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

The emergency meeting was held in the basement of House Renlor's estate, away from prying eyes and ears.

The atmosphere was heavy, thick with anxiety and the scent of fear. Nobles from the houses involved in the sabotage sat around a long table, their faces pale, voices hushed.

"He returned. And he went straight to the crown prince. That alone should tell us that he's going to act soon."

Count Valric said, voice trembling.

"He looked furious. "My spies said Kyle didn't speak to a single soul on the way in. That's not good. When he's quiet, he's dangerous."

Added Lady Senra, wringing her gloved hands.

All eyes turned to Duke Terevin at the head of the table. His expression was calm, though his eyes gleamed coldly in the dim light.

"Panic helps no one. Kyle Armstrong is dangerous, yes. But he is still one man. The crown prince cannot allow him to act as he pleases without consequence. Authority must be upheld, and Mikalius knows that."

The duke said smoothly, folding his hands.

"You're saying the prince will stop him?"

Someone asked, unsure.

"I'm saying he'll have to. And we'll make sure of it."

Terevin stood, casting a commanding gaze across the nobles.

"I will go to the crown prince myself and twist this incident to our favour. We'll frame Kyle as overzealous—maybe even dangerous to the balance of the realm. If Mikalius wishes to remain crown prince, he cannot allow a noble to act outside imperial control. It's that simple."

Skeptical murmurs followed.

"That's… optimistic. You saw what happened to those who stood against him directly. What if this plan fails?"

Lord Greyn muttered.

"Then we die. But standing still ensures that too. So unless one of you has a better plan, this is the path we take."

Terevin answered without blinking.

Silence followed. One by one, the nobles gave stiff nods.

"Do what you must, Duke."

Terevin left soon after, escorted by a few loyal knights. The journey to the royal palace was tense, but the duke's expression never wavered.

As he stepped into the grand halls, he was greeted by one of the imperial aides.

"The crown prince is currently in a private meeting."

The aide informed him politely.

Terevin raised a brow.

"With whom?"

"Kyle Armstrong."

That gave him pause. But he masked it quickly.

"That's fine. I'll wait."

He was shown to a guest chamber where refreshments were brought in. Time passed. One hour. Two. The tension started to show on his face.

Finally, the aide returned—but not with good news.

"The crown prince sends his apologies, Duke Terevin. He will not be seeing any more guests today. His schedule has been sealed for the remainder of the evening."

Terevin's eyes narrowed.

"Was that his decision… or Kyle Armstrong's?"

The aide remained professional.

"I was only told to inform you of the prince's unavailability."

The duke clenched his jaw, eyes cold with frustration.

He stood slowly.

"I see. Very well. Inform His Highness that I shall request another audience tomorrow."

With that, Duke Terevin turned and strode out of the palace with heavy steps, the weight of failure pressing down on his shoulders.

Kyle had moved first.

As Duke Terevin stepped into his carriage, he resisted the urge to slam the door shut behind him.

The moment it closed, he let out a long breath and rested his gloved fingers against his temple.

"Kyle Armstrong… you move faster than I expected."

The carriage began to roll through the cobbled streets, and the silence inside was deafening. His personal knight sat across from him but wisely said nothing.

Terevin was already calculating, analyzing every detail—Kyle visiting the crown prince first, the sudden closure of the prince's schedule, and the tightening noose around their plans.

The crown prince wasn't just refusing visitors. He was shielding himself. From them.

That meant Kyle had spoken his piece—and it had been persuasive enough that Mikalius no longer wished to hear another word.

The worst part? Duke Terevin didn't even know what was said behind those closed doors.

By the time he returned to the Renlor estate, the nobles were still gathered, waiting anxiously in the darkened hall.

He stepped into the chamber, and silence fell.

"What did he say?"

Someone asked.

Terevin removed his gloves slowly.

"Nothing. I wasn't allowed to see him."

A ripple of dread passed through the room.

"That can't be good."

Lady Senra whispered.

Lord Greyn stood.

"So what now? Do we flee? Wait until Kyle shows up with blades at our throats?"

Terevin looked around at the panic-stricken faces and realized the truth—Kyle didn't even need to lift a sword. The fear of him was already rotting them from the inside.

He raised a hand.

"Listen to me. This changes nothing. Kyle can only act within the boundaries of the law. If he breaks those bounds, then even the people will turn against him."

"But what if the crown prince turns a blind eye?"

Someone else asked.

Terevin's eyes narrowed.

"Then we change the narrative. We spin Kyle's crusade into tyranny. Paint him as a madman on a rampage. Spread whispers that he's no longer human. That he's a god-killer turned megalomaniac. Once fear outweighs loyalty, the empire will beg for his downfall."

He said coldly.

It was a desperate plan. But desperation was all they had left.

One noble spoke up hesitantly.

"And if that fails too?"

Terevin's lips curled into a bitter smile.

"Then we pray the gods save us faster than Kyle reaches us."

______

Lady Senra stepped out of her carriage and onto the smooth marble steps of her estate, but the moment her heels touched the ground, a cold shiver ran down her spine.

Something felt wrong.

Her heart beat a little faster, and despite the warm glow of lanterns lining the entrance, there was a heaviness in the air—as if the night itself held its breath.

The butler greeted her at the door, his expression tight.

"Milady, there is a guest waiting for you in the drawing room."

She paused, removing her gloves slowly.

"A guest? At this hour?"

The butler lowered his gaze.

"Lord Kyle Armstrong."

Her breath caught. For a moment, the blood drained from her face.

"Did he say what he wanted?"

She asked quietly.

The butler shook his head.

"Only that he would wait. And he has been… very polite."

That made it worse.

Politeness from a man like Kyle Armstrong meant control—and control meant danger.

Lady Senra drew herself upright, brushing invisible dust from her gown and steadying her voice.

"Very well. I will see him."

With each step toward the drawing room, her unease grew.

She pushed open the doors—and there he was, seated calmly with a cup of untouched tea, his golden eyes fixed on her like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.