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

her focus sharpened like a blade. Before her, a mirror of divine ether hovered in the air, reflecting nothing but static distortion.

She reached forward with her mana, her will commanding—compelling—the puppet she had lost to return to her influence.

But it didn't move.

There was no response. No flicker of connection. Nothing.

Lucia's brows furrowed, and her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Again."

She whispered.

Her mana surged—violent and twisting like a serpent—but the puppet remained untouched. Isolated.

Cut off.

It wasn't just disobedience. It was severance.

Lucia's fingers trembled slightly. This had never happened before. Since ascending to godhood, her control over her creations had been absolute.

Her reach, her bonds, her manipulation of the physical and spiritual—all infallible. Puppets obeyed, and souls bent to her will.

Yet now, something—someone—was standing between her and what belonged to her.

Her unease solidified into cold calculation. This was no longer about a lost tool. The individual capable of denying her control was far too dangerous to be left alive.

She gathered her divine essence and whispered into the folds of space. A portal formed, intricate and elegant, shimmering with celestial glyphs.

She laced it with temptation—power, revelation, desire—hoping to draw the man out, to bring him into her domain where she would rule, where her strength would not be matched.

But as soon as the gateway opened, something slammed into it from the other side.

CRACK.

The portal convulsed violently. The symbols fractured, and a ripple of unseen force tore across Lucia's chamber. Her eyes widened, and before she could pull back—

The backlash struck.

A thunderclap of raw energy slammed into her chest, throwing her from her throne and across the marble floor. Her body skidded, her divine robes shredded by the force of rejection.

Lucia gasped and clutched her chest. Her mouth filled with copper and she coughed violently—blood splattered across the pristine floor of her sanctum.

She hadn't just failed. This content is presented by MVLEMPYR.

She had been repelled.

Shakily, she pushed herself to her knees, still coughing. Her divine body trembled from the pain, but her gaze locked on the brief flash she'd seen through the portal.

Just a moment—half a heartbeat—but it was enough.

That mana.

It had felt so familiar.

A resonance she hadn't sensed in centuries. Something ancient, buried deep in her core.

She whispered the name without meaning to.

"...Kyle?"

Her voice trembled. For a second, she allowed herself the thought.

'Could it be…?'

No.

Her eyes narrowed and she shook her head, anger rising to mask the tremble in her chest.

"No. No. That's impossible."

She stood, wiping the blood from her mouth, disgusted at herself for even entertaining the idea.

"Kyle is dead. His soul is lost. He's gone. And I need to stop confusing the scent of battle with old memories."

But the unease remained.

That pressure. That aura.

It had never left her memory. It was etched into her very being—the man whose soul she had tried and failed to retrieve.

The one she had betrayed the other gods for. The one she had loved.

And now… now she was haunted by a phantom of him.

She clenched her fists, then turned to the array of soul containers lining her sanctum. In each orb glimmered a flicker of light—souls she had harvested, stored, manipulated.

"I will not be humiliated again. If I cannot bring him to his knees through strength—then I will break him another way."

She whispered. Her eyes narrowed, sharp and cold.

"I'll tear down everything that connects him to this world."

Her hand hovered over one of the soul orbs—the elf girl's, still warm with mana, still resisting integration. Lucia's lips curled into a bitter smile.

"Let's see how long he lasts… when everything around him begins to vanish."

She stepped toward her altar and summoned the threads of fate.

If she could not strike directly, then she would strike through the heart. Through companions. Through allies.

One by one, she would rip out the roots that grounded him—and when he was alone, when he was desperate and hopeless—

Then she would offer him her hand.

And he would beg to take it.

______

In the training grounds near the royal palace, the clang of weapons and the rhythmic stomps of drills filled the air as usual—until a loud thud drew everyone's attention.

One soldier collapsed to the ground, face-first, his body limp. At first, the others thought it was exhaustion, maybe a faint from overexertion.

But when he didn't move, and his breathing slowed to a near-death stillness, concern crept in.

Before anyone could fully react, another soldier fell. Then another.

Within the span of an hour, more than twenty soldiers had dropped where they stood—eyes shut, expressions peaceful, yet unresponsive as if death had crept up quietly without the usual struggle.

A hush spread through the grounds, and fear began to take root in the hearts of the remaining soldiers.

No one knew what was happening.

Was it poison? A curse? An attack?

The officers discussed among themselves before deciding to approach someone who could handle matters with clarity—Bruce.

If anyone could make sense of this, it would be him. He was Kyle's trusted companion, a strategist, and someone who never took panic lightly. A small group rushed toward his quarters.

But just as they approached Bruce's office, they found Melissa standing outside, arms crossed with a clipboard in her hand, clearly finishing up something.

"Is Bruce inside?"

One of them asked, the urgency clear in his tone.

Melissa looked up with a frown.

"Yeah. He's been sleeping since morning. Said he was tired after sparring yesterday. He didn't even show up for the morning roll call. Still hasn't come out."

She replied, glancing toward the closed door.

She raised a brow when she noticed their discomfort.

"What's going on?"

The men exchanged uneasy glances before one of them finally stepped forward.

"Bruce… isn't the only one. A lot of the soldiers have collapsed. They just fell asleep, and nothing we do wakes them up. Cold water. Slaps. Healers tried too. Nothing's working."

Melissa's brows furrowed.

"How many?"

"More than twenty. Just today."

She went silent for a moment, processing the information. The soldiers before her looked pale, shadows under their eyes revealing the weight of the fear gripping them.

Melissa's usual sternness faltered.

"This isn't a coincidence."

She muttered.

A heavy stillness settled around them.

Melissa turned toward Bruce's door, her knuckles tightening around the clipboard.

"Stay here. Bruce? It's me. You need to wake up."

She ordered and knocked firmly.

No response.

She tried again. Louder. Still nothing.

Worried now, Melissa pushed open the door. Bruce lay on the bed, breathing shallowly, unmoving. His face looked serene—eerily so.

As if he were dreaming something far too deep for his soul to return from.

"Bruce!"

She shouted, stepping forward and shaking him.

Nothing.

A chill ran down her spine.

Melissa turned back toward the others.

"Find Young Master Kyle. Now."

The soldiers didn't hesitate. One bolted down the hallway while the others scattered in different directions, urgency driving their steps.

Melissa remained by Bruce's side, eyes darting between his face and the quiet room. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she forced herself to stay calm.

Whatever was happening wasn't random. It was targeted, calculated. And if Kyle didn't act soon, they might lose everyone—one sleeping soul at a time.