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

"Hold the fort and charge forward!"

Grand Duchess Amana's voice rang loud and clear above the clamor of steel and the cries of the wounded.

Her silver armor gleamed under the midday sun, blood smeared across her gauntlet as she raised her sword and pointed it toward the fractured enemy lines.

"We've shattered their frontline—don't let this chance slip!"

The clash of her elite so

The enemy, once pressing hard on their defenses, had begun to crumble, their formation unstable and disoriented. Panic flashed across their ranks.

"Drive them back!"

Amana called again, riding her armored steed along the frontline.

"Push them into retreat!"

Her second-in-command, a wiry man with a scar over one eye named General Varron, rode up beside her. His face was tense, lips pulled into a hard line.

"Your Grace—are you certain this is wise? Their numbers still far exceed ours. Even with our elites, we're stretched thin."

He asked, voice low but urgent.

Amana's jaw clenched. Her knuckles whitened around her sword's hilt as she scanned the battlefield. Her heart told her to press forward.

The enemy was faltering now, and another delay might give them a chance to regroup.

But logic reminded her of the danger—if they committed fully and the tide turned, they would be vulnerable.

"We won't get another opening like this,"

She muttered, more to herself than to Varron. Then, louder, more certain:

"They're on the backfoot. If we break their command now, we can scatter them before they dig in."

Varron hesitated, then nodded and shouted for the signal to advance. Trumpets blared, and the Grand Duchess spurred her steed forward with a cry.

Her personal guard followed at her heels, blades drawn, eyes burning with determination.

The enemy's ranks gave way before them.

Arrows flew. Swords clashed.

Amana's forces carved a path through the chaos, gaining ground, pushing the foe back further and further. Their morale was surging, and she could feel it—victory was close.

"You're doing well!"

She shouted to her troops, striking down a soldier who charged her directly.

"Keep pressing forward!"

But then, without warning, the sky darkened slightly—not from clouds, but from a sudden pressure that descended like a weight on every living thing in the field.

A light, pale and divine, shimmered at the heart of the enemy formation.

A surge of energy pulsed outward.

It hit the battlefield like a wave. The injured enemy soldiers on the ground gasped as their wounds began to close. Their strength returned, and those once collapsed began to rise. The wave washed across the field, revitalizing the enemy with divine power.

Amana pulled her steed to a halt, horror spreading across her face.

From beside her, Varron's voice cracked.

"Your Grace… divine mana…!"

He pointed toward the epicenter of the blast, where a figure cloaked in robes stood with arms outstretched, divine sigils glowing around him.

"A Divine General—one of their high priests, it must be!"

The tide had turned again. The shattered lines of the enemy were quickly reforming, now bolstered with unnatural healing.

The confidence that had surged through Amana's forces began to falter as they watched their enemies rise from what should have been their deathbeds.

Varron turned to her with alarm.

"We have to fall back! Our formation wasn't built to fight divine interference. They'll overwhelm us if we don't regroup!"

Amana's heart pounded. This was the price of rushing too soon. She looked back to her troops, many still fighting bravely, unaware of what was coming.

She drew a deep breath.

"Sound the retreat! Pull the men back!"

She commanded.

Trumpets cried out again, this time carrying the call to retreat. Soldiers began to disengage, backing away cautiously from the suddenly revitalized enemy.

But Amana did not turn back.

"Your Grace?"

Varron reached out, confused.

"I'm going ahead. We won't get away unless I take out that Divine General. If he's the source, cutting him down is our only chance."

She said.

"Wait, Your Grace—!"

But she was already gone, galloping ahead, her blade drawn once more. Behind her, Varron swallowed his panic and began coordinating the retreat.

All he could do now was trust that his Grand Duchess would succeed.

Once the Grand Duchess vanished into the haze of the battlefield, her second-in-command, General Varron, stood frozen for a moment.

Every instinct in his body screamed at him to follow her, to ride into the storm by her side and guard her back with his life. But even through the tension tightening his chest, he knew the truth.

If he followed her, there would be no one left to guide the troops.

Gritting his teeth, Varron turned his steed and barked orders to the remaining soldiers, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him.

"Fall back! Regroup at the secondary camp!"

The elite forces obeyed, the retreat orderly under his command. Injured soldiers were helped along, and those who could still fight formed a defensive wall as they withdrew.

It wasn't the cleanest retreat, but it was one they could manage with dignity. The sight of the wounded, some barely able to walk, only deepened the grim set of Varron's jaw.

By the time they returned to their camp, dusk had begun to fall.

And waiting for them, just outside the largest command tent, was Kyle Armstrong.

He stood calmly, flanked by Bruce, Melissa, Silvy, and a dozen of his personally trained warriors. The faint wind ruffled his cloak, and his gaze immediately fixed on Varron.

"What happened? Where is the Grand Duchess?"

Kyle asked, voice cool and controlled.

Varron's eyes widened as he staggered off his horse. He didn't waste a second.

He rushed toward Kyle, grabbing the young commander by the arm with desperation burning in his eyes.

"She—she rushed toward the Divine General! Alone! We couldn't stop her. She's still out there, and I don't know if she'll return!"

Before anyone else could react, Melissa's arm shot forward and gripped Varron's wrist. Her fingers tightened with frightening pressure, eyes gleaming with barely-contained fury.

"Don't touch him."

She growled.

Varron winced and tried to pull away, but her grip was iron.

Kyle, however, raised his hand and placed it gently on Melissa's shoulder.

"That's enough."

He said.

Melissa hesitated for a breath, then slowly released Varron's arm, though her eyes still flashed with warning.

Kyle turned to Varron and rested a hand on the man's trembling shoulder.

"You did well by bringing the troops back. Now let me do my part."

"But—"

Varron started, panic creeping into his voice.

"I'll do my best. That's a promise."

Kyle said again, firmer this time.

Varron stepped back, lowering his head, and said nothing more. The only thing left now was trust.

Varron stepped back, his shoulders trembling.

"Please… save her."

Kyle gave a slight nod.

"I will."

Melissa huffed and turned away, her arms crossed. Bruce placed a calming hand on her back. Silvy, unusually quiet, watched Kyle with unreadable eyes.

Kyle looked toward the distant battlefield, the fading light casting long shadows.

"Prepare yourselves. We move soon."

"Are you sure?"

Bruce asked.

Kyle's voice was calm.

"She risked herself to keep the front. Now it's our turn to bring her back."

Without waiting for a response, Kyle turned and walked toward his horse. The others followed in solemn silence.