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

The atmosphere in Duke Armstrong's office was thick enough to cut with a blade.

The heavy silence, laced with tension and unspoken frustration, hung between the father and his two eldest children like a storm cloud waiting to burst.

'S-Shit! What will happen to us? Will father finally cast us out…likely not, right?'

Christia's mind was filled with what-if scenarios and Emily was not far off either. They were both afraid of the Duke's final verdict.

The duke leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his steely gaze fixed on Emelia and Christan as they stood before him.

"I'm disappointed in both of you. Do you have anything left to say for yourself?"

He said at last, his voice low and sharp, like a dagger drawn in quiet rage.

Christan flinched, his hands curling into fists.

The words stung more than he wanted to admit. He opened his mouth, ready to explain

'This wasn't my fault. It was hers. I was just following the plan.'

But before a single syllable could escape, he felt a sharp pinch on his back.

His body jerked, and the moment of pain drowned out his thoughts.

He shot a glare toward Emelia, who smiled sweetly up at their father and spoke in a calm, rehearsed tone.

"Father, you're right. This won't happen again. I take full responsibility. I'll make sure this entire incident disappears. No rumors will escape the castle."

She said with full confidence.

Christan bit down on his tongue, furious but unable to do anything now that she had spoken. The duke regarded them both for a long moment before waving a hand in a silent dismissal.

"Make sure you do that. Now, leave."

They bowed and walked out together, but the second the door shut behind them, Christan rounded on Emelia, his eyes burning with resentment.

"Why did you stop me?"

He hissed.

"Because you were about to ruin everything. You know Father. He doesn't want to hear excuses. If you'd tried to defend yourself, he would've turned on you. Again."

She snapped back, dropping her composed act.

Christan scowled but didn't reply immediately.

He did know.

Their father valued results, not excuses.

Still, swallowing his pride left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"I was right. Next time, we won't make the same mistake.""

Emelia said more softly now, stepping closer.

Back inside the office, the duke sat still, his eyes fixed on the closed door.

Despite dismissing the pair, his internal energy had extended just far enough to catch their argument outside.

He sighed, leaning forward slightly and placing his fingers together under his chin.

"Still bickering like children."

He muttered to himself.

He turned to his side and gestured subtly. His old butler, who had been waiting silently in the corner, stepped forward with a bow.

"Call for Kyle. If the boy's showing promise… I'll see it for myself."

The duke said.

The butler gave a hesitant nod.

"As you wish, my lord."

He hesitated a moment longer before speaking.

"Should I prepare anything?"

The duke's eyes narrowed.

"No need. If he breaks, he was never worth testing."

The butler bowed again, concealing the sympathy in his gaze.

Young Master Kyle had always been the most overlooked of the children.

It seemed cruel that now, just when he was gaining attention, it came under such cold scrutiny.

Still, he said nothing. Some things were better left unsaid in the Armstrong household.

Kyle was lounging in his room with Queen curled up near his shoulder when the knock came. The old butler entered with a quiet bow.

"Young master Kyle. The duke has requested your presence."

He said.

Kyle gently stroked Queen's feathers before standing.

"Understood. I'll head over now."

The walk to the duke's office was a long one, each step deliberate.

When he arrived, he didn't bother knocking.

He gripped the handle, pushed the door open, and stepped inside without a word.

The duke's gaze flicked to the door, and a faint twitch appeared near his eye. It was small—barely noticeable—but Kyle saw it.

'He's not in the mood for games. But I can tell he wants something from me.'

"You called?"

Kyle said, voice light.

"Sit."

Kyle sat.

The air in the room shifted as both men stared at each other, not like father and son, but like two predators caught in a moment of stillness, each waiting to see who would blink first.

"You've changed."

The duke said after a long silence.

Kyle tilted his head.

"So they say."

The duke studied him closely, his sharp gaze cutting through the silence like a blade.

"The priestess found nothing wrong with you."

Kyle did not reply to those words.

The silence in the Duke's office stretched again, thick with unspoken thoughts, until the Duke finally spoke, his voice as cold and deliberate as always.

"The date has been decided. In six months, you will march to the frontlines. Your name will be registered among the noble heirs taking part in the next war campaign."

He said, watching Kyle with a shrewd glint in his eyes.

Six months.

To any other noble son—especially one thought useless or inexperienced—it would sound like a generous amount of time to prepare.

But Kyle knew better.

In fact, he recognized the subtle blade hidden beneath the offer.

Six months wasn't a buffer—it was a countdown.

'Then again, most nobles are just decorations in the war- something to be protected and hidden. I wonder if the soldiers will think the same for me. Most likely. Ah, I'll have to work hard.'

For someone without prior military training, six months wasn't enough to even break in new armor properly, let alone learn strategy, tactics, or gain any command authority.

But for Kyle, who had lived through bloodied battlefields in his previous life, who had commanded and bled with thousands… it wasn't terrifying.

It was inconvenient.

It was rushed.

But he also knew better than to push back against this offer. Not now.

The Duke leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing.

"Will you be ready by then?"

Kyle didn't hesitate.

"Six months is more than enough."

He could see it then—just a flicker—in his father's expression.

Approval. Surprise. Perhaps even curiosity.

This wasn't just an announcement. It was a test.

A provocation.

The Duke wanted to see if Kyle would falter under pressure, or worse, try to beg for more time.

But Kyle knew his role well.

He couldn't rise too fast—he was still the 'incompetent' young master in the eyes of the world.

But in six months, that image would have to begin to shift, and for that, he needed groundwork.

His past life's experience wouldn't be enough alone.

He needed loyal men, soldiers who would trust him. Men trained not just in weapons but in surviving hell itself.

And for that, he needed one thing above all: opportunity.

"Good. Then we'll begin your trial period immediately. If you pass the test I've prepared, you'll be given command of a portion of my personal army."

The Duke finally said, satisfied.

That caught Kyle's attention.

The Duke's personal army wasn't just any group of knights—they were elites, trained under the strictest of standards and commanded with the kind of loyalty that could change the tide of a battle.

But Kyle knew better than to accept that offer as it was.

It sounded generous, but it also came with chains.

Kyle sat straighter, his eyes sharp.

"If I may, I'd like to amend the terms of that reward."