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

Under a blood-red sky, the battlefield churned with chaos and screams. Panic surged through the masses as the outsiders—those otherworldly invaders summoned by the god of war—began evolving.

One by one, they awakened to mana.

At first, it was crude and uncontrolled, sparks of divine power crackling around them, yet it was undeniable—they were gaining strength.

Civilians fled in terror, watching once-ordinary figures now wield fire, wind, and raw force to lay waste to their surroundings.

But just as quickly as the panic bloomed, resistance formed. The trained soldiers of the realm, having long harnessed their mana through grueling years of discipline and war, rose up in formation.

Their battle-hardened ranks shone like a silver wall across the land. Unlike the outsiders, who fought wildly and without cohesion, the soldiers moved with precision.

Their aura flared and pulsed in time with their breath, each motion guided by years of training and real combat experience.

The tide turned.

Blade met spell. Shield met flame. And slowly, steadily, the outsiders were pushed back. They were stronger than before—but strength alone did not win wars.

Skill, discipline, and resolve did. Cries of victory echoed through some corners of the battlefield, but they were short-lived.

Above it all, in his divine realm, the God of War observed the carnage with dispassionate amusement.

He sat atop a jagged obsidian throne, his burning crimson eyes watching each moment play out.

Behind him, divine glyphs floated like molten embers, pulsing to the rhythm of destruction below.

He showed no concern.

"So what if this batch falls? Another will follow. And another after that. A cycle that cannot be broken."

He muttered, voice like the grinding of mountains.

He wasn't wrong. More portals shimmered open along the edges of the realm, faint outlines of new outsiders visible within.

The supply was endless. The war eternal. In his mind, victory was not a matter of if, but when.

He began to laugh—a low, cruel sound.

That's when the air trembled.

A tear appeared in the fabric of space, splitting the realm like cracked glass. From it stepped Kyle Armstrong.

Clad in black battle armor lined with silver etchings, his eyes glowed faintly as if holding back a storm. The ground beneath his feet buckled slightly under the weight of his mana.

In his hand, his blade was drawn—not glowing with divine light, but with something older, something heavier.

The god of war rose from his throne slowly, amused.

"Well, well. The rogue godslayer arrives. Finally grown tired of dancing around the battlefield?"

He said mockingly.

Kyle didn't respond at first. He simply took in the sight—the war god's realm of obsidian skies, rivers of fire, and jagged ruins.

"You're enjoying this."

Kyle said quietly.

"Of course. Each death sings my name. Each scream carves my glory into the wind. This is what I was born for."

The god chuckled.

"Even knowing they'll all die?"

"They are tools. Replaceable. Obedient."

Kyle's gaze sharpened.

"You're insane."

"No, I'm eternal."

The god replied with a cruel smile.

With a wave of his hand, a golden barrier flared around him—a divine ward carved from prayers, sacrifices, and divine law.

The god leaned back, unconcerned.

"Your resistance is futile. I am not like those foolish gods you've met before. If you wish to reach me, then by all means—first, defeat my chosen."

Portals shimmered open once more, not like the ones summoning fresh outsiders, but older, heavier.

From them emerged a dozen figures. Unlike the chaotic, wild-eyed invaders from earlier, these beings moved with terrifying calm.

Their armor was etched with divine symbols, and their weapons crackled with condensed divine aura. Their eyes held no fear—only purpose.

They were no mere pawns. They were elites.

"Behold, my Vanguard. Mortals sculpted by divine fire. You will not pass."

The god of war announced proudly.

Kyle looked at them. Each radiated strength equal to a seasoned hero. Some even felt… unnatural, as if they were divine constructs wearing human skin.

But Kyle simply sighed.

"You're wasting my time. And your own."

He said coldly.

With that, he stepped forward.

The first elite soldier lunged, a massive spear shimmering with lightning thrust toward Kyle's heart.

Kyle vanished—and reappeared behind him in a blink. A soft thud echoed. The soldier's body fell, cleanly severed.

The others attacked together. A tempest of blades, fire, ice, and divine fury swirled toward Kyle. But Kyle's mana erupted—not like a spell, not like a flare.

It was as if the laws around him warped to accommodate his existence. Each step he took was calculated. Every strike, precise. Each breath carried purpose.

Within seconds, half the elites were down.

The god of war's smirk twitched. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

"Interesting…"

"You should've come yourself."

Kyle said, cutting down another.

"I will. After I remind you of your place."

The god growled,

"No need. I already know my place. And it's not under you."

Kyle replied, eyes locked on the final elite.

He raised his blade. The last elite hesitated—then collapsed without even realizing Kyle had moved.

The battlefield fell silent. The god of war stared. His barrier pulsed once, as if reacting to the sudden loss of so many of its blessed.

Kyle now stood alone, untouched, surrounded by fallen champions.

"Now, do you want to keep pretending you're safe?"

Kyle said, lifting his gaze to the god.

The corpses of the fallen elites lay scattered around Kyle's feet, their divine-imbued armor cracked and broken, their lifeless eyes wide in disbelief.

Kyle didn't spare them a glance. His attention remained fixed on the God of War, whose throne flickered behind a golden barrier of layered enchantments.

Yet the god did not seem rattled. If anything, he appeared mildly entertained.

"Well done. You've exceeded expectations."

The god of war said slowly, clapping once, his voice echoing through the ruined skies.

Kyle said nothing.

"But let me remind you, mortal, this is only the beginning."

The god's voice turned colder.

With a lazy wave of his hand, more portals tore open across the battlefield. This time, the divine surge that accompanied them was steadier, more refined. From the rifts stepped the next batch of soldiers—taller, heavier-armored, and far more composed than the last. Their eyes were not filled with frenzied ambition like the first group, but with cold precision. These weren't reckless pawns—they were warriors.

The god grinned.

"This batch has already learned from the mistakes of the last. Look at them—how they move, how they breathe as one. Their formation is tighter, their aura synchronized. They are not here to test you. They are here to end you."

The new warriors spread out swiftly, forming a battle line around Kyle. Their movements were smooth, practiced. There were no wasted motions, no wild charging. These were fighters used to war.

The god of war leaned forward on his throne, eyes burning with amusement.

"You see, every time you cut down my men, I only grow wiser. The next wave will always be stronger than the last. This is a cycle, Kyle Armstrong—one that you cannot break. The longer you fight, the harder your opponents become. You are but a single man. How long can you last?"

Kyle's gaze swept across the encroaching enemies, then returned to the god behind the shimmering barrier.

"I won't surrender."

He said calmly.

The god's smile widened.

"Then you will be buried beneath the weight of inevitability. There is still time, godslayer. Bend your knee. Surrender now, and I may yet spare you."

But Kyle had already raised his blade.