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

In a dimly lit chamber beneath the marble halls of the royal court, the stale air was thick with tension.

A few flickering candles cast uneasy shadows on the faces of the assembled nobles—men and women cloaked in silk and secrecy.

Only a handful of them had dared to come tonight, each one pacing or sitting stiffly in their chairs, waiting for their leader to arrive.

The sound of approaching footsteps made every head turn.

The door creaked open.

Duke Terevin stepped into the room, his face pale but composed, his robes finely pressed but heavy with the scent of incense. The nobles rushed to him, speaking over one another.

"Did it go well?"

"Did he listen?"

"What did he say about the offering?"

Terevin held up a gloved hand, silencing them all. He moved to the head of the table and sat down slowly, taking a moment to gather his breath before finally speaking.

"My attempt to convince Duke Armstrong has failed."

He said grimly.

A wave of dismay rippled across the room. Some groaned, others slammed their fists on the table.

"I knew it. That monster will never listen to reason. He's drunk on his power."

Hissed Marchioness Lira.

"But, he won't remember the conversation we had. Thanks to my goddess's grace, the memories have been sealed. To him, nothing happened."

Terevin interrupted calmly,

That statement earned a few curious glances. Baron Clove squinted.

"You... used her power? That's dangerous, Terevin. If he had sensed it—"

"He didn't. If he had, we wouldn't be having this meeting."

The duke snapped.

Silence fell again.

"What now? We can't strike him down, not with the royal family protecting him. And the people adore him like some war hero. The gods themselves are silent in his presence. How do we win against a man like that?"

Asked a younger noble, barely past twenty.

A few nodded, their frustration evident.

"If we don't do something, our families will suffer the gods' wrath. My lands are already failing. The priests say it's punishment.

Lira muttered.

Terevin tapped his fingers on the table.

"We cannot defeat Kyle Armstrong by facing him head-on. But his strength lies in his army, does it not? The people he commands, the soldiers who follow him blindly. They're not gods. They're not invincible."

The others leaned in closer.

"What are you suggesting?"

Asked Clove cautiously.

"We sabotage the army. "Plant confusion, doubt. Spread misinformation. Create in-fighting. Supply delays. Assassinations, if necessary."

Terevin said with a cold smile.

Lira's eyes widened.

"But he'll notice."

"Not if we do it subtly. We'll keep him occupied—running in circles trying to fix problems that never should've existed. While he's distracted with damage control, we move forward with our true plan."

Terevin replied.

"What plan?"

The young noble asked nervously.

"The offering. We hold the sacrifice the gods demanded. It's already being prepared. Those who could not make it to this meeting—well, they're busy setting it all up."

Terevin said simply.

Gasps echoed around the table.

"You mean—"

"Yes. We give the gods what they asked for. Blood, loyalty, and a declaration of fealty. In exchange, they will ensure our survival. Our wealth. Our futures."

Terevin nodded.

"And what about Kyle? If he finds out—"

Lira asked, frowning.

"He won't. He'll be too busy cleaning up the internal rot to realize that the nobility has already aligned with the divine."

Terevin said smoothly.

"And if he does?"

Terevin's eyes glinted in the candlelight.

"Then we do what must be done. Kyle Armstrong might be strong, but he cannot protect everything at once. If it comes down to it… we make him choose."

A hush fell over the room again. The path ahead was dangerous. Treasonous. But it was a path paved with divine blessing, or so they told themselves.

And desperate men always chose survival over loyalty.

______

On the scorched edges of the battlefield, Kyle's army stood tall, their spirits soaring despite the wear and tear of constant engagement.

Dust clung to their armor, their swords were dulled from overuse, and their muscles ached—but none of that dimmed their morale.

Cheers echoed across the encampment as the soldiers huddled around their small fires and shared rations, laughter and pride brimming in their voices.

"Can you believe it? Three enemy waves in two days, and we didn't lose a single man!"

One shouted, pumping his fist in the air.

"I told you all! Joining young master Kyle was the best decision we ever made. He sees us—not just as bodies in armor, but as people who matter."

Another barked with a grin, clapping his friend on the back.

"Aye. He lets us grow. Doesn't treat us like pawns or just tools for his ambition. He's one of us."

Someone else chimed in.

A round of hearty agreement followed, and a young recruit, beaming with pride, pulled out a sealed bottle of water from a nearby supply crate—stamped with the insignia of the main castle.

"Guess the higher-ups haven't forgotten us, huh? Fresh water!"

He said, opening it with a twist and taking a large swig.

The words had barely left his mouth before he doubled over with a strangled gasp. His body twitched violently as he collapsed to the ground, water spilling from his lips.

"Get the healer!"

Someone screamed, and the laughter vanished, replaced by chaos.

The camp's main healer rushed in, kneeling beside the fallen soldier and placing glowing hands over him.

After a tense minute, the convulsions eased, and the soldier was stabilized, though unconscious.

The healer picked up the bottle, sniffed it, and poured a bit of it onto a mana-sensitive cloth. The reaction was immediate—the cloth blackened.

"Contaminated. It's been laced with mana poison. Low-grade, but enough to cause collapse."

The healer said grimly.

Gasps of disbelief followed his words.

"But this came from the castle! Our own supply line!"

A soldier protested.

Another soldier muttered.

"Was it a mistake? Or… sabotage?"

Whispers turned into low growls of rage. Soon enough, the tent was filled with the sound of curses and fury.

The healer was called away once again—another collapse in a different squad.

Word spread like wildfire through the army ranks, and tension crackled in the air like a storm about to break.

The trust that had cemented their unity faltered, and the rage that followed burned bright.

The next morning's battle was brutal. Kyle's army fought like men possessed, carving through enemy lines with an unrelenting fury.

Every strike was heavier, every command shouted with more venom. It was as though the poison in the water had infected their hearts instead of their bodies—filling them with righteous fury.

By evening, the reports began to reach Kyle.

He sat in his chamber, reading through the carefully written message handed to him by a panting courier.

Bruce stood beside him, silent and grim, while Melissa leaned against the wall, arms crossed tightly.

"Contaminated water. Multiple collapses. Mana poison. And from our own castle supply."

Kyle said flatly, rereading the words.

Bruce's jaw clenched.

"A mistake?"

Kyle didn't answer. His expression was calm—but there was a flicker in his eyes. A cold glint.

"It's not the first time. But it's the first time it's been this obvious."

Melissa murmured, thinking back to the odd delays and spoiled food they'd dismissed before.

Kyle folded the paper and stood up.

"Prepare the carriage. I'm going to the front lines."

Bruce and Melissa both looked up.

"Young master—"

Melissa began.

"I need to see it myself. Someone tried to break the backbone of my army. That means someone is ready to go to war not just with the gods, but with me."

Kyle said, his voice firm.

Bruce gave a short nod.

"I'll make arrangements."