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

The priest blinked, momentarily stunned by the cold neutrality in Kyle's tone.

It stood in stark contrast to the weeping, desperate villagers who had spoken before him—those who begged for crumbs of divinity and paid for it with coin, faith, and dignity.

This man… was different. Strong, tall, calm, and dangerous in ways that put the priest on edge.

Still, the priest straightened, offering his most polished, compassionate smile.

"My child, you need not carry such burdens alone. The gods are merciful. They listen. They guide. Place your hand on the Sphere of Grace, and your pain will be known to them. They will show you the path."

He gestured toward a small orb radiating a soft, pulsing white glow.

Kyle raised an eyebrow. Then, slowly, he reached for the sphere—ignoring the whispers and cautious gasps from the villagers packed behind him.

His fingers closed around the orb, and the instant he made full contact, he felt it: the divine mana trying to invade his core.

It wasn't an offer. It wasn't guidance. It was a demand. A chain trying to wrap itself around his soul.

Kyle didn't flinch. Instead, his smile widened in amusement as he squeezed the orb.

Cracks webbed across the glowing surface.

The priest's smile vanished.

"What…"

The priest whispered, stepping back in horror as divine energy hissed and snapped from the fractured sphere.

"What are you doing?!"

Kyle's mana pulsed through his arm like a tidal wave, resisting and overwhelming the divine power.

The sphere shattered with a final, high-pitched crack, sending shards of glowing energy flying. The air in the room shifted.

The villagers gasped and backed away from Kyle as though they'd just seen a demon manifest.

"You—! You are cursed! The gods reject you! Who are you?!"

The priest pointed at him, face white.

Kyle pulled his hood back and looked the priest dead in the eyes.

"A criminal, if going against your gods makes me one."

He said casually,

The priest's mouth opened and closed as panic gripped him. He tried to turn and run—his robe flaring as he bolted toward the side exit—but Kyle was faster.

In a blur, he moved, appearing right behind the priest and grabbing him by the collar. He slammed the man against the temple's wooden wall, which cracked from the force. The crowd shrieked, scattering in every direction.

Kyle leaned in close, his voice low and cold.

"Where's your god now?"

The priest squirmed, clawing at Kyle's hand.

"I… I am only a servant—"

"You were ready to chain these people. Ready to sell false salvation for a few gold coins. What kind of god demands tribute from starving villagers?"

Kyle growled, tightening his grip.

The priest's eyes darted around wildly.

"You—you don't understand. It's not me! I was only following the rites—"

Kyle slammed him against the wall again.

"And if your god could really see everything, it would've warned you about me."

He paused.

"Unless… you've been abandoned."

The priest froze. That possibility—spoken aloud—seemed to cut deeper than any physical blow. His mouth trembled.

"No… No, the gods never abandon their faithful. They test us."

Kyle snorted.

"Right. And this test? You failed."

He let the priest drop to the floor, gasping. Villagers peeked from outside the collapsed entrance, eyes wide in shock and disbelief. Kyle turned toward them, his tone rising slightly.

"This temple was never holy. It fed on your fear. Your pain. It made you believe you were worthless unless you paid. That isn't faith. That's control."

He said, pointing to the broken sphere and shattered walls.

A tense silence followed.

The thief who had brought him here stood among the crowd, clutching her sick child, tears running down her cheeks. Kyle met her gaze and nodded once.

"The gods who ask for your gold before giving grace aren't gods. They're parasites. And I'm here to burn them all out."

He finished.

The priest, trembling but not yet defeated, suddenly ducked under Kyle's grip and rolled to the ground.

Before Kyle could grab him again, the priest whistled sharply—a piercing sound that echoed through the broken walls.

From the rooftop of a nearby shack, a figure leapt down with frightening speed and precision.

The air cracked as a greatsword swung through the space between them, forcing Kyle to block with his own weapon.

The force behind the strike was immense—enough to make Kyle skid a few steps back.

Kyle narrowed his eyes, the clash reverberating through his arms.

The attacker stood tall now, revealing himself to be a heavily armored man with sun-etched patterns carved into his pauldrons.

Across his chest gleamed a bright stigma—one that pulsed with divine light in the moonlit gloom. It glowed brighter and brighter with each second, as if breathing power into him.

"A stigma-bearer."

Kyle muttered, his stance shifting into something sharper.

The priest, regaining his courage, pointed a trembling finger toward Kyle.

"Enforcer! That man is a heretic. He defiled the gods' will and mocked their blessings! Protect your priest and eliminate the enemy!"

The warrior's eye twitched—but only for a moment. He said nothing, instead stepping forward and launching another attack.

His movements were precise and deliberate, forcing Kyle to dodge and parry with everything he had.

The villagers, still lingering outside the destroyed building, gasped and stumbled back, terrified by the sudden clash.

Steel met steel with thunderous force. Sparks erupted from every impact.

The enforcer was well-trained—perhaps too well for someone guarding a minor temple in a remote village. Kyle noticed it immediately. This wasn't just a local warrior.

"He's from the capital. Or at least trained like one."

Kyle realized as he blocked a powerful blow.

The enforcer did not speak, did not grunt or pant. His face remained calm, almost expressionless, even as he advanced relentlessly.

The villagers, still holding tightly onto the few coins, trinkets, or heirlooms they had brought to exchange for healing, looked on with growing fear.

Many clutched their sick children, their ailing elders, or pressed together in small groups. Whispers ran through the crowd.

"What's happening?"

"Is the priest safe?"

"Who's the man fighting the enforcer?"

"Did he say the gods were fake?"

Seeing their growing unease, the priest quickly stepped onto a broken piece of wood like a makeshift podium and raised his voice.

"Do not fear, my children! The gods will protect us! Their chosen guardian will strike down the heretic who threatens your salvation!"

He called out, spreading his arms wide.

He gestured to the ongoing battle.

"You see? Even now, the heretic is faltering before divine justice!"

Kyle could hear him despite the clash. With a bitter grin, he kicked the enforcer back a few steps and muttered.

"Still trying to scam them in the middle of a fight."

The priest continued, raising his voice louder as if to drown out the doubt that was beginning to infect the crowd.

"Continue your offerings! There is no need to stop. Let your faith shine through! Bring your sick, your injured, your weary! My god's light will not falter!"

But the words no longer carried the same power.

Some villagers still clung to them, desperate for belief. Others, however, began hesitating.

One woman holding a bundle that coughed violently looked down at her few coins and then back at the fight. Her hand trembled.

Back in the fight, the enforcer launched another heavy strike—this time glowing with divine mana.

Kyle grunted as he blocked it, then slid under the enforcer's defense and swept his foot out. The enforcer stumbled but didn't fall. Instead, he recovered with inhuman grace and struck again.

But Kyle was learning. Watching. Testing.

He saw the pattern—the way the enforcer's stigma flared with each strike, channeling power but also locking his movement for just a second.

And that second was all Kyle needed.