Chapter 269: Burning Out the Remnants

Trafalgar inhaled slowly, lowering himself onto the cold stone floor exactly as Valttair instructed. The chamber was silent—no echoes, no wind, no servants—just the faint hum of mana gathering around the patriarch like a growing storm.

Valttair stepped behind him with the slow, deliberate certainty of a man used to reshaping the world with his bare hands.But before placing his hand on Trafalgar’s back, he spoke.

"Before we begin," Valttair said, eyes briefly flicking to the serpent-like mark on Trafalgar’s forearm, "I forgot to ask earlier—why did you imprint a tattoo on yourself?"

Trafalgar kept his posture steady. "Oh. I liked it, so I wanted one."

Valttair stared for a second, then dismissed the topic with a quiet breath.

"Very well. It does not matter as long as you’re doing what you have to do. Do what you want."

He moved fully behind Trafalgar again.

"Still your breath," he ordered. "When I begin, you do not move. You do not scream. You must endure."

Trafalgar clenched his jaw. "Yes, Father."

Valttair placed one calloused hand between Trafalgar’s shoulder blades.

The air changed instantly.

Mana—pure, dense, refined to its highest quality—surged out of Valttair’s body like compressed lightning. Trafalgar barely had time to tense before it slammed into him, pouring directly into his mana channels, rushing toward his core.

Pain detonated.

It wasn’t sharp or localized. It was everywhere.

His veins felt like molten metal. His bones vibrated until he thought they would shatter. His muscles seized as if someone was twisting them from the inside out.

He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, vision flashing white.

"Steady," Valttair murmured, voice unshaken. "This is only the beginning."

Only the beginning?

Trafalgar nearly cursed out loud as the next wave of mana hit harder, smashing into the remnants of the curse like a hammer breaking rotten glass.

He felt something tear inside him—threads of foul, decayed energy ripping apart under the force of Valttair’s purity.

It burned.

It froze.

It scraped.

A raw, suffocating pressure filled his torso as the curse fought back, lashing at his channels like claws made of shadows.

Valttair’s voice sharpened. "Do not resist. Let my mana force it out."

Easy for him to say.

Trafalgar’s head dropped forward, breath ragged. ’Fuck—this hurts—this actually hurts—it’s worst than Sword Insight.’

His fingers dug into the stone floor, nails cracking against it.

Another surge hit. This time the pain was so intense his consciousness flickered. A ringing filled his ears. He felt his body trying to fold in on itself, instinctively wanting to escape the agony.

Valttair pressed harder, pushing even more mana inside him.

"Endure it," the patriarch said, tone still chillingly calm. "Your body must be cleansed. Every last trace of that filth must be destroyed."

Trafalgar’s vision blurred, the edges turning dark.

He heard his own heartbeat pounding and felt a snap inside his core as a final pocket of the curse ruptured.

It felt like being stabbed from the inside.

A strangled breath escaped him.

But beneath the agony... something else stirred.

A deeper warmth.

A pulse that wasn’t Valttair’s mana—something ancient, something woven into his very flesh.

The Primordial Body responding.

Healing. Reinforcing. Quietly stabilizing him just before the pain could break him.

Trafalgar didn’t notice it consciously... but his body did.

Valttair paused only long enough to let Trafalgar breathe once.

"Good," he said. "Your body is withstanding more than I expected."

Another surge gathered in his hand.

Valttair didn’t give him even a heartbeat of warning.

The next surge of mana hit Trafalgar’s back like a hammer made of molten iron—thick, invasive, and impossibly sharp. Trafalgar’s spine arched, breath catching as the patriarch’s aura burrowed straight toward his mana core.

A choked sound escaped him before he could stop it.

Valttair’s tone was steady, surgical.

"Do not panic. These are only remnants. But they cling deeper than most filth."

Only remnants.

Only.

’Feels like you’re trying to fry my organs...’

He forced himself to inhale—shallow, burning breaths as Valttair pushed more mana through him, flushing the residue like poison from an old wound.

The lingering curse reacted—not like a living thing, but like stubborn grime resisting a scrub. A faint sting pulsed through Trafalgar’s channels, sparks of pain lighting beneath his skin.

Valttair increased the pressure.

Trafalgar’s fingers curled against the stone floor.

’Fuck—this is worse than the academy training... I shouldn’t have asked for this—’

Another pulse came. Not destructive—cleansing, but harsh enough that it felt like his skeleton vibrated. The remnants loosened, peeling away from the walls of his channels like brittle frost under heat.

Valttair nodded once, almost to himself. "Good. Your body responds well. Better than expected."

Trafalgar didn’t trust himself to speak. He just grit his teeth as a dull ache spread across his ribs and sternum.

A final controlled injection of mana washed through him—less violent, more precise. It swept through his limbs, chest, and core, collecting the last particles of the curse remnants like dust caught in a current.

Not agony. Just pressure. Heavy, uncomfortable, but manageable.

And then—relief.

Just... a quiet release of tension he hadn’t realized he carried.

His shoulders dropped slightly as the pain faded to a faint throb.

He didn’t feel reborn. He didn’t feel transformed. But something inside him was cleaner, clearer—like a hallway with the dirt finally swept off the floor.

Valttair withdrew his hand, expression focused and unreadable.

"It’s done," he said. "The remnants are weakened. Your channels are no longer contaminated."

Valttair exhaled once—slow, steady, controlled—before placing his hand again on Trafalgar’s bare back. But this time, there was a shift. The air thickened, mana gathering like a storm tightening into a single point.

"Good," Valttair said. "The remnants are gone. Now we begin what actually matters."

Trafalgar stiffened. "...That wasn’t what mattered?"

Valttair didn’t even glance at him. "No. That was preparation. The foundation."

Trafalgar stared at the ground, heart dropping into his stomach. ’Preparation? That shit felt like he was grilling my insides. What the hell counts as the real training then?’

Valttair continued, tone calm as if discussing the weather: "You asked to become stronger. That requires forcing your core past what it can naturally endure. You will not like this next part, but you will survive it."

Trafalgar’s fingers curled into fists. ’Oh fantastic. When a man like Valttair du Morgain says I "won’t like" something, that means I’m about to get my soul rearranged. Why did I open my stupid mouth and ask for power—’

Valttair’s grip tightened slightly. "Sit still. And breathe."

Trafalgar obeyed. He didn’t dare do anything else.

Valttair nodded once. "Good. Now... endure."

A surge of mana slammed into his core—ten times hotter, denser, and far more violent than before.

Trafalgar inhaled sharply as white-hot pain spread through his torso like molten steel filling cracks. It wasn’t the stabbing pain of the remnants—it was a pressure, crushing and expanding, stretching his mana core past its natural elasticity.

His thoughts spiraled instantly.

’Fuck—FUCK—this is insane—this is worse than anything I’ve ever felt—why did I ask for this—why the hell did I trust this man—’

He gritted his teeth, shoulders shaking as mana overloaded every channel, every nerve, every inch of his being. His vision blurred. Sweat broke across his forehead.

Valttair spoke again—calm, merciless. "This is only ten percent. Do not faint yet."

Trafalgar’s head snapped up. "T-ten—?!"

Valttair pressed harder, flooding him with another wave.

Trafalgar swore internally so hard he was surprised the walls didn’t crack.

’Ten percent!? TEN!? This man is actually trying to kill me—no, correction—he’s trying to kill me efficiently—’

Another pulse hit. A deep, primal ache radiated outward from his core, but beneath the agony... something faint stirred. The core trembled, pulsing, straining, like metal being forged under impossible heat.

Another wave of mana slammed into him—thicker, heavier, crushing from the inside like a vice made of pure energy.

Trafalgar’s breath hitched.

His muscles locked.

His vision fractured.

’He’s pushing harder—why is he pushing harder—?!’

Every instinct screamed at him to resist, to stop, to run, but he couldn’t move. His body wasn’t his anymore; it was an instrument being forcibly tuned by a master who didn’t care if the strings snapped in the process.

Valttair’s voice cut through the storm, steady and unrelenting. "Your core is stabilizing. Good. Then there is no need to hold back."

’No need—what!?’

A blast of mana far beyond the previous surges tore into Trafalgar’s core—the kind of force that felt like it should shatter him into dust. His spine arched involuntarily, fingers clawing into the floor.

A strangled breath escaped him.

’This is it—this is actually it—I’m going to black out—’

The world twisted sideways.

The cold stones blurred.

Sound thinned into a distant hum.

And then—

Darkness crashed over him.

Trafalgar simply... stopped.

His body remained seated exactly where he was, legs crossed in meditation posture, but every muscle slackened at once. His head tilted slightly downward, eyes closed, breath shallow—like a puppet whose strings had been cut, yet held upright by sheer residual tension.

Unconscious.

But unmoving.

A still statue sitting in a storm of mana.

Valttair did not stop.

Not even for a heartbeat.

"Good," he muttered, grip never loosening from Trafalgar’s back. His mana surged again, spiraling with surgical precision into Trafalgar’s inert form. "If you are unconscious, your resistance will not interfere. Your body will adapt on instinct."

Raw mana coursed through Trafalgar like a river carving a new path through stone. His fingers twitched. His shoulders shook. His breathing hitched but held.

His core pulsed erratically—straining, tearing, reforging.

Valttair’s eyes narrowed, analyzing every shift with cold hunger. ’Even unconscious, he endures. As if his body was designed for this.’

Another measured surge.

"Excellent," Valttair murmured. "This is far more efficient."

One final pulse of mana buried itself deep into Trafalgar’s core.

His unconscious body trembled violently—then began, slowly, to steady. Like molten metal cooling after being hammered into shape.

Valttair withdrew his hand.

Silence swallowed the chamber.

Trafalgar sat motionless—pale, drenched in sweat, breath thin but stable.

Barely but alive. And fundamentally changed, his very core reshaped under brutal, unforgiving force.