grip and sending it clattering across the floor. The man staggered, reaching instinctively for something else.

He didn’t get the chance.

[Severance Step] bent Trafalgar’s movement again, his figure blurring as he reappeared behind the archer. [Arc Slash] followed immediately, a horizontal wave of dark-blue mana cutting forward. The strike landed diagonally, clean and final, and the body collapsed in two uneven halves.

Blood slicked the floor now, the smell heavy in the air.

Trafalgar didn’t pause.

Two swords came at him from behind, nearly in sync. He couldn’t see them, but he didn’t need to. Maledicta snapped up behind his back, catching both blades in a blind block.

Clink!

Pain flared as one of them followed with a technique, mana twisting sharply as [Crosswind Edge] tore across his side. The world narrowed for an instant as Sword Insight activated.

[You have learned a new skill: [Crosswind Edge] (Common – Lv.1).]

The knowledge slammed into his mind like a spike, heat burning behind his eyes. Trafalgar gritted his teeth and forced it down, breath steadying even as blood ran warmer along his armor.

He turned.

[Morgain’s Requiem] unfolded in a controlled sequence, six precise cuts flowing into one another. Each slash released curved black waves that tore through the space around him, shadows biting deep and leaving bleeding wounds in their wake. The swordsmen never managed a second strike. They fell where they stood, bodies collapsing amid spreading red.

Only a few were left now.

The ones Bartholomew had put to sleep lay scattered where they had fallen, unmoving, breaths shallow but steady. And apart from them, just one remained standing. An older swordsman, hands shaking as he looked around at the bodies, at the blood soaking into the ruined floor, at the quiet that had settled like a verdict.

His sword slipped from his fingers and clattered against the stone. He dropped to his knees immediately after, palms pressing to the ground as his head bowed low.

”P-please,” he said, voice breaking. ”I surrender. I won’t—”

Trafalgar stepped closer, Maledicta held loosely at his side, the tip dark with blood. He looked down at the man without anger, without hesitation.

”I am Trafalgar du Morgain,” he said calmly. ”You should have known who you were facing before you tried anything.”

The words carried weight, not as a threat, but as fact.

”Wait.” Bartholomew moved before he could stop himself, bow lowering slightly. ”He’s surrendered. There’s no need—”

That was the mistake.

The sword hadn’t been abandoned. It hadn’t been dropped in panic.

It vanished.

Mana flickered, sharp and sudden, and the blade reappeared in the kneeling man’s hand, already swinging upward in a desperate, ugly arc aimed straight for Bartholomew.

”Shit,” Trafalgar muttered.

He moved without thinking, shoulder slamming into Bartholomew hard enough to throw him aside. The blade still cut through, grazing Bartholomew’s leg instead, blood spilling as he hit the floor.

Trafalgar was already there.

Maledicta met the sword mid-swing, steel ringing sharply as he parried and twisted. The weapon flew free from the man’s grip. Before he could even register the loss, Trafalgar drove a kick forward, brutal and precise, forcing him back down.

The fallen sword was still in motion.

Trafalgar caught it by the hilt, reversed it in one smooth movement, and drove it forward.

The blade punched through the man’s throat while he was still on his knees.

The body slumped forward, lifeless, blood pooling beneath him as silence reclaimed the room once more.

Trafalgar turned only after the body hit the ground.

His gaze went straight to Bartholomew. There was no rush in it, no panic, just a sharp assessment that lingered on the blood at his leg before lifting to his face.

”Are you alright?” he asked.

Bartholomew swallowed and nodded, breathing uneven but steady. ”Y-yeah,” he said, forcing the word out. ”It... just clipped me.”

That was enough.

Trafalgar’s attention shifted then, sweeping across what remained of the café. Tables overturned, chairs broken, blood smeared across stone and wood alike. The warmth of combat was fading, leaving behind a heavy, unnatural silence that pressed in from every corner.

”Bind the ones you put to sleep,” Trafalgar said calmly. ”We will check them. See what they know.”

Bartholomew nodded again, pushing himself upright despite the pain, already moving to do as told.

Trafalgar exhaled slowly, the tension finally slipping from his shoulders as he took in the wreckage one last time.

”So much,” he murmured under his breath, eyes narrowing slightly, ”for a single lead...”

He let out a quiet sigh.

Then—

Tap.

Tap.

The sound came from beyond the café’s entrance. Slow. Measured. Unhurried.

Footsteps.

They didn’t rush. Each step landed growing closer through the broken doorway, as if whoever was approaching had all the time in the world.