Reborn As Noble

Marquis Mikele smirked, swirling his wine lazily before glancing at Klimbert with amusement.

"Klimbert," he said, his tone dripping with condescension, "all the high nobles are gathered here. I believe you should prepare… food for us?"

Laughter rippled through the chamber. Some nobles chuckled, others smirked behind their goblets, enjoying the moment.

Klimbert gritted his teeth.

He was furious.

Entire Coalition army was unaccounted for. His messengers had vanished. His scouts were being sent on a mission that should never have been necessary.

And yet—

These bastards were treating it as a joke.

But he couldn't show weakness.

Not here.

Not in front of Duke Ibzles—who could crush his house with a single command.

Klimbert forced a tight-lipped smile and bowed slightly.

"…Of course, Marquis Mikele. I will have my chefs prepare a feast immediately."

Mikele's grin widened. "Good! See, everyone? Klimbert knows his place."

The other nobles laughed again.

Klimbert's hands clenched into fists beneath the table.

His rage burned, but he could do nothing.
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Not yet.

All he could do was wait.

Wait for his scouts to return.

Wait for answers.

Wait to see whether their troops were victorious… or if something far worse had happened.

As Klimbert forced a smile in front of the nobles, his mind was in complete turmoil.

I already sent 500 assassins to the Armand estate…

Yet they had vanished.

Not a single one had returned. Not a single report. Not even a corpse.

It was as if they had been erased from existence.

That alone was disturbing enough.

But it didn't stop there.

When he heard rumors that Garius's youngest son, Javier, would be attending the Noble Academy, he seized the opportunity.

He sent another team, blocking every possible route, ensuring there was no escape.

And yet—

Nothing.

The assassins had disappeared.

No reports. No bodies.

Just silence.

That should have been impossible.

But Klimbert still wasn't convinced.

In his frustration, he summoned the strongest assassin unit he had—the same unit that had once wiped out Garius's family when he was still a child.

Blakor and his elite assassins.

They were his best.

They had never failed before.

Until now.

No information. No reports.

Not even a trace of Blakor himself.

Klimbert's stomach twisted.

He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.

What… is happening?

It wasn't just that his armies were gone.

Even his shadow operatives—his most trusted assassins—had vanished into thin air.

It was impossible.

It was terrifying.

Yet, as the nobles laughed and drank around him, completely unaware—

Klimbert realized something truly horrifying.

The Armand region was no longer just strong.

It was something far, far worse.

Klimbert forced a fake smile, nodding at the nobles as he rose from his seat.

"Excuse me, my lords, I shall go inform my servants to prepare a grand feast for us."

His voice carried an artificial excitement, masking the storm raging inside him.

Duke Ibzles gave him a simple nod, his piercing gaze indifferent.

Marquis Mikele smirked, lazily waving him off. "Hurry back, Klimbert. You wouldn't want us to starve, would you?"

Klimbert chuckled, playing along. "Of course not, Marquis."

With that, he turned swiftly, his robes flowing behind him as he exited the hall.

But the moment he was beyond their sight—

His face darkened.

His hurried footsteps echoed against the marble floors as he rushed toward his private chamber.

Two elite guards opened the door without question, standing at attention as he stormed inside.

The heavy doors shut behind him, and a wave of tension filled the room.

Standing near the grand desk was his most trusted butler—Anem.

A man who had served his household since childhood, the only person Klimbert could truly rely on.

Klimbert exhaled sharply, gripping the desk. "Anem."

The butler bowed slightly. "Yes, my lord?"

Klimbert's voice lowered, his paranoia surfacing. "How many troops do we have left after the coalition's campaign?"

Anem replied without hesitation. "35,000 reserve troops, my lord. And 3,000 currently active."

Klimbert's fingers tapped against the wood, his thoughts racing.

The coalition army had absorbed the bulk of his forces, leaving him with what little he had managed to keep hidden.

He couldn't let anyone know.

His voice was firm. "Do not mention our reserve troops in front of any of these nobles. This force belongs to us, and it will be used only for our defense."

Anem's expression remained unreadable, but his loyalty was unquestionable. "Understood, my lord."

Klimbert clenched his fists.

If something happened to the coalition army… if those fools had walked into a trap… then at the very least, he had to ensure his own survival.

Because right now—

He had a terrible feeling that none of them were coming back.

Klimbert's grip on the desk tightened. His mind raced through possibilities, searching for a way to protect his own house while the other nobles foolishly threw their forces into the abyss.

"Anem."

The butler bowed slightly. "Yes, my lord?"

Klimbert's voice was low, urgent. "Tell the current 3,000 active troops to guard our own border. I will find an excuse to keep our army out of the next wave if necessary."

Anem nodded without hesitation. "It shall be done, my lord."

Klimbert exhaled, steadying himself.

Then, his gaze darkened.

"And Anem?"

Anem remained still. "Yes, my lord?"

Klimbert reached into a locked drawer, retrieving a small pouch filled with heavy gold coins. The clinking sound echoed in the quiet room.

He tossed it toward his butler.

Anem caught it effortlessly, his expression unchanging despite knowing exactly what this meant.

"Take this gold. Be ready to recruit mercenaries if needed. If the coalition demands more troops from us…"

Klimbert's lips curled into a cold smirk.

"We send the mercenaries instead of our own soldiers."

Anem bowed, tucking the gold away. "Understood, my lord."

Klimbert leaned back, fingers tapping against his desk.

The fools at the coalition table still believed they were in control.

Still believed Armand was weak.

Still believed this war was theirs to win.

But Klimbert knew better.

And he refused to let his house fall alongside theirs.

"Screw that ore mine."

"Screw that Saint of Three Gods bullshit."

Klimbert muttered under his breath, pacing inside his private chamber with his hands clenched into fists.

At first, he had viewed this war as an opportunity. If the coalition won, he could claim a portion of Armand's rich mines, expand his influence, and strengthen his position among the high nobles.

But now—

No.

Something was wrong.

Just like his assassins had vanished.

Just like every unit he had sent into the fray, disappearing without a trace.

And now, not a single soldier from the coalition army had returned.

No messengers. No survivors. No reports.

Nothing.

That could only mean one thing.

Something terrible had happened.

His breath hitched as a cold realization settled in.

If the coalition army was truly wiped out, the nobles would demand more troops from those still standing.

And if he continued to send his forces blindly into this war…

He would be next.

His priorities had shifted.

Survival first. Everything else be damned.

With swift determination, Klimbert marched to the door, throwing it open with urgency. The guards stationed outside immediately straightened, saluting him.

"Call my general. Now." His voice was sharp, leaving no room for hesitation.

One of the guards snapped to attention. "Understood, my lord!"

He ran down the corridor without a second thought.

Klimbert exhaled slowly, trying to calm the storm in his mind.

If the nobles wanted a war, let them fight it.

But he wasn't going to let his house die for their ambitions.

( End of Chapter )