Reborn as a Useless Noble with my SSS-Class Innate Talent

Tirakos lunged forward, its broken form still emanating terrifying pressure.

It's body moved unnaturally, limbs twitching, divine power dripping from every movement like blood from a wound.

Kyle tried to dodge, but his body was sluggish—his reactions dulled from the countless hits and exhaustion.

He wasn't fast enough.

Tirakos's hand closed around his wrist. The grip was like molten iron.

Pain seared through Kyle's arm.

Divine energy raced up his nerves, eating at his mana and flesh alike. It was like being branded from the inside out. He grit his teeth to keep from screaming.

But then—

A loud crack echoed through the ruined temple.

Kyle blinked through the pain.

Tirakos's body was breaking apart.

Deep fissures spread from its core, leaking golden light and unstable energy.

It let out a shriek—sharp and animalistic, like a beast in agony. The sound was rage, pain, and disbelief all at once.

Kyle didn't waste the moment.

He gathered the last of his mana, forming a makeshift sword in his free hand.

With a roar, he slammed it into the crack in Tirakos's chest. The divine shell splintered further, the crack spreading like a spiderweb through the god's unstable body.

Tirakos's glowing eyes met Kyle's.

For a second, there was something almost human in that gaze—fear. Regret. Hatred.

Then it collapsed backward.

Tirakos cursed under its breath as its form dissolved into light.

The energy scattered, pulled violently back into the void it came from. The rift sealed itself as the first rays of sunlight spilled across the horizon.

The god was gone.

The ritual was broken.

With its vessel gone, the magic powering the ceremony crumbled.

The energy rushed back into the ground, like a tide finally retreating. A thick silence followed—the kind that only comes after a disaster narrowly averted.

Kyle dropped to his knees, his breath coming in harsh gasps.

It was over.

Queen landed softly on his shoulder, letting out a quiet cry. Its presence grounded him.

"I know. That was too close."

Kyle muttered, half-laughing, half-exhausted.

He forced himself up and staggered toward the building where Silvy had taken position.

She had done more than her share. He could still remember the moment her arrow had turned the tide.

When he found her, she was unconscious.

Sprawled across the rooftop, bow still loosely gripped in her fingers. Her face was pale, her breathing shallow, but steady. He couldn't feel any of her mana.

She'd used everything.

Kyle bent down to lift her.

That's when he saw it.

Around her wrist was a faint circle, black and thorn-shaped, glowing dimly.

The markings pulsed with a strange energy—unfamiliar and dangerous. It looked like a curse.

Kyle reached toward it, but his own body wavered. He wasn't in any condition to do anything about it now.

"Later. I'll fix it later."

He whispered.

He picked Silvy up carefully and carried her back to the inn. His steps were heavy, slow.

Every part of him ached. His mind ran on fumes.

Once inside his room, he gently laid Silvy down on the bed.

Then, without ceremony, he collapsed beside her.

The last thoughts on his mind were jumbled—reports he had to file, evidence he needed to preserve, the rewards that needed categorizing. The paperwork would be a nightmare.

But at least he had written a letter to be sent in advance. Just in case things went wrong.

Queen, as if sensing the importance of that last task, hopped over to the desk.

It picked up the sealed letter with its beak and took off, flying through the open window with powerful beats of its wings.

The sky was clear now.

The sun had fully risen.

One god had been sent back, and the world would continue—at least for a little while longer.

______

Queen soared through the sky, swift and sure, the sealed letter clutched tightly in its claws.

The morning light shimmered off its feathers as it descended toward the sprawling Armstrong estate.

The staff below recognized the familiar silhouette of the hawk and opened the highest window just as Queen arrived.

With a flutter of wings, it landed gracefully on the wooden frame and dropped the letter into the waiting hands of Bruce.

Bruce glanced at the envelope and immediately noted the seal.

It was addressed directly to Duke Armstrong. The handwriting was unmistakably Kyle's—neat, precise, and efficient.

Without wasting a second, Bruce turned on his heel and headed straight for the Duke's office.

He hadn't gone far when a familiar voice cut across the corridor.

"Where do you think you're going with that?"

Bruce paused and looked up to see Christan, Duke Armstrong's second son, standing in his path.

There was a sly smile on Christan's face as he walked closer, eyes locked onto the envelope in Bruce's hand.

"That letter's for the Duke."

Bruce replied calmly.

"I'll take it. I'll make sure it reaches him."

Christan said, holding out his hand.

Bruce didn't budge.

"I'm afraid I was told to deliver it directly."

Christan's smile faltered.

"Are you refusing me, Bruce?"

"I'm following orders."

Bruce answered evenly.

"I am your superior. Do you really want to face the consequences of disobeying me?"

Christan snapped, his voice rising with irritation.

Bruce stared at him, unflinching.

"Is that all, young master?"

Christan blinked, caught off guard by the lack of fear or hesitation. Bruce's voice was respectful, but not submissive. Calm, but firm.

That subtle defiance hit harder than any open insult.

Bruce gave him a slight bow.

"If so, I'll take my leave. This letter is urgent."

He turned and began to walk away.

Christan's hand shot out instinctively, trying to grab Bruce's shoulder. But Bruce turned to face him so suddenly that Christan flinched.

Bruce said nothing.

He didn't need to.

His eyes were cold, steady, and unwavering. And then, without another word, he turned again and continued down the hall.

Christan stood rooted in place, the weight of the rejection sinking in.

"That Kyle…Fuck…Even his servants are arrogant. They all need a proper correction."

He muttered bitterly.

He didn't realize his voice had risen.

Nor did he notice the quiet presence at the end of the hallway—Duke Armstrong's personal aide, who had been walking toward the Duke's study when he'd overheard the entire interaction.

The aide paused, pulled out his record scroll, and began writing.

Christan Armstrong – assessed temperament unsuitable.

Remarks: Disregards estate protocol. Threatens staff. Disrespects heir and authority. Recommendation: Not fit to rule.

With a neutral expression, the aide turned around and headed in the opposite direction.

This was not the first mark against Christan, but it was certainly the most damning yet.

Meanwhile, Bruce, who had seen the aide and noticed the scribbling from the corner of his eye, couldn't stop the small, satisfied chuckle that slipped past his lips.

He didn't look back. He didn't need to.

Justice, after all, came in many forms. And sometimes, it came in the shape of silence, professionalism, and a pen quietly moving across paper.

"Well, that was rather convenient. I guess we don't need to make a move if Lord Christan would remove himself by acting out himself. Looks like I don't need to worry about it for some time."