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

The carriage wheels hadn't even come to a full stop before Bruce pushed the door open and practically launched himself out.

He landed with a deep breath and a hand pressed to his chest, looking like a soldier who had just escaped a battlefield.

"Sweet mercy. I thought one of them was going to strangle the other. Or me."

He muttered under his breath.

Kyle stepped out next, composed as always, his sharp gaze sweeping across the familiar gates of Armstrong territory.

Before he could say a word, Bernard, the Armstrong estate's ever-efficient butler, appeared with a respectful bow.

"Young Master Kyle, His Grace the Duke wishes for you to report to him immediately. He requests your presence before anything else."

Bernard said with a nod

Kyle nodded without hesitation.

"Of course. Please make sure my guest and companions are comfortable until I return."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Silvy's posture straightened, her eyes gleaming with victory.

She turned toward Melissa, her expression practically glowing.

"Guest. How refined.""

She said smugly.

Melissa crossed her arms, unimpressed.

"Don't get ahead of yourself. You're just a guest. Temporary. Meanwhile, I'm a companion. That's a different status."

"Oh? You share that title with Bruce. I don't share mine with anyone."

Silvy tilted her head.

The two women locked eyes, tension flaring between them like a lit match.

Even Queen, circling in the sky above, seemed to slow its flight as if wary of the brewing storm.

Bernard, noticing the heated exchange, wisely stepped in.

"Ladies, allow me to show you to your rooms. We've prepared separate accommodations to ensure your comfort."

He interjected smoothly.

Melissa gave one last sharp glance in Silvy's direction, while Silvy responded with a delicate smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

As Bernard led them away in opposite directions, Bruce leaned toward Kyle and whispered.

"I'd rather fight another monster horde than be stuck in a carriage with them again."

Kyle didn't respond, but a faint, tired sigh escaped him as he turned toward the Duke's chambers.

Behind him, the tension lingered in the air like smoke—unspoken, but undeniably present.

______

As Kyle made his way through the familiar halls of the Armstrong estate toward the Duke's office, he was met by a figure leaning against one of the marble columns ahead.

Christan straightened, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Where do you think you're going? Off to report something to Father, I assume. Tell me—what are you planning to say?"

Christan asked coolly.

Kyle didn't slow his pace.

"It's none of your business."

Christan stepped directly into Kyle's path, blocking the hallway with a deliberate stance.

"It is my business. I won't let you take another step until you tell me what you're here to tell him."

Kyle came to a stop, his eyes calm but unreadable.

"This is your last warning. Step aside, or I'll move you myself."

He said, voice low and steady.

Christan's smirk widened, tinged with mockery.

"There it is. The empty threat. You won't lay a hand on me—you never have. You think you're above it. Besides, I'm your brother. You wouldn't dare."

Before he could finish the sentence, Kyle moved.

With a swift motion, Kyle seized Christan by the front of his coat and shoved him aside.

It wasn't an act of violence born of rage, but a display of quiet, effortless strength.

Christan stumbled, wide-eyed and off balance, and before he could react, Kyle was already walking past him, not even sparing him a glance.

"You should've moved when I warned you."

Kyle said without breaking stride.

Christan stared after him, stunned into silence, fury and disbelief warring across his face.

He had expected another one of Kyle's calm retreats, not this show of dominance.

The sound of Kyle's footsteps echoed down the hall, leaving Christan behind—speechless, and for the first time in a long while, uncertain.

Christan stood frozen, eyes wide and disbelieving as he stared at Kyle's retreating back.

His pride—no, his entire worldview—had been rattled by what just happened.

Kyle had never dared to lay a hand on him before. Never challenged him openly. Never won so decisively.

That wasn't the frail, obedient little brother he remembered. That was someone else entirely.

Snarling in frustration, Christan took a step forward and reached out.

'He couldn't let it end like this.'

His hand shot out and grabbed the back of Kyle's collar. He tugged, expecting resistance but also expecting to pull Kyle off balance, to reclaim the upper hand.

Instead, Kyle didn't budge.

Christan pulled harder. Nothing. Kyle stood unmoved, not even swaying from the force.

"You're pathetic. If you're that interested in tossing people around, let me show you how it's actually done."

Kyle said, voice cold as steel.

Before Christan could react, Kyle turned and grabbed his outstretched arm.

The grip was brutal—tight, unyielding, and far too strong. Christan let out a sharp gasp as pressure flared through his wrist.

"Let go!"

Christan snapped, trying to pull back, but Kyle didn't flinch.

"I said I'd show you. Feel that? That's what it means to actually have strength."

Kyle muttered, twisting Christan's arm just slightly.

Not enough to break it—but enough to make the pain scream up his forearm.

Christan's face contorted, a mix of rage and fear flashing across it.

He grit his teeth, refusing to scream but unable to hide his pain.

"You'll regret this. I swear you'll—!"

He hissed.

Kyle didn't reply. His eyes flicked up toward the end of the corridor—he felt it before he saw it.

A powerful mana signature approaching fast.

The Duke.

Kyle released Christan with a jerk. The sudden lack of support made Christan stumble.

He clutched his aching wrist, knees wobbling as he sank to the floor with a low grunt.

"Damn it…!"

"What happened here?"

The deep voice was calm, but it carried weight.

Christan's head whipped up as the Duke stepped into view, his presence cutting through the tension in the corridor like a blade.

Kyle turned and bowed his head lightly, offering a respectful greeting.

"F-Father! He attacked me! Did you see what he did?! You have to punish him. This—this is completely unacceptable!"

Christan said quickly, seizing the moment. He scrambled to his feet, still holding his injured wrist.

The Duke didn't respond at first.

His gaze swept over Christan—shaking legs, desperate eyes, flushed cheeks—and then to Kyle, who stood composed, unreadable, untouched.

"Pick yourself up, Christan. You're embarrassing the Armstrong name with your whining and your trembling.

The Duke said flatly.

Christan blinked.

But—Father—!"

"Now."

Christan's jaw snapped shut. The words were clear. No support. No defense. Nothing to fall back on.

Biting his lip to keep himself from saying something he would regret, Christan turned and stalked off down the hall, shoulders tight with humiliation.

Kyle watched him go, and only then did he glance toward the Duke.

The Duke, meanwhile, hadn't looked away from Kyle for a moment.

There was no reprimand. No anger. Only silent evaluation.

Kyle didn't need words to understand—his father was watching. Measuring. Testing.

And in that moment, Kyle realized that this entire encounter, from the second he walked into the hallway, had likely been a test. One not set by Christan, but by the Duke himself.

And Kyle had passed.