SSS Talent: From Trash to Tyrant-Chapter 389: The Fall of the Thal’zar [III]

The lycan did not snarl or bare his teeth.

He shifted his grip on the spear instead, planting one clawed foot back, posture tightening as his gaze traced the armor, the sword, the way Trafalgar held himself. There was caution there, but also something closer to respect.

"...You feel different," the lycan said, voice rough but steady. "A worthy opponent."

Trafalgar did not answer.

The lycan’s lips pulled into a sharp grin.

"Tell me your name."

A brief pause followed, just long enough for the sounds of the battlefield to rush in again, steel screaming against steel, spells detonating somewhere behind them.

"Trafalgar du Morgain," he said calmly.

The lycan’s ears twitched. He nodded once.

"Ohhh," he replied. "I am Raskel. It’s an honor to face someone of the Eight Great Families." His grip tightened. "If I fall to your blade, then that was simply my fate."

Trafalgar said nothing.

Raskel exhaled through his nose, then moved.

The spear came forward in a sudden thrust, fast enough to blur, the point aimed straight for Trafalgar’s center mass. Trafalgar shifted a fraction to the side, letting the tip pass close enough that the air displaced against his armor. He stepped in immediately, blade rising—

Too far.

Raskel pulled back just in time, using the reach of his weapon to force distance again. The lycan laughed once, sharp and short.

"You’re strong," he said, circling. "Wouldn’t expect anything less from a Morgain."

Another thrust came, then another, each one angled differently, testing reactions, trying to catch a rhythm. Trafalgar’s feet moved with measured precision, pivots and half-steps carrying him just outside the line of impact. Sparks jumped where the spear scraped against obsidian plating, the force absorbed without breaking his balance.

Raskel’s breathing began to change.

He pressed harder.

The spear lashed out in a wider arc, meant to force Trafalgar back, and this time Trafalgar answered. Mana surged through Maledicta as he swung once, clean and controlled. [Arc Slash]. A horizontal wave of dark-blue mana tore forward.

It slammed into the spear mid-shaft with a thunderous crack. The weapon held, runes flaring as they resisted the cut, but the force carried through it all the same. Raskel’s arms jolted violently, his stance breaking as he was shoved backward a full step, claws digging into the ground to keep from falling.

His eyes widened.

Trafalgar was already moving.

He closed the distance in an instant, speed exploding through his limbs without the aid of another skill, relying purely on strength and timing. Raskel reacted on instinct, dragging the spear back up to guard, thrusting again to reclaim space.

Too slow.

Trafalgar slipped past the point, letting the weapon slide by his side as he stepped inside its reach. The spear came back around in a desperate sweep, forcing Trafalgar to turn with it, steel ringing as Maledicta met the shaft.

A parry.

He twisted his wrist, redirecting the momentum outward.

The spear snapped.

The sound was sharp and final.

For half a heartbeat, Raskel simply stared at the two broken halves in his hands, confusion flashing across his face as his brain tried to catch up to what had happened.

"...So that’s how it ends," he muttered.

Trafalgar did not hesitate.

Maledicta rose and fell in a single, decisive motion.

"Seems fate isn’t being generous with you," he said quietly.

Slash!

The blade cut cleanly through.

Raskel’s head separated at the jaw, the upper half tumbling away while the lower remained attached to the body for a split second longer before collapsing. Both pieces hit the ground in opposite directions, blood splashing dark against the churned earth.

The body followed.

Silence pressed in around Trafalgar for just a moment, thin and fleeting, before the battlefield rushed back to fill the space. Somewhere nearby, someone screamed. A spell detonated behind him. Steel struck bone again.

Trafalgar lowered his blade.

This was the first life he had taken in this war.

He did not linger on it.

The battle swallowed the moment whole.

Raskel’s body had barely finished falling before another figure rushed past, and then another. The space where the duel had happened closed as if it had never existed, boots trampling blood into the dirt, spells tearing through the air above, steel meeting flesh again and again. No one stopped. No one looked twice.

Neither did Trafalgar.

He stepped forward, Maledicta moving with him, the weight of the blade familiar in his grip. His armor took another impact from the side, claws scraping uselessly against obsidian before Garrika intercepted the attacker in a blur of motion. Somewhere behind him, Arthur’s unit held formation, pushing steadily, methodically, exactly as they had trained.

Lives ended around him in quick succession.

Some by his hand. Others by those fighting beside him.

He did not count them.

Counting would only slow him down.

For a brief moment, as he pushed through another cluster of bodies and broken summons, his gaze lifted on instinct, drawn upward rather than forward.

The sky had changed.

Clouds had gathered thick and low, pressing down on the battlefield like a lid being slowly sealed shut. The light dulled, colors flattening under the heavy gray, and a chill crept into the air, subtle but unmistakable. The wind shifted, carrying the metallic scent of blood upward instead of away.

It looked like rain.

The thought came unbidden, quiet and distant amid the noise.

It felt as if the world itself was preparing to mourn.

So many lives would end here today. Soldiers. Beasts. People who had woken up believing they might survive another sunrise. There was no ceremony for them, no pause long enough to acknowledge what was being lost.

There never was.

Trafalgar lowered his gaze back to the battlefield.

Whether the sky cried or not would change nothing.

This war would not stop. Not for rain. Not for grief. Not for the weight pressing down on his chest as the fighting dragged on.

A drop of water struck the obsidian plate at his shoulder.

Then another.

They slid down the armor and vanished into the dirt, darkening it further, mixing with blood until the ground became a slick, indistinguishable mess beneath their feet.

The rain had begun.

Trafalgar tightened his grip on Maledicta and moved forward once more.

The world could weep if it wished.

He would keep fighting.