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

On the chaotic plains where nations clashed and alliances frayed, the tides of battle turned sharply the moment Kyle's banners rose on the horizon.

Armies that had once marched proudly under foreign kings and emperors now faltered.

Panic rippled through the ranks as whispers spread—Kyle Armstrong is here.

Within minutes of his arrival, several armies signaled a retreat. What had once been a united front now fractured like thin glass.

In hastily erected tents, leaders gathered for emergency meetings.

They spoke in harsh tones, throwing blame across borders and trembling at the thought of facing the man whose name had become a living myth.

"He cuts through gods. What chance do we have?"

A general muttered, slamming his fist on the table.

One by one, they surrendered. Some lowered their banners and swore peace. Others fled without looking back.

But not all bowed.

In a bloodstained camp to the south, a cluster of commanders still clung to hope. Pride had calcified into delusion.

"He cannot be everywhere at once. His village must be exposed—unguarded!"

One barked.

"If we take his home, he'll lose morale. And with it, everything."

They prepared their final assault, not on the battlefield—but on Kyle's heart.

Far away, high above the skies, Queen soared like a blade of black lightning, its wings gliding through thick clouds.

It flew faster than any bird, its form nearly invisible to those below. But Queen saw everything.

It landed on the war tent silently, its presence sharp as steel. Kyle raised his head even before the flaps moved.

A smile tugged at his lips as Queen hopped forward and tilted its head, clearly carrying a message.

"You've seen something, haven't you?"

Kyle murmured.

Queen let out a low trill, and Kyle reached up to gently pat its feathered head. The divine hawk leaned into the touch before stepping back, its dark eyes still locked onto Kyle.

Bruce, who stood nearby, tensed as he caught the shift in atmosphere.

"Young Master, should we prepare to return?"

Kyle's fingers paused mid-stroke on Queen's feathers, and then a chuckle escaped him—cold, amused, and dangerous.

"Return? To protect the village?"

Kyle said, glancing at Bruce.

Bruce furrowed his brows.

"Yes. If they're planning to attack it—"

"They'll regret it. We left behind the best guardian possible."

Kyle cut in, stepping out of the tent and facing the winds.

Bruce's eyes widened slightly.

"Lysander…"

Kyle's smirk widened.

"Yes. He's still a cub, but… he is a dragon."

Bruce could only imagine the poor fools marching toward that quiet village, unaware of the slumbering storm they approached. He almost pitied them.

Almost.

Queen preened its feathers proudly beside Kyle, who watched the smoke rise far in the distance. Word would soon reach the rest of the army.

Kyle's voice was calm.

"Let this be a reminder."

Bruce glanced at him.

"Of what, Young Master?"

Kyle's smile returned—cold and sharp.

"That I never leave my people unprotected."

Far from the frontlines, the enemy forces crossed into the wooded perimeter surrounding Kyle's village.

Their scouts had reported no resistance. No patrols. No guards. Just a quiet, peaceful settlement, ripe for the taking.

"Move quickly! Find the elders! Take their leaders hostage!"

One commander shouted.

The soldiers surged forward—until the ground beneath them trembled.

A low, guttural rumble echoed from deep within the forest.

The trees bent as an unnatural wind pushed through the foliage. Then, silence. Not a bird chirped. Not a single insect buzzed.

Something ancient stirred.

And then—it appeared.

Lysander stepped out from the shadows, no longer the playful creature who had once nestled under Kyle's arm.

His body had grown broader, his scales darker and edged with molten cracks of mana. His wings had not yet reached full size, but they stretched with enough power to uproot saplings.

Golden eyes burned with inherited fury.

The first line of enemy soldiers froze.

"What is that—"

Fire.

Not ordinary fire. Dragonfire.

The forest lit up in a blaze of blue and gold as Lysander opened his jaws and unleashed a torrent of destruction.

Screams broke out as flames swallowed steel and shattered formations.

The soldiers tried to run. They failed.

With one beat of his wings, Lysander flew over the retreating men and slammed down, cracking the earth with his landing.

He roared—a sound that shattered the enemy's will to fight. Some threw down their weapons. Others cried for their gods.

Lysander showed no mercy.

The village behind him remained untouched. Not a single cottage was burned. Not a single villager harmed.

The dragon cub stood as the last line of defense—and no one was getting past him.

The battlefield, once a cacophony of screams and clashing steel, now lay in eerie silence.

Smoke curled into the sky from distant fires, and blood-soaked banners fluttered weakly in the wind.

One by one, the opposing armies dropped their weapons. Shields were cast aside, swords plunged into the ground—points down in a show of submission.

Word spread quickly across the lands: Kyle Armstrong had won.

There were no more desperate charges. No final strategies. Just weary soldiers kneeling in the mud, waiting for judgment.

The commanders of various nations signed formal declarations of surrender, many with trembling hands and pale faces.

They had marched to war believing in their superiority. Now, they barely believed in their survival.

Kyle stood on a raised slope, watching them all. Behind him, his own army stood proud but quiet. There was no cheering. No boastful celebration.

Only the weight of finality in the air. They had followed him through impossible odds—and they had come out victorious.

Prince Mikalius arrived on horseback, dismounting to approach Kyle.

"It's over."

He said quietly, as if the words themselves felt unreal.

Kyle nodded.

"Yes. No one else will raise their sword again. Not after this."

From across the field, envoys from enemy nations arrived with lowered heads and offerings of peace.

Some offered wealth, others territory. But Kyle only demanded one thing—no more interference from foreign powers.

They agreed without protest.

A sense of cautious relief settled over the land. The wounded were tended to, the dead honored.

Families began to return to their homes. Trade routes reopened. Peace, however fragile, began to take root.

And in the center of it all stood Kyle Armstrong—silent, steady, and watchful.

The war was finally over.

But everyone knew he was far from finished.

______

In a distant, forgotten stretch of land where no man tread and the skies always hung heavy with mist, a faint shimmer rippled through the air.

Without warning, a jagged portal tore open above the cracked earth, releasing a pulse of energy that made the trees tremble.

From within that swirling void, a small, black, formless mass oozed out and dropped to the ground with a wet squelch.

It pulsed once. Then again.

A curious fox, drawn by the strange energy, cautiously approached. It sniffed at the thing, its ears flicking in alarm—but it was too late.

The black mass surged forward with unnatural speed, wrapping around the animal and dragging it in without a sound. There was no scream, no struggle. Just silence.

The black thing pulsed again—larger now.

What had once been the size of a stone was now as large as a boulder. It shimmered with something like hunger, the remains of the fox nowhere to be seen.

The portal behind it closed without a sound, leaving only the expanding shadow in its wake.

And deep within its shifting form, something opened its eyes.