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

The gravel crunched under Kyle's boots as he stepped into the familiar stretch of dirt road that led into the village.

The sun, mellow and golden, cast long shadows over the wooden fences and shingled rooftops. A breeze carried the scent of fresh hay, warm soil, and cooking stew.

For the first time in what felt like ages, he wasn't dragging behind him the weight of war, politics, or divine interference. He was simply… home.

"Young Lord!"

The voice rang out, cheerful and relieved. A group of children bolted from the side of a well, their wooden practice swords clattering behind them as they sprinted straight for Kyle.

Before he could brace himself, the first collided into his leg, wrapping stubby arms around him, followed by another, then another. He staggered slightly but remained standing.

"Young Lord's really back!"

"He looks even cooler than before!"

"I heard he fought a god and won!"

Kyle chuckled and patted their heads, ruffling their messy hair as they beamed up at him. From the nearby fields and houses, more villagers began to emerge.

Farmers, elders, artisans, hunters. Men with calloused hands, women with braided hair, children with curious eyes—all greeting him with the same warmth and reverence.

"Welcome back, Young Lord."

"We heard the fighting reached the capital. But we prayed you'd return."

"You've kept your promise, lad. You said you'd protect us."

Kyle nodded politely to them, offering a faint smile to each. Their words touched something deep in him. Not pride, but something quieter.

A sense of belonging. He wasn't just a warrior or a noble. Here, he was theirs—the young lord who planted the first seeds in a ruined land and helped it bloom.

A shadow passed overhead.

A low growl—more of a rumbling purr—followed.

Kyle looked up just as something large swooped down and landed in a whirl of dust and wind. Villagers stepped back in awe and slight apprehension as a massive figure—gleaming black and silver—approached on four clawed feet.

"Lysander."

The dragon cub—though calling it a "cub" now felt like an understatement—was nearly the size of a small house, its scales rippling with subtle mana lines.

Its wings had grown but remained tucked tightly along its sides. The moment its deep amber eyes caught Kyle, it let out a happy, warbling snort and rushed forward with surprising speed.

Kyle opened his arms, bracing himself just in time as Lysander nudged his chest and curled around him, nearly knocking him off balance.

The dragon let out soft crooning sounds as it nuzzled against Kyle like an affectionate puppy. Kyle didn't mind.

"You've grown so much..."

He whispered, placing a hand gently on Lysander's snout.

Lysander blinked slowly, resting its heavy head on Kyle's shoulder.

It couldn't speak—yet—but Kyle could feel the warmth of its emotions through the bond they shared. It had missed him, deeply.

"He remembers you well. Hasn't let anyone ride him. Not even the beast handlers. Always looked to the road. Like he was waiting."

Said an older man nearby.

Kyle gave the old man a nod of thanks.

"He was never meant to be ridden. He's not a mount. He's family."

He stood up straighter and gave Lysander a soft push, urging the beast to give him some space. The dragon reluctantly complied, staying close as Kyle walked further into the village.

The place had changed since he left. More buildings. Stronger walls. The market was bustling, the storehouses fuller.

Children played without fear, and laughter filled the air. It was no longer just a settlement—it had become a home for many.

Kyle's eyes scanned every corner. Each house, each garden patch, each face. This wasn't just a project anymore. It wasn't something he'd started to pass time or gain influence.

It was his heart.

"This place…feels more alive than ever."

Kyle murmured aloud as he walked past a small orchard, "

He passed the training field where young men and women were practicing archery and swordsmanship.

A small militia, growing stronger with each season. Not just soldiers—but defenders.

A farmer bowed low as Kyle passed, clutching a basket of vegetables.

"You kept us safe, Young Lord. We'll keep feeding your people. That's a promise."

Kyle offered him a rare smile.

"It's not my people anymore. It's our home."

Further ahead, he saw a memorial stone—a recent addition. It bore the names of villagers who had fallen to monsters or disease in the early days. Kyle ran a hand across it in silence, offering a moment of reflection.

Lysander remained nearby, watching.

"I built this place for them…And for the ones yet to come."

Kyle whispered.

He turned to look over the village once more. Every cobbled path, every thatched roof, every carefully tended garden told a story. Stories of hope, of recovery, of determination.

The world may still be in chaos. Gods still schemed. Outsiders still roamed. And the next threat was likely already rising.

But here—here was peace.

And he would die before he let anyone take it from them.

Lysander let out a low rumble, as if agreeing.

Kyle turned to him.

"Let's protect it, together."

The dragon nudged him gently again, and the two walked side-by-side, embraced by the home they had both returned to.

That night, after a quiet dinner under the warm glow of lanterns, Kyle stepped out into the cool night air.

The stars were bright, the sky clear, and the soft hum of crickets echoed through the peaceful village.

As he stood near the well, enjoying the stillness, the sound of slow footsteps reached his ears.

The old village chief approached, leaning slightly on his wooden cane. Despite his age, his eyes were still sharp, and his back mostly straight. He came to a stop beside Kyle, hands resting atop the cane.

"Young Lord, how long will you stay with us this time?"

The chief began, voice low but steady.

Kyle looked at him, sensing the worry behind the question.

"A week, at least. I can't promise more right now, but I'll stay that much. I need the rest."

He replied after a pause.

The old man let out a deep sigh of relief and gave a small nod.

"That's good. That's more than enough for us. Just having you here settles the hearts of the people."

Kyle said nothing, only giving a small smile in return.

The chief looked up at the stars before speaking again.

"There'll be a festival in a few days, Young Lord. A harvest celebration. The villagers want you to be part of it."

Kyle glanced at him.

"A festival?"

The old man chuckled softly.

"It's not much. But the people have worked hard, and they want to show their gratitude. You built this place with your own hands, Kyle. They see you as more than just their protector—you're their pride."

Kyle hesitated for a moment, then gave a quiet nod.

"Then I'll be there."

The old chief smiled, a twinkle in his eye.

"Good. That'll mean the world to them."

The old chief patted Kyle's shoulder gently before turning to leave.

"Rest well tonight, Young Lord," he said. "The village sleeps peacefully when you're home."

Kyle watched him disappear into the darkened path, the warm lantern light flickering behind him. A soft breeze passed, and Kyle whispered.

"It's good to be back."