Chapter 258: The Patriarch’s Expectations

Chapter 258: Chapter 258: The Patriarch’s ExpectationsThe cold air clung to their clothes as Trafalgar and Lysandra stepped out of the treeline and into the mansion’s garden. Snow coated the marble path in a thin, untouched layer, muffling every footstep. Behind them, the forest where they had just fought lay silent again, as if it had swallowed all traces of their clash.

Trafalgar loosened his grip on Maledicta; the blade dissolved into black motes of mana, fading back into his system inventory with a faint shimmer. Lysandra did the same—her white longsword broke apart in a swirl of pale light, scattering like fragments of moon dust before vanishing completely. The cold bit harder without the lingering warmth of combat.

Lysandra exhaled, turning to face him. "Well," she murmured, a gentle smile tugging at her lips, "that was refreshing. You’ve improved. A lot."

Trafalgar rolled one shoulder, feeling the last remnants of potion warmth settling into his muscles. "Don’t sound so shocked," he replied, tone dry. "I’m not planning to stay weak forever."

She huffed a soft laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Good. I’d be offended if you did." Her gaze shifted past him, toward the garden’s center.

A massive wyvern rested near the frozen fountain—white-scaled, wings folded neatly, its breath billowing in faint curls of frost. The creature lifted its head as Lysandra approached, rumbling in quiet recognition.

She placed a hand on its snout before glancing back at Trafalgar. "I’ll be leaving now. There’s still work to do in our territory... and Father wants updates."

Trafalgar nodded, hands in his pockets, breath misting in the cold. "Safe trip," he said, voice flat but sincere in its own way.

Lysandra paused, eyes softening for a heartbeat. "And... Trafalgar? Be careful with Father. He sees potential, not people." She climbed onto the wyvern’s saddle, posture straight and composed. "Don’t let him shape you into something you’re not."

He met her gaze steadily. "I know."

The wyvern spread its wings, each movement sending a wave of cold air rippling across the garden. Snow swirled as the creature leapt upward, wings beating once, twice, then carrying them into the gray morning sky.

Trafalgar watched until the silhouette vanished over Euclid’s rooftops, the city blanketed in winter hush.

Trafalgar pushed open the mansion doors, a faint creak echoing through the vast entrance hall. Warm mana lamps glowed along the walls, melting the cold from his skin as he stepped inside. Despite the light, the place felt... hollow.

He walked forward, boots tapping against polished marble. Not a single coat, weapon rack, or personal belonging remained. No servants rushing around, no distant bickering of siblings, no echo of arrogant voices filling the corridor.

Just silence.

’Huh,’ Trafalgar thought, hands sliding deeper into his pockets. ’Did they wipe the place of every last parasite already?’

A soft presence approached from the right. The elven maid—the same one who once tried to "assist" him with his personal needs—stopped a respectful distance away, posture perfectly straight. Her expression was neutral, professional... though Trafalgar knew from experience she could switch into something far less innocent if he allowed it.

He didn’t.

She bowed her head slightly. "Welcome back, Lord Trafalgar."

He raised an eyebrow. "Has everyone from my family left already?"

"Yes, my lord," she replied smoothly. "All members of House Morgain have departed Euclid."

He waited.

She continued.

"...all except Lord Valttair du Morgain."

Trafalgar stilled, jaw tightening just a fraction. "Yeah I know..." he muttered under his breath.

The maid, hearing but pretending not to, added, "The Patriarch requested your presence. He is waiting in the guest hall."

Trafalgar released a slow exhale, watching it fog faintly before fading. ’Perfect. The old man stuck around just to scold me or give me orders. What a fantastic thing.’

Still, he nodded once, expression unreadable. "Guess I shouldn’t keep him waiting."

The maid stepped aside, giving him a clear path down the long corridor. As Trafalgar walked, the warm glow of the lamps flickered across his pale features, highlighting the faint exhaustion under his eyes.

The mansion felt enormous now—quiet, clean, orderly... almost too calm.

A bad sign.

With each step closer to the guest hall, Trafalgar felt the weight of what awaited him tighten across his shoulders.

’Let’s get this over with.’

Trafalgar walked down the corridor with a steady, unhurried gait, hands buried in his coat pockets. The mana lamps bathed the long hall in warm orange light, but it did little to soften the cold quiet of the mansion. Without the swarm of Morgain heirs filling every room, the place felt hollow—like someone had drained its life and left only polished marble behind.

The elven maid followed at a respectful distance, silent as a shadow. She knew better than to speak. With Valttair waiting ahead, tension filled the air like a charged spell.

Trafalgar let his thoughts drift as he walked, though the memories they stirred were anything but calm.

Fifteen years’ worth of the old Trafalgar’s life—humiliation, neglect, being the invisible ninth child no one cared to acknowledge. Trafalgar had inherited all of that. Every bruise. Every bitter lesson. Every lonely day.

And all of it came from being irrelevant.

Then, six months ago, Valttair learned the truth.

SSS Talent.

One of only five in the world.

The Patriarch’s entire attitude flipped overnight.

Not because of concern.

Not because he suddenly decided to be a father.

But because he found value—something the previous Trafalgar never had.

’He ignored the kid for almost sixteen years,’ Trafalgar thought, jaw tightening. ’And now he acts like I’m the centerpiece of his damned legacy.’

The worst part? Trafalgar didn’t even hate him for it.

He understood it.

In this world, talent was everything.

Power was status.

Survival was transactional.

And Trafalgar was here to survive—nothing else.

’He sees a weapon,’ Trafalgar reminded himself. ’Not a son. Never a son.’

He wasn’t planning to act like one anyway.

The corridor ahead ended at a large doorway—the guest hall. The air felt heavier here, as if the mansion itself knew who awaited him behind the door.

The maid finally spoke, her tone quiet. "Shall I announce you, my lord?"

Trafalgar shook his head with a dry exhale. "No need. He’s expecting me."

’Let’s get this shit over with,’ he thought.

He pushed the door open.

Valttair du Morgain stood near the center of the room, his imposing figure hard to ignore. Long platinum-blond hair fell freely down his back, sharp grey eyes locking onto Trafalgar the instant he stepped inside. His black robes contrasted with his muscular build, and the severe expression he always wore made him look like judgment itself incarnate.

"Ah. Son," Valttair said, tone calm but firm. "You arrived quickly."

Trafalgar resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ’Still think he shouldn’t call me that... but whatever. Let’s play along.’

He kept his posture relaxed. "Hello, Father."

Valttair’s gaze swept over him—checking for injuries, measuring his condition, evaluating him like a tool he couldn’t afford to let break. When the Patriarch seemed satisfied, he gave a small, approving nod.

"Good. We have matters to discuss. Urgent ones."

Trafalgar walked closer, hands in his pockets. "I assumed so."

Valttair didn’t hesitate. "The Council approaches. When it begins, you must remain cautious. Extremely cautious."

Trafalgar lifted an eyebrow. "...Why?"

Valttair’s voice deepened slightly. "Because this Council will be unlike any other. Tensions among the Eight Families have escalated beyond repair. It is almost certain that one of the Eight will be eliminated, specifically, one of the two families involved in the matter."

Trafalgar paused mid-step. ’Eliminated... a whole family? Damn.’

Valttair continued, tone steady and cold. "If that happens, another will take their place. A shift unprecedented in history. And the consequences will reshape the world."

Trafalgar kept his expression still. "And this involves me how?"

"Because," Valttair said sharply, "you cannot allow yourself to be endangered. Not at the Council, not afterward. Your value is far too high to risk. You must not be harmed or wasted."

Trafalgar’s internal reaction was instant. ’Of course. Not "stay safe because you’re my kid." Just "don’t break the expensive asset." Typical.’

Still, he nodded. "I understand."

Valttair met his gaze with those blade-like grey eyes. "Good. Whether you like it or not, your talent places you among the pillars shaping the future of our house."

Trafalgar stayed silent, face unreadable.

Inside, he muttered to himself:

’Yeah... the future. As long as I’m useful.’

Valttair’s gaze lingered on Trafalgar, sharp and unreadable. His tone remained cold, polished, and emotionless—perfectly Morgain.

"Well. I don’t want to take more of your precious time, son," he said, the word cutting rather than affectionate. "But remember—attending the Council is not optional. You will be there."


He paused. Then his next sentence came with cutting calm:

"Especially if you want your little girl to remain unharmed."

The temperature in the room dropped.

Trafalgar’s aura flared—pure killing intent, sharp as a guillotine. For a split second, it filled the entire hall, suffocating, violent, lethal. His eyes locked onto Valttair’s, cold enough to freeze steel.

Then he forced himself to reel it back.

A Morgain heir didn’t attack the Patriarch.

Not even he was stupid enough to cross that line.

Valttair chuckled—low, amused, unbothered.

"Forgive me, forgive me," he said with a smirk that held no real apology. "Just a joke."

His expression shifted only slightly. "Relax. She won’t be harmed."

’Shit...’ Trafalgar thought, jaw clenching. ’Of course he’d know. He probably knows everything I do. If I’m in his spotlight, there’s no hiding anything.’

Valttair continued calmly, as if they hadn’t just exchanged thinly veiled threats.

"Although I must say," he mused, "your choice in companionship is... unusual for a Morgain. A maid? It’s not unheard of, but still—" His grey eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "I can arrange a proper match for you. There are several suitable candidates."

"No." Trafalgar’s answer came sharp and immediate—cold as an executioner’s blade.

Valttair’s eyes flickered. "You don’t have a voice or a vote in my decisions," he replied without raising his tone. Pure authority.

Trafalgar took one step forward, meeting that gaze head-on. "If you want the future of this family secure," he said slowly with a firm voice, "don’t do that."

Silence.

Valttair studied him. Analyzing. Measuring. Not as a father—but as a strategist assessing a valuable piece. After several long seconds, he spoke again, his voice carrying not warmth, but a cold approval.

"...I like it," he said. "Yes... this is good. Very good. That change in you—I approve. This is how the future heir of the Morgain family should be." His lips curved faintly, but there was no affection behind it. "Brave. Firm. Even willing to stand against the head of the family."

Trafalgar remained still, unreadable.

Inside, his thoughts were simple:

’If only you knew why I really do it.’