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

Marquess Terrance woke with a pounding headache and a tight knot of dread curled in his chest.

The golden morning light streamed into his lavish bedroom, but it brought him no comfort. His mouth was dry, his body clammy, and his thoughts a mess.

What happened last night?

The last clear memory he had was of collapsing during dinner, the pressure of Kyle Armstrong's presence too much for his frayed nerves.

He had retreated, intending to recover and return, but now the morning had arrived and he had no recollection of anything else.

A deep sense of unease gnawed at him.

'Did something happen between Kyle and my advisors? Did they offend him?'

Grimacing, he sat up and rubbed his temples.

"I need to apologize…And make it clear that I had no part in whatever they did."

He muttered, swinging his legs out of bed.

He would also have to reprimand his advisors—publicly, if necessary—to distance himself from any poor behavior. Yes, that was the plan.

With determination stiffening his spine, the Marquess got dressed and stepped into the hallway.

He expected to hear murmuring voices, perhaps even laughter, as his advisors tried to cozy up to Kyle Armstrong this morning. Yet the corridor was… silent. Unsettlingly so.

His steps echoed through the marbled halls as he searched. One room. Empty. Another. Still empty.

There was no one around.

His brow furrowed deeper.

'Where did everyone go?'

His advisors should have been tripping over themselves for Kyle's attention. Instead, there was nothing but an eerie stillness.

A quiet voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Marquess Terrance."

Kyle called casually from the garden.

The Marquess froze. Kyle was seated at a small tea table under the shade of a trimmed tree, dressed impeccably, and looking as relaxed as ever.

The sight sent a shiver down the Marquess's spine.

"H-hello, Lord Armstrong. I, uh, hope everything was satisfactory last night…?"

The Marquess said, carefully schooling his expression. He walked over with hesitant steps.

Kyle motioned to the seat across from him.

"Join me. I had the tea prepared this morning. You look like you could use a cup."

The Marquess's lips twitched into a nervous smile as he sat. Bruce stood quietly at Kyle's side like a silent shadow.

Kyle poured a cup and slid it toward him.

The Marquess took a cautious sip—and gagged almost instantly.

The taste was vile, bitter to the point of nausea. He coughed violently, nearly spitting it out but forced himself to swallow.

"W-what in the world is this?!"

Kyle, utterly unfazed, stirred his own cup.

"It's a detoxifying blend. You've been ingesting mana-laced substances for quite some time, haven't you?"

He said calmly.

The Marquess blinked, confused.

"I—no, certainly not! I'm a pure man, Lord Armstrong. I don't do drugs! I don't even touch wine unless it's ceremonial!"

Kyle smiled faintly, but there was something unreadable in his gaze.

"Are you sure about that?"

The Marquess's heart skipped a beat.

"I—yes, of course I'm sure. Why would I—?" His voice faltered as he remembered the food from last night, how elaborate it had looked, how he'd insisted it all be perfect.

Kyle continued.

"Sometimes, people ingest things without knowing. Especially when they trust those who prepare their meals."

The words struck like a slap. The Marquess's eyes widened.

"My… advisors?"

Kyle didn't confirm or deny. He merely sipped his tea.

The silence spoke volumes.

The Marquess looked down at his cup, dread pooling in his stomach.

'How long…? How long had he been drugged without realizing it? And why?'

Kyle set his cup down with a soft clink.

"You're not the first. And you won't be the last, either. But I suggest you keep drinking that tea. It may taste like rot, but it'll purge your system before anything long-term sets in."

The Marquess nodded slowly, then lifted the cup with shaking hands. He drank again—each swallow burning worse than the last—but this time he did not spit it out.

He would finish it.

He had no choice.

Across from him, Kyle simply watched, the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes.

"Well, if you are so confident in your people, I won't bother saying much. But you should recheck your staff once in that case. I am sure you will not want to become a victim."

Marquess Terrance stiffened as Kyle's calm voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Are you sure you've never ingested anything strange?"

Kyle asked again, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

"Perhaps you should have a word with your staff. Ask them what exactly they've been feeding you."

The Marquess tried to maintain a neutral face, but inside, unease churned. Suspicion crept in like a slow poison, replacing his previous defensiveness. He gave a small, stiff nod.

"Thank you for your... concern, Lord Armstrong. I will certainly look into it."

Kyle gave a faint smile, stood, and brushed the wrinkles from his cloak.

"There's no need for me to stay longer. I've had dinner, I've rested, and now my work calls. My people await me back home. There's much to do."

Marquess Terrance nodded, though he couldn't help but feel like a storm had passed through his estate.

"I understand, of course. I thank you for your time and your... patience."

Kyle's expression didn't change, but his parting words lingered in the air.

"One last piece of advice, Marquess: loyalty is a rare commodity. Don't squander it. And if you do... make sure you know where the knife is coming from."

With that, Kyle turned and left, Bruce falling into step behind him.

The Marquess stood in the garden for a long moment after they were gone, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. He finally turned and stormed toward the kitchen. He needed answers.

As he entered the kitchen, the staff froze. The usual polite bows came a second too late and were a little too forced. That alone would've been enough to raise suspicion, but the Marquess was no longer as blind as he had been.

"You! What ingredients have you been using for my meals these past few months?"

He barked, pointing to the head chef.

The chef blinked.

"My lord, the same as always. Everything has been personally approved—"

"Don't lie to me!"

The Marquess snapped, his voice louder than anyone had ever heard.

"Bring me the storeroom log. Now."

It took mere minutes before the truth was laid bare.

The "special spices" and "rare extracts" listed in the records weren't anything noble or exotic.

They were enhancers—mana-laced ingredients known to subtly addict and manipulate those who ingested them over time.

The Marquess's face turned pale with rage and shame.

'How long have they been drugging me? What were they trying to make me into? A puppet?'

The very people he'd trusted—his own advisors—had been controlling him from the inside out.

He slammed the ledger shut and stood tall, his cowardice burned away by indignation.

"Fetch the guards. I want everyone who approved these deliveries detained immediately."

His voice was steel now, the same voice he once thought he lacked.

"If they thought I'd remain a fool forever, they'll soon learn otherwise. I may have bowed to survive, but I won't be anyone's pawn."