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

Kyle's eyes snapped open.

At first, he thought he was still in the royal palace, but the oppressive weight of the air quickly told him otherwise. The world was wrong.

He stood not on stone or earth, but a smooth, dark surface that shimmered like obsidian.

The sky—or what passed for it—was an endless swirl of violet and black, occasionally flashing with golden cracks like a fractured mirror.

A chill seeped into his bones.

"…Not Earth."

Kyle muttered, adjusting his stance instinctively. His fingers hovered near the hilt of his blade, but there was no enemy in sight—yet.

It felt familiar. All too familiar.

This place reminded him of the space Charrin had banished him to.

But this was worse. Stronger. More ancient. More aware. A twisted echo of the divine realm, choked with thick, stagnant power.

Then, a voice.

<<Come. I want to see you.>>

It was neither masculine nor feminine—just a whisper brushing against his thoughts. Commanding. Hungry. Curious.

Kyle narrowed his eyes and started walking toward the sound. But the more he moved, the less progress he made.

The world around him stretched and distorted with each step, like he was walking on a looped path that betrayed distance and direction.

The voice snapped again.

<<You're too slow. You should be better than this. You killed Charrin, didn't you?>>

Kyle exhaled through his nose, annoyed.

"You dragged me here. You want something? Be patient."

But the voice only grew more agitated.

<<You are disappointing. All that power, and still you crawl like a child.>>

Then it began to fade. With every word, the voice grew quieter, as if moving farther and farther away from him.

Kyle stopped walking.

His eyes swept the endless space, and something primal stirred inside his chest. It wasn't fear. It was irritation. He hated being toyed with. Hated being controlled.

Then, he felt it.

Faint flickers of mana—at first weak, human. But they began to twist. To mutate. Their signature warped from mana into something fouler, like rotten magic clinging to unstable bodies.

Shadows began to rise from the obsidian floor, taking vague humanoid shapes. Kyle counted five—no, ten—then dozens. Each one had glowing, hollow eyes and mouths twisted into wide grins.

"Stay with us."

One of them whispered.

"This is where you belong."

Said another.

"Fate cannot be defied. Just surrender."

They lunged.

Kyle's blade was in his hand before the first shadow touched him. He slashed upward, cleaving two of them in a single, precise arc.

The shadows let out shrill, pained screeches before melting into smoke.

But they kept coming.

Two closed in from his left, their limbs extending unnaturally long. Kyle ducked the first, slashed the second's arm clean off, then spun and blasted the first with a mana burst from his palm. The creature exploded like ash scattered to the wind.

One leapt from above. Kyle raised a barrier just in time, catching the descending strike on his mana shield. The impact sent a jarring ripple down his arm.

They were getting stronger.

The mana in the air warped again—now taunting. The shadows no longer whispered. They howled.

Kyle gritted his teeth.

"Noisy bastards…"

Three rushed at once. Kyle thrust his palm into the ground, channeling mana through the obsidian surface.

A shockwave blasted outward in a dome around him, vaporizing the nearest shadows instantly.

Still they came. Dozens became hundreds.

Claws raked at him. Teeth snapped. Arms extended like tendrils, wrapping around his limbs. They didn't want to kill him—they wanted to hold him here.

"Stay."

One moaned.

"Don't leave."

Another begged.

Kyle snarled and erupted in a full-body mana burst, sending bodies flying. He slashed his sword in a full circle, then kicked off the ground and launched himself above the swarm.

He hovered in the air, bloodied and bruised, but far from beaten. His eyes gleamed silver as his mana flared violently around him.

The shadows below twisted their forms to match his old enemies—his regrets, his failures, his past.

He saw the faces of soldiers who had died under his command.

He saw a young boy—the first innocent he failed to save.

He saw his comrades from the past life. The ones who never came back.

"You think I'll fall for this? I've lived through worse than your illusions."

Kyle growled. His voice shook the realm.

He gathered his mana into the blade. It pulsed with divine-cleaving intent—unstable, wild, real. The shadows began to shudder, their mouths wide in silent screams.

Kyle descended like lightning.

He struck the ground with his blade at the center of the horde.

"Break!"

A white-hot explosion rippled from his position. The obsidian floor cracked, shattered, and fractured into a thousand pieces. The shadows were torn apart, their forms unraveled by his will.

The echo of his mana sang like a blade through a bell.

The illusion buckled.

And then, it shattered.

The world around him cracked like glass and fell apart, piece by piece, dissolving into stardust.

Kyle stood in silence, the remnants of that twisted realm dispersing around him like fading embers.

Panting, he glanced at his hands. They were his again. Real. Solid.

The voice didn't speak again.

But Kyle didn't need it to.

He had made it clear: He would not be bound. Not by fate. Not by illusions. Not by gods.

Kyle jolted awake, instinctively reaching for the dagger under his pillow.

His senses, still on edge from the dreamlike battle he'd endured, snapped into full alert the moment he realized something—or someone—was leaning over him.

His eyes met a pair of vacant, glassy ones.

The puppet.

It was bent low over his bed, its face eerily close to his. No breath. No emotion. No expression. Just silent observation.

Without a moment's hesitation, Kyle surged up and slammed his palm against its chest, propelling it backward with a mana-infused burst.

The puppet flew across the room, crashing against the far wall with a loud thud before crumpling to the floor.

He shot out of bed, still shirtless, eyes sharp and blade drawn.

The puppet didn't move. Didn't resist. It simply sat where it landed, limp, unmoving… like a toy discarded by a careless child.

Kyle lowered his blade only slightly, his brows furrowed.

"What the hell were you doing hovering over me like that?"

Silence.

He exhaled, sheathing his blade.

"Don't do that again. You startled me. That's the only reason I reacted like that."

He muttered, shaking his head.

The air shifted.

Just a ripple. Barely noticeable. But it was there.

Kyle's eyes narrowed.

"…You heard me, didn't you?"

There was no reply, but the ambient mana around the puppet shifted subtly in resonance—almost like an acknowledgment.

Not quite speech, not quite action, but enough to confirm what Kyle had already suspected.

The puppet could hear him. Maybe even understand him.

And for just a flicker of a second, something almost like guilt passed through Kyle's expression.

"…So you're not just a mindless thing after all."

The puppet remained still, but its head tilted the slightest bit—toward him.

Kyle sighed.

"If you can hear me, then listen well. Stay out of my personal space when I'm unconscious. Unless you want to get thrown again."

The air pulsed again—gentler this time.

Kyle's jaw tightened. He didn't like mysteries. Especially not ones that watched him sleep.