Chapter 267: Undress

The teleportation light faded, and Trafalgar’s boots landed on cold stone.They were back.

The floating island, the council, the Elders, the political tension thick enough to choke on—gone.

Instead, the familiar weight of Morgain Castle settled over him like an old, unwelcome cloak: towering obsidian walls, drifting snow outside the windows, corridors carved into the mountain itself.

But today, the atmosphere was different.

No chatter.

No mocking laughter.

No casual threats tossed between siblings.

Only movement—efficient, sharp, purposeful.

As soon as Valttair stepped off the platform, the Morgains snapped into action.

Lady Seraphine issued orders to the servants with a clipped voice, already preparing communications to imperial allies.

Lady Verena barked for reports from the Morgain military divisions.

Lady Naevia gathered healers.

Lady Ysolde whispered something urgent to Darion and Elira.

The heirs moved just as quickly:

Maeron left in silence, expression hardened into pure focus.

Helgar marched off toward the training barracks.

Sylvar disappeared with two tacticians.

Even Rivena, normally arrogant and unpredictable, moved without protest.

They obeyed Valttair without a single complaint.

Trafalgar watched all of it from the side.

’Of course. They might hate each other, hate me—hell, they might hate breathing—but when Valttair speaks, everyone shuts up and moves. That’s why they’re one of the Eight.’

Valttair’s presence was a gravitational force few dared resist.

When Trafalgar stepped forward and spoke—"Give me something to make me stronger"—Valttair didn’t respond with words.

Just a small gesture. Barely a motion.

But every heir noticed it.

And every heir turned to glare at Trafalgar in varying shades of jealousy, hostility, or raw resentment.

Most of them thought it was favoritism.

Trafalgar didn’t give a damn.

’Let them be mad,’ he thought. ’I was born with better talent than any of you. Deal with it. I’m not feeling sorry for anyone in this family—certainly not after how you treated the old Trafalgar.’

With the decisions made and the orders given, the siblings broke apart, heading toward their missions.

Trafalgar, for once left without a complicated assignment, simply headed to his chambers.

No need for him to scheme or lead a battalion.

Valttair wanted him alive, developing, and out of the battlefield.

And Trafalgar wasn’t going to complain.

’Good. Better to survive than die for a family that barely tolerates me.’

As he walked deeper into the castle, snow drifted past a nearby window, vanishing into the abyss below the mountain. The cold stung his skin, but his mind drifted elsewhere.

’Icarus... so that bastard was an SSS talent all along. I saw him in Velkaris and didn’t even notice. Who knows how old he is... or how strong.’

A chill ran down his spine.

’This war is going to be hell.’

Trafalgar pushed open the door to his quarters, expecting the familiar stillness of an empty room—cold sheets, dim mana lamps, and silence he could finally breathe in.

Instead, someone was already inside.

Caelum stood near the window, pale-gray hair neatly combed, gloved hands behind his back, posture perfectly straight. Only his eyes moved, following Trafalgar as he entered.

Trafalgar stopped dead. "Caelum? The hell are you doing in my room?"

The man bowed slightly. "Young master."

"That doesn’t answer the question."

Caelum blinked once. "Your father requests your presence. He ordered me to wait here until you returned."

Trafalgar stared at him for a moment, then let out a low breath. "Of course he did. He couldn’t even give me ten minutes."

Caelum offered the faintest shrug—an almost imperceptible motion. "Lord Valttair prefers efficiency."

Trafalgar closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a second. The quiet pressed in around them. Outside the window, snow drifted past, slow and endless, like the whole world was holding its breath.

He sighed. "So. War, huh?"

Caelum didn’t flinch. "Yes. It will be catastrophic."

"You sound unusually honest today," Trafalgar muttered.

"My apologies," Caelum replied, though his voice didn’t sound sorry at all. "The situation warrants directness."

Trafalgar kicked off a snowflake from his boot. "What do you think? House Sylvanel vs House Thal’Zar? How bad is this going to get?"

Caelum hesitated—not out of doubt, but out of careful calculation. "You’ve seen Valttair’s strength, young master. And he is only one of the Eight."

Trafalgar dragged a hand down his face. "Great. So we’re fucked."

Caelum’s lips twitched. "That is... one interpretation."

Trafalgar pushed off the door and shot him a sideways look. "You know, I’ve always wondered why your job is so damn important. Nobody knows you exist, yet you act like you actually run things."

Caelum adjusted a glove. "My predecessors served the same way. Silent, unseen, but indispensable. Our work has kept House Morgain afloat for centuries. It will continue."

"And where do I fit in?" Trafalgar asked.

Caelum turned his golden eyes fully on him. "You are the future of the House, young master. That is all you need to know for now."

Trafalgar stiffened slightly. "...Right."

Caelum stepped toward the door. "We should go. Lord Valttair dislikes waiting."

"Yeah, yeah," Trafalgar muttered. "Lead the way."

They exited the room together and began walking down the quiet corridor, snow filtering through the windows like falling ash.

Caelum led the way through the long stone corridor, boots silent against the polished floor. Trafalgar followed a few steps behind, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The air inside the Morgain castle felt heavier than usual—like the walls themselves were listening.

Servants passed them occasionally, bowing low with a crisp, formal "Lord Trafalgar" before scurrying off. It still felt surreal.

’Guess respect isn’t so bad when it’s not fake,’ he thought. ’At least they don’t look at me like I’m garbage anymore.’

Caelum glanced back once, as if checking that Trafalgar hadn’t vanished. "Young master."

"Yeah?"

"Before we arrive, you should know... Lord Valttair is in a particular mood."

Trafalgar raised a brow. "Oh great. Because he’s usually such a radiant ball of sunshine."

Caelum didn’t dignify that with a reaction. "The war decision has placed many variables in motion. He is calculating. Focused. He will expect clarity from you."

"What—do you want me to sit straight and not piss him off?" Trafalgar asked dryly.

"That would be a good start."

Trafalgar rolled his eyes. "Noted."

They turned a corner. The hall widened, decorated with banners of the Morgain crest fluttering faintly as cold drafts slipped through narrow windows. The deeper they went, the fewer servants appeared, replaced by armored retainers standing guard with emotionless discipline.

It felt less like a home and more like a fortress.

’Makes sense,’ Trafalgar thought. ’With what’s coming... this place is going to need to hold.’

Caelum slowed his pace slightly so Trafalgar walked beside him instead of behind.

"You asked earlier," Caelum said quietly, "why someone like me holds such a role despite being unseen."

"Yeah."

Caelum kept his eyes ahead. "A family as ruthless as Morgain cannot survive on strength alone. Someone must monitor the shadows. Prevent internal decay. Remove threats before they grow teeth."

Trafalgar studied him out of the corner of his eye. "So you’re a... what? Assassin? Spy? Babysitter?"

"A caretaker," Caelum replied. "In the broadest sense."

Trafalgar snorted. "You ’take care’ of a lot of things, huh?"

"Indeed."

They approached a set of reinforced doors—the kind only used for important matters. Two elite guards saluted stiffly as Caelum stopped in front of them.

"Your father waits inside," Caelum said.

Trafalgar exhaled and rolled his shoulders. "Right. Time to hear whatever bullshit scheme he’s got planned."

Caelum stepped aside. "With respect, young master... do not call it ’bullshit’ to his face."

Trafalgar almost smiled. "Don’t worry. I’m not suicidal."

Trafalgar pushed the heavy doors open and stepped inside.

The room was empty except for one man.

Valttair du Morgain stood near the center—platinum hair loose around his shoulders, arms behind his back, posture as unyielding as the mountains outside. His eyes lifted, sharp and emotionless, fixing on Trafalgar the moment he entered.

Trafalgar bowed his head slightly—formal, respectful, exactly as one should before the Patriarch.

"Father."

Valttair didn’t waste a second.

"You told me you wanted something to grow stronger."

The words weren’t a question. They were a continuation—as if Valttair had already been thinking about it and simply resumed the thought the moment Trafalgar arrived.

Trafalgar kept his voice steady. "Yes, Father."

Valttair tilted his head a fraction. "And you meant it?"

"I did."

A long silence stretched between them. Valttair studied him—not with affection, or pride, or even curiosity. It was the stare of a commander assessing whether a blade was sharp enough to be worth reforging.

Then—

"Good," Valttair said. "Then undress."

Trafalgar blinked once.

"...What?"

Valttair’s expression didn’t move. Not a twitch. Not a flicker.

"Do not make me repeat myself."

Trafalgar’s brain stalled for half a second, mouth opening then closing again.

’What the fuck did I walk into—’

He straightened instinctively, forcing his face into a mask of obedience.

"...Understood, Father."

Valttair gave a single nod, the gesture as quiet and lethal as the man himself.