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

The final day before the wedding arrived like a lightning storm—loud, frantic, and unrelenting. The halls of the capital's estates were flooded with movement.

Servants rushed from room to room, decorators argued over flower arrangements, tailors adjusted wedding garments with trembling hands, and couriers dashed back and forth, their arms full of last-minute requests.

Everything felt breathless.

But not for Mikalius.

Sitting in his personal study, Mikalius sipped on his morning wine and leaned back in his chair with a pleased smile curling across his lips.

He looked out the window toward the horizon where the banners of the Grand Duchess and House Armstrong flew side by side—bold and proud.

It was a beautiful sight. Powerful. Unquestionable.

"They're really going through with it."

He murmured.

He chuckled, swirling the wine in his goblet. With Kyle and the Grand Duchess united, there would be no more murmurs of rebellion.

No noble would dare raise a voice against him now. Mikalius had two of the kingdom's strongest pillars standing at his side.

His claim to the throne was no longer just a matter of blood—it was a matter of force, stability, and strategy. None could contest him.

He was still lost in that comfortable thought when a sudden knock came at his chamber doors.

"Enter."

He said, frowning slightly at the interruption.

One of his trusted guards stepped inside, armor clinking faintly.

"Your Highness, we've received word from the informants you placed among the western nobles. There's movement.

The guard said grimly.

Mikalius straightened.

"Movement?"

"Yes. Several small groups are preparing something. It appears they intend to interfere with the wedding. The plan is to ensure that Kyle Armstrong does not make it to the ceremony."

The wine in Mikalius's goblet stilled. The room dropped into silence for a heartbeat.

Then Mikalius set the goblet down with a soft click and stood.

"So they're still foolish enough to try."

The guard remained silent.

Mikalius moved to the table beside the window and stared at the flags again.

"They must know that disrupting this union is the same as declaring war on both Kyle and Amana. And by extension—me."

"Yes, Your Highness."

"And yet they act anyway. Desperation, then. Or madness."

Mikalius turned away from the window, his usual smug calm now hardening into resolve.

"Get the palace soldiers ready. Quietly. No armor clanking, no public movement. I want them moving before dawn. We'll clean up this mess before the sun rises on the wedding day."

"As you command."

"And send a private message to Kyle. Tell him there may be delays in the morning, but I will see to it that no one keeps him from walking down that aisle."

Mikalius added.

The guard bowed and exited swiftly.

Left alone again, Mikalius picked up his wine and drained it in one long swallow.

Let them come.

He was done playing nice.

After the guard left, Mikalius remained at the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

The shadows of dusk crept across the floor, stretching long and thin like the fingers of time itself. Tomorrow would be decisive.

He had always known that the unification of Kyle and Amana would provoke a reaction. Power shifted uneasily.

The old houses, the self-proclaimed "guardians of tradition," had lost their grip, and they were too proud to fade away quietly. But Mikalius wasn't about to let them ruin the best move he'd ever made.

With Kyle on one side and Amana on the other, his rule would be untouchable. The Council would fall in line. The border lords would stop muttering about independence.

Even the foreign ambassadors had begun sending gifts in advance, each trying to curry favor with the soon-to-be ruler of a realm unified under unshakable leadership.

He had too much riding on this wedding to let it fall apart.

Mikalius turned sharply and left the study. His personal guard followed at his heels, silent and swift.

He headed down to the war room beneath the palace—a heavily fortified chamber lined with maps, sealed doors, and strategy tables.

Half a dozen of his commanders were already present, having been summoned in anticipation.

They straightened and saluted as he entered.

"Any new information?"

He asked, not wasting time with pleasantries.

"Yes, Your Highness. There are three primary disturbances. The first is in the outer district near the Armstrong estate—masked men have been spotted casing the perimeter, likely planning an ambush. The second is along the western gate, where travel from the Duchess's lands would pass through. And the third…"

One of the older commanders said, gesturing to the map.

The man hesitated.

"Speak."

Mikalius ordered.

"The third is here. Within the capital."

A chill swept through the room. Mikalius narrowed his eyes.

"Traitors in the city?"

"Yes. We suspect they aim to strike while the ceremony is underway. Possibly to create panic, discredit the Grand Duchess, or even assassinate someone."

"Then they're more than cowards—they're fools. Very well. I want three strike teams prepared before midnight. I'll assign them myself. I want these rats sniffed out and gutted before sunrise."

Mikalius muttered.

The commanders nodded, and the room filled with quiet, tense energy as orders were distributed and runners dispatched.

But even as his men moved, Mikalius's mind drifted back to Kyle.

That man.

He was troublesome in every sense—defiant, reckless, never interested in politics or alliances. And yet, he'd accomplished more in a year than Mikalius's best generals had in a decade.

Loyalty followed Kyle like a shadow. People believed in him, not because of blood or birthright, but because he always stood where others faltered. A warrior in the truest sense.

Mikalius wasn't foolish enough to trust him completely. But he respected him. And that, he knew, went both ways.

He would not let Kyle be taken from him by assassins and old money. Not when they were on the brink of something greater.

Mikalius turned toward his generals one last time.

"Tonight, we don't fight for me. We fight for the future of this kingdom. Ensure that by tomorrow's dawn, the path is clear—for Kyle to walk down that aisle, and for our enemies to remember why they feared us."

There was no cheer. Only grim nods.

War was coming.

But the wedding would go on.

By dawn, the capital lay silent under a veil of eerie calm.

The night before had been anything but quiet—swift and brutal, Mikalius's strike teams had moved like shadows through the alleys, cutting through conspirators and silencing dissent with ruthless efficiency.

Masked saboteurs near the Armstrong estate vanished without a trace. Smugglers near the western gate were intercepted before they could light their signal flares.

And in the heart of the capital, a hidden safehouse full of mercenaries was reduced to ash before midnight struck.

The people, sensing something had occurred, dared not speak. The city guards walked with sharper eyes. Nobles who once whispered doubts now bowed lower than ever before.

It was as if the very streets had been scrubbed clean of rebellion.

When the sun finally rose, golden and serene, it painted the capital in warm hues—an illusion of peace, untouched by blood.

But those in power knew the truth.

The wedding would happen without interference.

And those who had planned otherwise… had already paid the price.