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

The battlefield was silent.

Smoke drifted in coils through the broken terrain, and blood — both divine and mortal — stained the cracked earth beneath Kyle's feet.

The god of war, once an indomitable symbol of endless conquest, now lay slumped on one knee. His divine armor was shattered, black ichor running down his arms and pooling at his feet.

His once blinding aura flickered weakly, no longer a threat but a dying ember of former glory.

Kyle stood opposite him, blade pointed toward the ground, his expression unreadable. His clothes were torn, his own blood mixed with the dust, but his presence had not dimmed.

In fact, with each breath, he seemed to grow more real — more immovable — while the god of war shrank in comparison.

For the first time in his existence, the god of war felt… fear.

His body refused to move.

The divine vessel that had waged thousands of wars, toppled kingdoms, and slaughtered pantheons could not even raise a finger against this human.

Not because of injury — no, his injuries were grave, but survivable — but because something deeper had fractured.

His pride.

"I am… a god…I do not kneel… I do not bow…"

He muttered under his breath, trembling.

But he did. His legs, no longer able to support the weight of his defeat, collapsed under him. He fell face-first into the dirt, coughing up golden blood.

His hand dug into the soil as if trying to claw back control — dignity — divinity.

Across from him, Kyle's sword lifted.

It was not a vengeful motion. There was no hatred in his eyes, no wrath burning behind his calm facade. Just finality.

"It's over. Rest, or break — your choice."

Kyle said, voice steady.

The blade shimmered with a dangerous, silver-blue light as Kyle swung it down for the final blow—

But he stopped.

Instinct screamed at him. Danger.

His body twisted mid-air, dodging a violet burst of divine energy by the width of a breath. The beam sliced through the air where he had just stood, exploding into the ground and creating a long scar of melted stone.

Kyle landed smoothly and spun to face the source.

A projection shimmered in front of the fallen god of war — tall, elegant, ethereal. Her hair flowing like water. Eyes as still as winter skies.

Goddess Lucia.

She stood between Kyle and the god, her divine projection radiating far more pressure than any form she had used before.

The weight of her mana — no, not quite mana — pressed against the air, distorting the space around her.

Kyle narrowed his eyes.

"You're not the same."

Lucia tilted her head, smiling faintly.

"Oh? You noticed."

Her tone was distant, almost amused. But behind the serene expression, Kyle sensed something was off.

It wasn't just her power — it was the texture of her presence. Cold, impersonal. It lacked the subtle familiarity of the fate goddess he had observed before.

The god of war, groaning, looked up with rage.

"I didn't… ask for your help…"

He coughed more divine blood.

Lucia's projection looked down at him, eyes unreadable.

"Of course you didn't. You're proud. Stupidly so. But pride won't win this war."

"I would rather die than be saved like this—!"

Lucia shrugged elegantly.

"Then consider yourself dead. And let Arkenas make use of your corpse. I'm sure he'll enjoy dissecting the power you stole from the others."

The god of war's face twisted in fury and humiliation.

Kyle, still in a battle-ready stance, didn't relax. He studied Lucia with clinical precision, ignoring the exchange. His instincts were never wrong, and right now they screamed: This is not Lucia.

"Who are you really? Because whoever you are… you're borrowing her shape."

He asked, voice cool.

Lucia's smile deepened, but her eyes remained blank.

"You're a sharp one, Kyle Armstrong."

He stepped forward.

"And you didn't answer the question."

She chuckled softly.

"Do you really want to know? You've already guessed, haven't you? Lucia's consciousness is… resting."

Kyle's gaze sharpened.

"So Arkenas took her too."

Lucia's projection tilted her head.

"Let's say… she volunteered."

The god of war blinked, looking up with alarm.

"You… volunteered?"

He rasped, confused.

But Lucia ignored him.

"You were about to kill him. But we can't allow that. Not yet."

She said to Kyle, gesturing toward the battered war god.

Kyle didn't lower his blade.

"So you're just stalling for your leader?"

She gave no answer.

Kyle's fingers tightened around his sword.

There it was — the strategy. If the god of war died here, the stolen power from the gods of wind and harvest would vanish. Arkenas wouldn't be able to reclaim it.

But if he lived… Arkenas could take it all for himself.

The battlefield was just a step in a much larger game.

A twisted chessboard, with gods as pawns and kings alike.

Kyle exhaled slowly.

"You should've let me finish him. Now you've only delayed the inevitable."

He said, voice quiet but cold.

Lucia — or whatever wore her shape — simply smiled again.

"Inevitable? You mortals always love that word. But fate is flexible… when you're the one holding the threads."

From behind her, the god of war pushed himself shakily to his feet. Not out of strength — but shame. His face was twisted with a mix of anger, humiliation, and confusion.

"I didn't ask for this. I never—"

He muttered, fists clenched.

"You're a liability. But Arkenas has use for you. For now."

She cut in smoothly, still facing Kyle.

Kyle stared at her for a moment longer… then finally lowered his sword slightly.

"Tell Arkenas this. If he wants that power so badly… I'll carve a path right to his throne and make him choke on it."

He said flatly.

Lucia's smile vanished.

The threat had been clear.

And very, very real.

In the growing silence, the tension lingered like a storm on the horizon. Kyle turned and walked away, leaving the shattered god and his false protector behind.

But he didn't leave because he couldn't win.

He left because the final battlefield had just shifted.

And Arkenas had just placed himself squarely in Kyle's path.

The god of war gritted his teeth as he watched Kyle lower his blade, turning his back to both him and the Goddess.

The humiliation burned deeper than any wound, and his pride roared in protest. Clenching his fists, he gathered the last remnants of his divine mana.

A final strike—he would end Kyle here, even if it meant his own destruction.

He raised his trembling arm, divine energy crackling violently around him.

But before he could release the attack, a hand gripped his wrist.

Lucia's gaze was calm but unyielding.

"Don't. Do not let your final act be one of cowardice. You've lost. Let it end with what little honor you have left."

She said quietly.

The god of war's entire frame trembled with rage, shame, and desperation.

"He turned his back on me…"

"Because he no longer sees you as a threat. Strike now, and your legacy will not be that of a warrior—but of a dishonored puppet."

She said flatly.

The god of war's hand dropped.

For a long moment, he just stood there, hollow and beaten.

Kyle didn't turn around. He didn't need to.

There was nothing left behind him worth fearing.