SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant-Chapter 432: The Fall of the Thal’zar [XLVI]
Valttair moved first.
[Morgain’s Last Dusk]
Mana condensed along his blade until the surrounding air tightened under the strain. The vibration that followed was sharp and continuous, a rising metallic hum that made the fractured courtyard resonate in response. The white light of his sword did not flare outward; it compressed inward, refined into a single, lethal trajectory.
He stepped through the motion without excess.
The diagonal ascent cut upward through space itself, and the air parted cleanly along its path as though reality had been forced to accept the blade’s authority. The arc left behind a thin distortion that lingered for a fraction of a second before collapsing inward.
Trafalgar saw everything.
Not just the movement.
The structure.
The mana compression.
The timing of release.
Sword Insight activated.
The world narrowed.
The surge of void creatures, the fractured stone, the collapsing battlefield—all of it dimmed behind the clarity of the technique unfolding before him. Lines of mana structure overlaid Valttair’s movement in precise sequences. Flow control. Core alignment. Pressure layering. Release timing.
His vision pulsed.
Then the notification struck.
You have learned [Morgain’s Last Dusk].
Pain followed instantly.
It was internal and invasive, as if something had forced itself into his mind without permission. The structure of the technique carved itself into his awareness in violent fragments—mana channels reconfiguring, release patterns embedding, muscle memory forming without physical repetition.
A crushing pressure bloomed behind his eyes.
His vision blurred for half a heartbeat as the skill settled, not gently, but forcibly, embedding itself into the framework of his combat understanding. The headache was unreal, sharp and disorienting, as though his brain had been stretched to accommodate something it was not yet meant to hold.
And still—
He did not stop moving.
The intelligent Void creature was caught between them.
Valttair’s ascending arc intersected its frame at the same moment Trafalgar drove forward, forcing the creature into the line of execution. The white blade cleaved through its upper torso, void flesh parting under condensed light as the strike carried through bone, core structure, and wing base in one uninterrupted motion.
Half its body separated cleanly.
Dark fluid erupted across broken stone as its internal structure fractured under the combined pressure of accumulated damage and the decisive strike.
Yet in the sliver of time before collapse, the creature lashed out.
Its remaining arm condensed everything it had left into a single concentrated thrust aimed directly at Trafalgar’s chest. The attack was fast, compressed, meant to trade death for death.
Trafalgar’s body reacted before thought could form.
He shifted on instinct, the void strike grazing the space where his torso had been a fraction of a second earlier. The pressure tore past him and detonated into the courtyard behind, shattering stone in a violent shockwave.
The creature fell.
Its remaining half struck the ground heavily, motionless for a breath that felt suspended.
Then its eye flickered.
The collapse was feigned.
With the last of its control, it dragged itself across fractured stone and tore open a narrow, unstable rift beside its broken form. The distortion was small and uneven, barely sustainable, but sufficient.
Before anyone could close the distance, it slipped through.
The rift snapped shut.
Silence settled over the courtyard, broken only by distant combat still finishing at the edges.
The intelligent Void creature had escaped.
The fractured courtyard held for a moment after the rift sealed, as if the battlefield itself needed to confirm what had just happened.
Then Valttair exhaled sharply.
"... It escaped. It endured that in the end..." His jaw tightened as he lowered his blade slightly. "This is bad. We’ll need another Council. And we’ll need to clarify what happens from here onward..." He ran a hand briefly across his temple. "What a headache."
His voice rose without strain, but it carried across the entire courtyard.
"Finish the remaining void creatures. It’s over. Treat the wounded. I want the Thal’zar heirs brought to me."
The command moved through the field like a current.
The remaining void creatures, now cut off from reinforcement, were reduced to isolated clusters. Without fresh rifts opening behind them, their numbers diminished rapidly. Heirs who had already shifted into forward pressure closed in with clean execution. Beastkin advanced in coordinated pairs, eliminating stragglers. Elven mages stabilized sectors with controlled strikes rather than desperate bursts.
One by one, the rifts collapsed.
Some shrank inward and sealed with faint implosions. Others fractured along their edges before folding shut entirely, their distortion lines fading from the air as if erased. No new openings followed.
The courtyard gradually emptied of movement.
The last void body fell.
Silence replaced saturation.
What remained was ruin.
Broken stone. Scorched earth. Residual blue flames dying slowly between shattered debris. Bodies scattered without distinction of race. The air still heavy with burnt mana and the aftermath of concentrated force.
No one cheered.
No one declared victory.
Breathing was heavy. Movements were slower now that adrenaline no longer masked exhaustion. Medics and support heirs moved through the wreckage, stabilizing the wounded where possible. Others began gathering the fallen.
Valttair stood at the center of it, blade dematerialized, posture unchanged.
A presence formed beside him without dramatic arrival.
Elenara, Matriarch of House Sylvanel, stepped into view. Her expression was pleased, eyes already assessing the scale of damage and the implications beyond the courtyard.
She had arrived with Valttair.
Now the battle was finished.
What followed would not be decided by blades or skills.
Pipin’s flames dimmed as the vast phoenix form compressed, blue fire folding into itself until only the pale bird remained. He descended and settled lightly on Aubrelle’s shoulder, his small frame still warm from battle, wings adjusting once before becoming still.
And through him, she perceived the courtyard.
Blue fire spread across the shattered stone, deep and unnatural, crawling between debris and broken masonry with a slow, steady movement that gave the ruins an eerie glow. The air remained thick with residual mana, heavy and unsettled, drifting across the battlefield like the aftermath of something too large to fully dissipate.
Bodies lay scattered in uneven clusters.
Humans.
Beastkin.
Elves.
Void creatures.
There was no order to their placement, no visible separation of sides. They were simply there, collapsed where they had fallen, forming a silent testament to the scale of what had taken place.
At the center of the devastation stood a single figure in black armor.
The structure of the plates remained intact, reflecting the surrounding blue flames with a cold metallic sheen. The armor did not sag or fracture under the weight of combat; it held its form as if it had been made for this exact moment.
A black sword rested across his shoulder, its surface absorbing the firelight while a faint dark-blue pulse traced along the edge of the blade.
He remained motionless in the middle of the ruined courtyard, surrounded by corpses and blue fire, as though the battlefield had settled around him rather than the other way around. Every human, elf, lycan, and heir from the surrounding families who had stood against that tide of void creatures had witnessed it—the sea of bodies, the relentless advance, the massacre he carved through with his own hands.
Trafalgar stood there without triumph or visible strain, simply present at the center of the aftermath, and they had all seen what he had done in that ocean of void.
