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

Kyle sat at his desk, quietly flipping through stacks of reports and budget proposals.

Ink smudged his fingertips and the candlelight flickered across the polished wood, casting long shadows on the walls. He barely looked up when someone knocked at the door.

"Enter."

Bruce stepped in, holding a sealed letter.

"Young master, you've received mail. It's from Marquess Terrance."

Kyle raised a brow.

"Terrance? Who's that?"

Bruce sighed as he walked over and placed the envelope in front of Kyle.

"The noble in charge of the territory where we found that underground temple, remember? The one where the divine energy was being funneled."

Kyle leaned back in his chair and took the envelope, examining the seal.

"And what does this Terrance want with me?"

Bruce gave a small shrug.

"Could be anything, honestly. Nobles tend to extend olive branches when they're scared—or when they see a chance for personal gain. It might be a genuine gesture… or a trap to use your name for political leverage."

Kyle broke the seal and unfolded the letter, eyes scanning its neat script.

The letter was formal and polite, an invitation to dine and "discuss the recent developments within the Marquess's territory." A vague and diplomatic way of saying:

'You're making a mess in my backyard, and I want to know why.'

Bruce tilted his head.

"Should I reject it for you? We don't owe him anything."

Kyle was silent for a moment, then set the letter down with a soft thump.

"No. Prepare to leave."

Bruce blinked.

"You're accepting?"

Kyle gave a wry smile.

"The Marquess put in effort to invite me personally. It would be rude not to show up and see what he wants. Besides, I want to see what kind of man panics when someone cleans up his messes."

He added, leaning back and stretching.

Bruce chuckled and nodded.

"Understood. I'll draft a formal reply and arrange our travel."

Within the hour, Bruce had penned a courteous response and dispatched a rider to deliver it. Meanwhile, at the Marquess's estate, panic was brewing.

Marquess Terrance paced back and forth in his ornate sitting room, wringing his hands.

"What if this was a mistake? What if I offended him by calling him here? What if he thinks I'm trying to control him? What if—"

"—he sends a dragon to burn the estate down?"

One of the advisors muttered under his breath, earning a swift glare from the others.

"Calm yourself, my lord. You extended a respectful invitation. No more, no less. There is no offense in that."

Said Lady Vernia, ever composed.

"But he's Kyle Armstrong! He's torn apart a divine cult, led battles, and silenced entire factions just by existing. What if he reads too much into this?"

Terrance hissed.

Elrick tried to sound reassuring.

"If he had any hostile intentions, he would not bother replying at all. His acceptance means he's willing to speak. That is a good sign."

Terrance swallowed nervously and sat down, brushing his sweaty palms on his sleeves.

"Right. Of course. A peaceful dinner. Just two nobles talking. Nothing to fear."

Just then, a servant entered the room, bowing low.

"A reply from Lord Kyle Armstrong, my lord. His entourage will arrive by sunset tomorrow."

Terrance took the letter with trembling fingers, barely managing to break the seal. As he read the reply, his face went pale, then flushed red.

"He's coming. Gods help me, he's really coming…"

Lady Vernia gave him a tight smile.

"Then we had best prepare. You wanted to speak with him face to face. Now is your chance."

Elrick nodded.

"We must ensure the dinner is flawless. No surprises. No provocations. And please, my lord… practice your lines without stuttering this time."

The Marquess groaned and slumped in his chair.

"I'm doomed."

______

Marquess Terrance stood by the window of his estate's great hall, watching the sun begin to dip behind the horizon.

The sky was painted in shades of amber and violet, yet the beauty of the scene did little to calm the thundering in his chest. Kyle Armstrong had accepted the invitation.

The duke's youngest son—the Grand Duchess's betrothed—the man who had torn apart a divine cult and made nobles whisper his name with dread. That man was coming.

A strange blend of terror and relief clawed at Terrance's gut. It was good he had accepted.

At least now there was a chance to clarify things, to make sure Kyle didn't misunderstand his intentions. But now that the moment was real, so too was the danger.

"We don't have much time. Spare no effort. I want this dinner to be flawless."

Terrance muttered, turning away from the window.

His advisors bowed.

"Understood, my lord."

They echoed, before scurrying off to oversee the preparations.

But even as the halls filled with servants polishing silverware, chefs rushing to prepare exquisite dishes, and decorators arranging the dining hall, quiet dissatisfaction lingered in the hearts of several advisors.

To them, this entire ordeal was a waste of time. Yes, Kyle Armstrong was dangerous. Yes, he had made a name for himself on the battlefield.

But politically? He had no standing yet. He was still a minor noble without an official title of his own, a man who hadn't taken a step into court.

Many of the Marquess's retainers whispered among themselves as they worked.

'Why go over the top for someone who didn't even sit in council? Why treat a political ghost like royalty?'

But despite their silent complaints, the preparations were completed in time.

Just before sunset, the sounds of hooves echoed from beyond the estate gates.

The Marquess rushed to the entrance, his robes slightly crooked in his haste, and forced a stiff smile onto his face as Kyle Armstrong's entourage rode in.

Kyle, seated on a black horse, was dressed simply in noble attire with only his crest subtly pinned to his chest.

"Lord Armstrong! It is an honor to receive you in my humble home."

Terrance greeted, bowing lower than protocol demanded.

Kyle dismounted without ceremony.

"Let's keep this short, Marquess. I have little time, so I'd appreciate it if we got to the point."

Terrance blinked. Kyle's voice was calm, but his presence was crushing.

It wasn't just his reputation—his very aura seemed to press down on the people around him, sharp and suffocating like a blade drawn at the throat.

Terrance had once seen a soldier break down from fear during a skirmish, and he now understood that sensation far too intimately.

This was no ordinary noble.

As they walked side by side through the estate halls, Terrance's legs trembled slightly.

His mouth was dry. His carefully memorized lines, practiced a dozen times that morning, refused to rise in his throat.

Finally, in the quiet of the reception chamber, Kyle turned to him with a dispassionate gaze.

"So, Marquess. What is it you wanted from me?"

That was it.

All composure, all political pride, crumbled.

The Marquess dropped to his knees in front of Kyle.

"Please don't take my territory!"

He blurted, voice high and desperate.

"This land is all I have! I know—I know I've been negligent, but if you want taxes or a share of the harvest, I'll give it! I just… please don't take it away! It's my only source of livelihood!"