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

In the rolling hills of the southern border, where farmlands stretched into the horizon and sleepy villages dotted the countryside, a strange ripple surged through the air.

Locals barely had time to register the shift in the wind before cracks of light appeared in the sky.

One after another, bodies fell from glowing tears—humans clad in strange armor, with glowing eyes and unnaturally perfect bodies.

At first, the villagers simply stared.

The newcomers stood tall and confident, their expressions gleaming with wonder and hunger. Their garments—woven synthetics, utility belts, visors, and armor that glowed faintly—were unlike anything the locals had seen.

Some bore massive swords on their backs, others carried metallic rods that sparked with strange energy. A farmer from the nearest field whispered.

"Mages?"

Before backing away cautiously.

But the strange ones didn't speak the local tongue. They talked to one another in a clipped, unfamiliar dialect.

"Is this it? It doesn't even have HUD elements."

One of them asked, looking around with mild disappointment.

"Still better graphics than I expected."

Another replied, laughing.

They wandered into the nearest village without fear. Most locals avoided them, muttering prayers to old spirits and turning away.

The strangers, oddly, didn't seem insulted. If anything, they were amused.

"They're NPCs. Probably can't talk to them until we find a quest giver."

One said.

"They're ignoring us. Should we try initiating combat?"

"No penalties have triggered so far. I say go ahead."

And with that, chaos began.

One of the strangers walked over to a pig pen, drew a blade from his back, and sliced open the fence. The animals squealed and ran. He stabbed one in the neck and grinned.

"Loot dropped."

More followed. Cows were slaughtered, horses stolen, and barns set aflame. The villagers screamed and ran.

But the strangers laughed, chasing after them like it was all just a game. One of them even pulled up a screen on his wrist and took a selfie with a burning field behind him.

It started with isolated incidents. A barn set aflame here. A family dragged out for interrogation there.

Within hours, word spread. Dozens of the newcomers began joining in, sharing tactics and 'exploits' they found.

"The guards don't even spawn until after the bell rings. You can loot everything before that."

"Magic system is kind of lame, but the sword mechanics are sick."

"I wonder if we get achievements for massacres?"

In one border town, a shrine was desecrated by a man who declared himself the "Hero of Flame" and demanded tribute from the priests. When they refused, he turned the entire temple to ash.

By the end of the second day, a dozen villages were wiped out.

The locals couldn't understand the invaders' motives. They didn't seem to want land, gold, or political power. They didn't plant banners or declare allegiance. They didn't even try to negotiate.

They killed indiscriminately—sometimes for food, other times for pleasure—and constantly referred to their atrocities as "quests," "leveling up," or "daily grinds."

The terrified survivors began fleeing en masse, spreading rumors of immortal devils summoned from the sky.

It didn't take long for the reports to reach Kyle.

He sat in the war council room, newly returned from his wedding, a glass of untouched wine at his side. A soldier burst in without knocking, his face pale.

"My lord, there's news from the southern border."

Kyle glanced up, already feeling the wrongness pressing on his senses.

"A new threat?"

He asked calmly.

The soldier nodded, trembling.

"Strangers... hundreds of them. They're attacking without cause. The locals say they talk like madmen. They keep referring to the world as... as a game."

The air around Kyle shifted.

"Game?"

"They think they've been summoned. That this world exists for their amusement. They don't respond to diplomacy. They only grow more violent."

Kyle stood, the room darkening as his mana surged.

"How many villages?"

"At least sixteen have fallen."

Amana, sitting across from him, put down her pen.

"Are they organized?"

"No. It's chaos. But a few of them have started forming groups. One of them called it a 'guild.' Another spoke of building a base."

The soldier said.

Silvy and Melissa exchanged glances.

"They've come through a portal. This is divine interference. The god of war has begun his invasion."

Kyle muttered.

Melissa's hand clenched around her sword.

"What do we do?"

Kyle turned, his voice cold.

"We send a message. These aren't players. This isn't a game. It's time someone taught them what it means to bleed."

He stepped forward and drew a simple blade from his side.

"Prepare the hunt."

______

The village was silent, but not in peace—only in dread.

Melissa stepped lightly across the burned dirt road, her senses sharp as a blade. Smoke curled from a collapsed barn to her left, and the scent of blood hung heavy in the air.

Wooden fences were broken, and the fields were trampled under heavy boots that didn't belong to this land. Her hand rested on her sword, though her eyes did most of the cutting.

She didn't need to see more to know: this place had suffered.

A muffled cry caught her attention.

She turned swiftly, following the desperate sound toward the town square. Behind a half-shattered cart, a poor farmer knelt in the dust, his arms wrapped around a small satchel—clothes, maybe trinkets, the last memory of a life now in ruins.

Before him stood one of the invaders. The plunderer wore metallic greaves and a coat that shimmered unnaturally, the crest on his chest glowing with some false power.

"I told you, items are dropped loot. Don't hoard quest items, old man."

The plunderer sneered, yanking at the bag.

The farmer clung tighter.

"Please... it belonged to my wife…"

The plunderer kicked him, hard, and the farmer crumpled. Blood stained the earth.

Melissa stepped into the open.

The man turned, noticing her too late.

"Oh? Another local? You look rare. Might drop something good."

He said with an arrogant grin, his eyes raking over her armor.

He raised a jagged blade glowing faintly blue.

He didn't get the chance to swing.

A pulse of silver mana surged from Melissa, quiet and clean. In the next breath, the man's body fell—lifeless, unmoving. There was no scream, no struggle, only silence.

She sheathed her blade and looked at the farmer. The man was trembling, his cheek bruised, clutching the satchel like it was the last piece of his soul.

Melissa approached slowly, kneeling beside him. Her eyes, normally sharp and calculating, softened.

"Are you alright?"

She asked, voice low.

The farmer looked up, his lips trembling. He managed a weak nod.

Melissa placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Get inside. Don't come out until this is over. More might come."

The farmer didn't speak—he simply clutched the satchel tighter and scurried toward the ruins of his home.

Melissa stood again, gaze sweeping the village. Her voice was quiet, but her heart blazed with resolve.

"These bastards think this world is a game… I'll show them reality."

She took one last look at the scorched fields and broken fences, her jaw tight. The wind stirred her cloak as she turned away, footsteps calm but full of purpose.

These invaders weren't just disrupting peace—they were mocking lives. Melissa would make sure they learned that this world bleeds... and it bites back.