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

In the realm beyond mortal comprehension—where light bent and space had no meaning—the surviving gods gathered.

A field of golden wheat swayed softly despite the absence of wind, and the God of Harvest stood within it, his bare feet brushing against the divine stalks.

His expression, once warm and generous, now bore an edge of unease. He turned toward a shifting swirl of air that slowly took shape into a man clad in robes made of stormclouds.

The God of Wind, Zephyr, nodded in silent greeting.

"We're not going to survive this, are we?"

The God of Harvest asked.

Zephyr didn't answer at first. Instead, his eyes moved to the empty sky.

"Only five left… out of the twelve."

"Lucia's acting strangely. Arkenas isn't keen on doing anything new either, and the God of War is marshalling his forces for what he calls a final stand."

The Harvest God clenched his fist.

"If he falls, if even he can't stop Kyle—what happens then? What do we do?"

Zephyr was silent again. The sky crackled, but no lightning fell.

Finally, he said.

"We don't know what's coming. But whatever it is… it won't be good."

The wheat trembled more violently, not from wind, but divine anxiety.

"There are too many worlds reliant on divine power. When the gods fall, those worlds collapse. Crops won't grow. Oceans will forget their tides. Suns will falter. Life as they know it ends."

Zephyr continued, voice soft.

The God of Harvest swallowed hard.

"Then Kyle… if he kills all of us—"

"He will be faced with two choices. Let the worlds die… or replace us. Form a new divine council. But doing so defeats his entire purpose, doesn't it?"

Zephyr interrupted, tone grave.

The Harvest God sat in the wheat.

"Why is he doing this? Why Kyle? What did we ever do to him?"

Zephyr's form shimmered, as though even speaking the truth made him unstable.

"I don't know the full story. But I heard rumors… from my older aspect, long ago. Before he became this 'storm,' Kyle was a soul destined for ruin. He was not entirely human."

"What do you mean?"

"Some believe he was a child of something greater. Something old. Something forgotten. But because of that, Arkenas cursed him the moment he was born. It wasn't a punishment—it was a warning to the rest of us."

The God of Harvest shook his head.

"That story isn't unique. How many mortals have been born under a cursed star? How many were denied the light and fell into despair? What makes Kyle different?"

Zephyr's eyes narrowed.

"I don't know. Maybe the non-human part of him… woke up. Maybe it decided to reclaim its power. Or maybe something even worse happened. But it doesn't matter anymore."

He looked across the golden field, where divine constructs flickered and faded in the distance.

"We made a mistake, and now we will pay for it."

Zephyr said.

The wheat curled at the edges.

"He will not stop."

The God of Harvest looked up.

"What if we surrendered? Pleaded for mercy?"

Zephyr smiled bitterly.

"You think a storm shows mercy because the land begs? No. The time for pleading is over."

He paused, then added,

"The time for surviving is all that remains."

Far above them, a ripple broke across the divine sky. Something vast and ancient stirred beyond it—watching.

Waiting.

And the gods, for the first time in eternity, felt small.

______

The air was too still.

As Kyle stood silently outside the ceremonial hall, the moonlight casting long shadows across the stone floor, he felt it—that subtle, crawling sensation against his skin.

A tension not born of nerves or exhaustion, but something deeper. Primal. Cosmic.

He closed his eyes and let his mana extend. It stretched out like threads across the estate, brushing through rooms and gardens, through marble corridors and hidden chambers. Everything was in place. Every soldier on guard, every noble accounted for. And yet...

Something had changed.

'The world itself was holding its breath.'

Amana stepped beside him, her hand gently brushing his.

"Are you alright?"

Kyle opened his eyes.

"Not really."

She watched him carefully.

"The ceremony went perfectly. You didn't flinch once, even when that priest fumbled his words."

"That part was easy. Wearing a crown and kissing you doesn't scare me."

Kyle replied.

She smiled faintly, but it faded when she noticed how he looked toward the horizon.

"What is it?"

"I don't know. But something… has shifted. Somewhere beyond this continent. Maybe beyond this world."

He said, voice low.

A sudden gust of wind passed through the courtyard. The flowers bent. The fire in the torches flickered blue for a heartbeat.

Kyle narrowed his eyes.

"It's starting. The gods are moving."

He murmured.

"You really think they'll come for you?"

"They always do. But this time… I think even they don't know what's waiting for them."

Kyle replied, a quiet fire in his voice.

Amana looked at him, searching his expression for a moment.

"And what are they waiting for?"

He met her gaze.

"Not Kyle Armstrong. Not a mortal noble. They're about to face something older. Something they helped create when they cursed a child for being born."

A pause.

"I won't let them destroy this world to protect their throne. But I also won't become what they are. That's the balance I have to walk."

He continued.

She took his hand and gripped it firmly.

"Then you won't walk it alone."

For a moment, silence returned.

But even as they turned to head inside, Kyle's senses screamed. Something ancient had looked at him tonight. Not with fear. Not with hate.

But recognition.

'It begins. And I will finish it.'

He thought.

______

At the edge of the divine realm, the God of War stood tall, his armored frame illuminated by the crimson glow of the pulsating portal before him.

Runes burned across its edges as he lifted his great halberd and drove its blade into the ground. The earth trembled, the sky cracked, and the portal tore open with a deafening roar.

On the other side, thousands of figures began to move—humans from countless distant worlds, each one a warrior, a killer, a survivor. Pulled here by divine selection. Chosen for conquest.

The God of War raised his voice, and it echoed across dimensions.

"This is the world you must subdue. Its champions are powerful, its gods failing. But if you crush it beneath your heel, I shall grant you glory, power, and dominion greater than you've ever known."

He declared.

The humans knelt before him, some in reverence, others in bloodlust.

"You are no longer bound by your past. In this new world, you shall rise. And should you fall—let it be known you died for a god's cause."

The god continued.

With that, the horde began to march, stepping through the portal in waves.

This was no longer just a world. It had become a tower. A trial. A war.

As the last ranks of warriors vanished through the portal, the God of War stared silently into the breach. The winds howled with the scent of blood and ambition.

Behind him, lesser gods watched with uneasy silence, none daring to question his decree.

He turned once, muttering to himself.

"Let the storm begin."