SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant

Maledicta remained at the assassin’s throat.

The blade did not need to press deeper. It was already close enough that the message had been delivered a long time ago. One wrong move or one bad twitch, and his neck would open before he could finish regretting it.

Around him, Zafira’s crimson threads held firm.

They crossed his limbs, chest, and shoulders in tight lines that had stopped being restraints and become a sentence, Blood had already started to gather where a few of them bit into flesh. The assassin had understood by now that neither of them was in the mood to play with him much longer.

The sea wind swept across the rooftop, carrying salt, dust, poison, and the faint copper stink of fresh blood.

Trafalgar felt the venom inside his body even now. It had not left. It clung to his muscles and breath like grit dragged through the veins, roughening his movements in a way he found deeply irritating. Primordial Body was already tearing through it, stripping away the worst of it before it could root itself deeper, though that did not make it any less annoying.

He wanted answers before the toxin became a bigger problem.

”Who sent you?”

The question came out flat and direct.

He did not expect much from it. Men like this rarely answered anything worth hearing. Usually they hid behind the same rotten lines. If I tell you, they kill me slower. Better to die here. Better to keep my tongue. Better to pretend loyalty mattered after the contract had already failed.

The assassin stared at him.

Then he laughed.

It was not a healthy sound. Not even close. It scraped out of him in short, ugly bursts, the kind of laugh that made it obvious the man had spent too many years around filth and knives.

Trafalgar did not move.

The assassin finally let the laughter die and exhaled.

”I was hired,” he said. ”By someone.”

His torn mouth twisted under the split cloth.

”I don’t know the name. What I do know is that this someone worked for someone else. Which means I truly have no idea who wanted you dead, Trafalgar du Morgain.”

Trafalgar kept the sword where it was.

The answer sounded plausible enough to be irritating.

The assassin gave a faint shrug, or as much of one as Zafira’s threads allowed.

”But I will admit, I did not expect to find you together with Lady Zafira du Zar’khael. His tone turned oily. Amused. ”For that, I would like to apologize. I did not know this beautiful demon lady was accompanying Trafalgar, another heir of the Eight Great Families. Oh, wait. Could it be that...”

He got no farther.

Zafira’s fingers moved.

Her threads tightened at once, and blood burst from all four of his limbs. Not enough to take them off. Enough to make his body jerk and his voice crack under the pain.

He hissed through his teeth and coughed out a weak laugh.

”Seems I touched something I should not have.”

Trafalgar ignored that.

”Why do they want me dead?”

The assassin drew a rough breath and spat blood to the side.

”How should I know, kid? You’re the new SSS talent. Use your head. Some family that dislikes your family would be the logical answer.” He raised his chin as much as the threads allowed. ”But I already told you. Everything came through an intermediary. I know nothing useful.”

His mouth curled again, a little uglier this time.

”So, can I go now? I already got paid. I can disappear, you keep your little lady safe, and...”

He stopped.

Trafalgar saw the change before he fully understood it.

Something shifted inside the man’s mouth.

His thoughts aligned instantly.

’Bomb.’

Trafalgar moved without warning.

He grabbed Zafira in a princess carry, one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back, and jumped.

The poisoned stiffness in his body made the motion rougher than he liked, but it did not slow him enough to matter. He crossed from one rooftop to the next in a single dark blur, coat snapping in the wind as the building beneath them vanished behind his shoulder.

Zafira’s body went rigid in his arms from pure surprise.

Her hood hid most of her face, but heat had already climbed into it. A faint flush spread across her cheeks before she could stop it. Thankfully for her, Trafalgar saw none of it.

He landed hard on the next roof, boots grinding against old tile, and turned at

once.

The corpse exploded.

The sound was wet before it was loud.

The assassin’s body came apart in a violent red burst, flesh and bone ripping outward across the rooftop in every direction. Blood sprayed over chimney stone and broken tiles. Strips of meat slapped against the far wall. Something pale and long that had once been part of his insides sailed through the air and hit the roof with a sickening noise.

Trafalgar’s expression hardened.

That was not something placed there to kill him in the middle of the fight. It had been made for this exact outcome. Delayed activation and precise timing. Whoever had arranged it had expected the assassin to fail, expected him to beg, expected a conversation, expected the kind of pause that came once the winner loosened his guard. If the assassin could not kill his target, the device would erase him before he gave away anything useful.

At least the rooftop stood far enough from the busier parts of the city that the blast should not have taken anyone else with it.

He lowered Zafira onto the roof.

”Are you alright?” he asked.

By the time she faced him, the warmth had already vanished from her face.

That part of her was gone. Hidden again beneath hood, pride, and irritation.

”That is what I should ask you,” she replied. ”Are you alright? You fought him

longer.”

Trafalgar glanced down at himself and flexed one hand once.

The poison persisted. It had weakened, though not enough to ignore. His body

would finish dealing with it, but he had no interest in letting it linger longer

than necessary.

”I’ll live,” he said. ”But I should treat this sooner rather than later.”

Before either of them could move, voices rose from below.

”Up there!”

”Stop right there!”

Two guards from Mariven Port appeared first, climbing fast over the edge of

the building. Both carried single-shot mana rifles already raised, long-barreled weapons built for clean, heavy bursts rather than sustained fire. Their boots hit the rooftop with more confidence than wisdom.

A third figure followed close behind them, older and broader, with a presence

Trafalgar recognized at once.

Andrew von Mariven.

The lord of Mariven came forward with fury already written across his face,

coat thrown over clothes he had clearly put on in a hurry.

”What are you doing in my city?!”

The two guards spread out, rifles aimed, one toward Trafalgar, the other toward Zafira. Neither of them looked pleased with the situation. Worse for them, recognition was already starting to creep in.

Trafalgar stepped forward before either man could make a mistake.

”Long time no see, Lord Andrew von Mariven,” he said. ”I think we could have a

very good conversation.”

Andrew froze.

The voice reached him before the full picture did, and his whole body tightened at once. The anger on his face shifted shape. Not gone. Forced to

adjust.

He knew that voice. He knew it far too well. A second later, the rest caught up. The dark hair. The calm tone. The sword.

Andrew’s posture straightened at once, and he turned toward his guards with sudden urgency. ’SHIT!’

”Secure the area!” he barked. ”Now! I will handle this myself!”

The two men obeyed instantly, relief and confusion mixing on their faces as

they rushed toward the edge of the roof and began shouting orders to the streets below.

Andrew turned back to Trafalgar, and his voice came out vastly more polite than it had a breath ago.

”Lord Trafalgar,” he said, ”if you would please follow me to my residence, I

would appreciate at least some explanation regarding what has occurred

tonight.” Trafalgar studied him.

The assassin’s remains were still spread across the neighboring roof. Zafira’s

threads floated faintly in the night air behind him. The poison in his blood had not gone anywhere. Andrew von Mariven, meanwhile, looked like a man who had understood with admirable speed that this was not a situation he wanted

to mishandle.

That made the rest easier.

Trafalgar gave a slight nod. ”It would be my pleasure.”