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

Marquess Terrance's sudden collapse onto his knees and desperate plea for mercy sent a ripple of stunned silence through the entire hall.

Even Kyle, who had expected some measure of nervousness, was momentarily taken aback.

The Marquess was practically groveling.

"Please don't take my land, Lord Kyle,"

He begged, forehead nearly touching the polished floor.

"This territory is all I have. I'll pay whatever tax you demand, I'll hand over whatever resources you want—but please don't strip me of my title!"

Around them, the Marquess's advisors stood frozen. A few exchanged wide-eyed glances, clearly unprepared for this pitiful display.

Several others looked down, their expressions twisted in shame and growing frustration. The embarrassment was palpable.

For some, this was the moment they began questioning why they had ever decided to tie themselves to such a spineless lord.

Kyle slowly crossed his arms, eyes fixed on the shivering noble at his feet. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet and dry.

"So this is the kind of man in charge of the border."

No one dared respond.

He sighed and crouched down slightly, placing a hand on the Marquess's shoulder.

"Get up. You're not losing your territory."

Terrance blinked up, confused.

"I—I'm not?"

"I'm not here to conquer anything. I've got enough trouble keeping my own lands running. I wouldn't take yours even if it was gift-wrapped. I came here tracking a group of petty thieves who were stupid enough to use your territory as a hideout."

Kyle said, his voice calm but firm.

Terrance's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. His wide eyes began to blur with tears of relief.

"Th-thieves?"

Kyle nodded.

"Temple cultists. The same ones you've probably been too busy fretting to notice crawling beneath your estate."

"Oh…Oh, thank the heavens… I've barely slept these past few days. I thought… I truly thought…"

The Marquess breathed, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.

Before he could finish, his body swayed and slumped forward. The nearest advisor rushed forward to catch him, shouting for servants to help.

"Get the healer!"

Another barked.

Kyle stepped back as Terrance was lifted up by two attendants and hurried out of the room.

He watched them go with a neutral expression before slowly turning to face the rest of the Marquess's court.

Most of them were still reeling from the scene, their faces a mixture of shock, awkwardness, and quiet horror.

"So, I assume dinner's over?

Kyle said at last, raising a brow.

That jolted the advisors from their stupor. One of them coughed, stepped forward, and straightened his back.

"N-no, Lord Armstrong. Of course not. This way, please. We—we've already prepared a full course."

The others quickly followed his lead, scrambling to recover their dignity.

The Grand Duchess's fiancé was still standing in their hall, and if their liege couldn't maintain face, then they had to.

Kyle allowed himself a small, amused smile as he followed the flustered nobles into the dining room.

The table was long, elaborately set with golden-trimmed cutlery and a spread of expensive cuisine that had clearly been meant to impress.

The seats were arranged to frame the Marquess at the head—but with Terrance now out cold, Kyle was quietly ushered into that spot.

The nobles sat stiffly, trying not to draw too much attention to themselves as servants began to serve wine and appetizers.

One advisor, a lean older man with silver-streaked hair, finally broke the silence.

"Lord Armstrong, I do hope you'll forgive the Marquess. He has… a sensitive disposition."

Kyle didn't answer at first. He picked up his glass, studied the liquid inside, and then took a sip.

"He panicked. But that's understandable. The times are changing. Nobles who were comfortable before are starting to feel the pressure. Some crumble faster than others."

He said mildly.

There was a heavy pause.

Then Kyle smiled.

"At least now I know he isn't involved with the temple cultists. If he was, he wouldn't have bent over so easily."

That comment sent fresh tension across the room. Several nobles gripped their wine glasses more tightly.

Kyle leaned back in his chair and scanned their faces one by one.

"Of course, I'll still be inspecting the territory. Just in case."

"Of course. If you need our cooperation, you'll have it."

The silver-haired advisor quickly said.

Kyle nodded.

"Good. Then let's eat."

Dinner resumed, but the taste of every dish seemed dulled by unease. No one dared speak unless Kyle addressed them first.

Even then, responses were stiff, measured, as if afraid the wrong word would earn them the same fate as the Marquess.

And Kyle, for his part, simply ate in silence, watching. Calculating. Waiting.

The dining hall was grand, but the air inside was stifled with unspoken judgment.

Kyle could see it clearly—the tightly drawn expressions, the narrowed eyes cast his way.

The Marquess's advisors had done their duty, yes, but none of them looked pleased to be escorting him to dinner. Their forced politeness was paper-thin.

Bruce, walking a step behind Kyle, leaned closer and muttered under his breath.

"Young master, there's no need to sit through this. These people aren't worth your time. You've already done more than enough by showing up."

Kyle glanced at him, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Oh, relax, Bruce. I'm here for a little fun."

Bruce stiffened.

"I don't like it when you say that. It usually means someone's about to regret something."

He muttered.

Kyle gave a low chuckle and didn't answer. As they reached the table, the nobles hesitated only a moment before gesturing toward the main seat.

Kyle took it without ceremony, leaning back with an easy confidence that unsettled the room.

Bruce stood beside him, ready to take his usual position, but Kyle glanced up and patted the chair next to him.

"Sit down,"

He said casually.

Bruce blinked.

"Eh?"

"I said sit. You're not standing while I eat. That's annoying."

The advisors exchanged startled looks, a few of them looking outright scandalized. Bruce hesitated.

"Young master, I—"

"Bruce."

Kyle said, voice lowering just slightly.

"Sit."

"…Yes, young master."

Bruce sat down with clear reluctance, every muscle tense.

The room reacted immediately. Several nobles openly gawked, their expressions somewhere between outrage and disgust.

One of them, a thin man with an upturned nose, looked like he wanted to launch himself across the table and strangle Bruce for daring to sit beside a noble.

Kyle noticed it all. He sipped from his glass and then said, far too cheerfully.

"Ignore the looks, Bruce. They'll get over it. Eventually."

Bruce gave a stiff nod but whispered.

"I still have a bad feeling…"

Before Kyle could respond, the doors opened and a line of servants began to bring in the first course. Kyle's attention shifted immediately.

"Well, finally. Let's get this moving. I'm hungry."

He said, clapping once.

The advisors bristled at the tone but didn't argue. One stepped forward, bowing slightly.

"We… hope the meal is to your liking, Lord Armstrong."

"We'll see. But if it's not, I'll just assume you're trying to poison me. No pressure."

Kyle replied with a lazy smile.

The noble paled visibly as the first dishes were placed down. Kyle leaned forward and picked up his fork, still smiling.

Bruce, watching it all, could only sigh internally. This was going to be a long dinner.