SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant-Chapter 337: An Ordinary Night

The hotel they chose for the night sat near the quieter side of Salca, its exterior closer to an old roadside inn than anything one would call refined. Stone walls weathered by time, wooden beams darkened with age, the kind of place that blended naturally into a city that didn’t try to impress anyone. From the outside, it looked exactly like what Salca was—simple, unassuming, ordinary.

Inside, the contrast was immediate.

The interior was clean, warm, and far more modern than the façade suggested. Soft lighting, polished floors, wards subtly embedded into the walls for comfort and safety. Not luxurious, but well kept. Enough to rest properly. Enough to let one breathe.

They were given separate rooms.

Before heading down the corridor, Bartholomew hesitated, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag as he looked at Trafalgar. "W-we’re going tomorrow, right?" he asked. "To the place Mathias mentioned."

"Yes," Trafalgar replied without hesitation. "That’s why we came here."

He paused for a moment, then added casually, "Do you want me to go alone?"

Bartholomew blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. "N-no," he said after a second. "I mean... I’d rather we went together." His voice lowered slightly. "But it’s a monster hunting field. We’ll be fine... right?"

Trafalgar didn’t answer immediately. For a brief instant, the image of the Leviathan surfaced in his mind—the sheer scale of it, the pressure, the weight of killing something that should never have existed. Compared to that, a low-level hunting field barely registered as a threat.

"We’ll be fine," he said at last, certainty carrying naturally in his tone. "Without a doubt."

That seemed to be enough.

Bartholomew nodded, visibly reassured, and the tension he carried eased just a little. They exchanged a few final words, nothing important, nothing heavy, and then went their separate ways.

Each door closed softly behind them, leaving the corridor quiet once more as the night in Salca settled in.

Trafalgar entered his room and closed the door behind him, the latch clicking softly into place. The space was simple but comfortable, the kind meant for travelers who stayed only a night or two. He crossed it without turning on the main light and lay back on the bed, hands folding behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling.

Two paths lay open in front of him.

He could go with Bartholomew the next day, follow the explanation they had given Mathias, walk into that hunting field openly and see what remained. Or he could go alone, slip out while the city slept, when fewer eyes lingered and fewer questions followed.

He already knew which one made more sense.

Even if Bartholomew went, he likely wouldn’t discover anything. Whatever waited there wasn’t meant for him. And the Veiled Woman—if she appeared at all—would never reveal herself in front of someone else. That much felt certain, the same way some truths settled into his bones without needing proof.

Trafalgar exhaled slowly.

He would go alone.

Later. When the night had thinned and the paths were quiet. It was a monster hunting field, nothing more, and compared to what he had faced before, it barely qualified as danger. At worst, it would be a walk through shadows and blood, a routine sweep to clear creatures that never should have been there in the first place.

His thoughts drifted as he lay there, fingers interlaced beneath his head.

What would he say if she appeared?

’Why me?’

’Why Trafalgar?’

’Why the title cursed heir?’

’Why am I important?’

The questions surfaced one after another, circling endlessly. He wondered if she knew the truth—that he came from another world. If she had played any role in it at all. The memory of her words returned unbidden, as sharp as the day he first heard them.

’Stay alive, cursed heir.’

Trafalgar closed his eyes.

This time, if she stood before him, he wouldn’t hold anything back. He didn’t care if it meant revealing everything, even the truth he had guarded more closely than his own life. He needed answers. And she was the only one who had ever seemed capable of giving them.

The room remained silent, the night pressing gently against the window, as Trafalgar let the decision settle fully into place.

The silence didn’t break all at once.

A voice came from the chair beside the window, calm and unhurried, as if it had always belonged to that room.

"What are you thinking about so much?"

Trafalgar moved on instinct.

Mana surged, sharp and immediate, and Maledicta materialized in his hand as he twisted off the bed. For a heartbeat, cold crept up his spine. He hadn’t heard a door. Hadn’t felt a presence. His senses were stretched as far as they could go—and still, someone had entered without leaving a trace.

If it was an enemy like that, he would already be dead.

He didn’t wait to confirm.

[Severance Step].

The room warped. His body blurred, space folding just enough for him to reappear several steps away, blade raised, stance low and ready. His eyes locked onto the chair by the window.

And froze.

It was a woman.

No—her.

The voice he had heard a year ago. The one that had stayed with him through blood, fire, and silence. Soft, melancholic, carrying the weight of something far older than the room it now occupied.

She sat with her legs crossed, posture relaxed, as if his reaction hadn’t mattered at all.

A black veil covered her face. A dark dress traced a slender figure beneath it, fabric falling like shadow rather than cloth. She hadn’t changed. Or perhaps she had never needed to.

The Veiled Woman.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The air felt tight, like the pause before a storm finally chose where to strike.

After a year in this world—after Selara’s compass, after the Gluttony Dragon, after deliberately not searching for her—Trafalgar finally understood.

He hadn’t found her.

She had decided it was time to find him.

His grip tightened around Maledicta, then slowly loosened.

So this was it.

The questions he had carried like scars. The answers he had chased without knowing where to look. All of it stood quietly in front of him now, seated by a window in a room that suddenly felt too small.

Trafalgar straightened, blade still in hand, eyes fixed on her veil.

This time, he was ready.

And whatever truths she had come to give—or take—they were finally within reach.