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

Kyle's blade sliced cleanly through the air, the rhythm of his movements sharp and controlled as sweat glistened along his brow.

Each swing of his sword, each parry against an invisible foe, was a silent purge—a way to push the pressure down, away from his nerves and bones.

In these moments of repetition, his mind emptied, and the world around him quieted. The war, the gods, Silvy—all became distant for a while.

But that fragile calm cracked when he felt it—that presence.

His steps slowed. Without pausing his routine, Kyle shifted his gaze toward the entrance of the arena.

There, just beyond the arching shadows cast by the overhead torches, stood the puppet.

It wasn't moving. It wasn't making a sound.

Just watching.

A muscle in Kyle's jaw ticked. He straightened, exhaled slowly, and picked up a spare wooden sword from the weapons rack.

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the wooden weapon toward the puppet, letting it slide across the floor until it rested just in front of the motionless figure.

"You planning to keep standing there, or do you want to help me train?"

Kyle asked, tone even, eyes sharp.

The puppet didn't answer. As always, it gave no indication that it had heard anything.

Kyle was about to turn back when, with quiet grace, the puppet bent down and picked up the wooden sword.

Kyle's brows lifted, mild surprise flickering across his face. He didn't expect that.

Then, step by step, the puppet entered the arena.

The divine mana laced into its core shimmered faintly, but beneath it… Kyle felt something else. Neutral mana, trapped and suppressed, trying to wriggle free like a caged flame.

More than that, he felt emotion—stark and unfamiliar in the puppet's otherwise impassive aura.

Frustration. Anguish. Longing?

Kyle's lips curled into a small smile.

"That's new."

He lowered his stance and readied his weapon.

"Show me more. I want to see what you're hiding."

At first, the puppet seemed hesitant, its grip on the wooden blade uncertain, as if war waged within it. Then, all at once, it lunged forward, and Kyle's blade came up just in time to parry.

The clash echoed sharply.

The puppet attacked again, this time with better form—precise footwork, clean arcs. Kyle's eyes narrowed as he dodged.

These were not the clumsy swings of a mindless doll. The strikes had intention. Practice. Familiarity.

Kyle blocked again, but his breath caught just for a second.

'I've seen these moves before…'

Memories clawed at the edges of his mind—flickers of old spars, blades crossing in the wind, laughter in the dirt. The puppet's style was familiar, too familiar.

But how? From where?

The next blow forced Kyle back, just a half step. His smile widened.

"I don't know who you are… but I like your spirit."

The puppet didn't respond. It couldn't. But something in the way it held its blade—like it remembered a time it could—made Kyle hesitate.

He could end the fight quickly. The puppet was fast, but Kyle was faster. Stronger. Sharper. Still, he didn't.

This was… fun.

It had been a long time since anyone had challenged him like this, even with a wooden sword.

He let himself fall into the rhythm, countering swings, weaving through strikes, only tapping into enough mana to match the puppet's enhanced movements.

The divine energy in the puppet's body flickered wildly, as though straining to keep up with something it didn't fully understand.

Back and forth they went, each clash sending sparks of mana into the air.

A few soldiers from nearby training grounds paused, drawn by the commotion, whispering among themselves as they watched Kyle spar with what should have been a lifeless doll.

Sweat beaded on Kyle's neck. His eyes shone with focus.

A downward strike from the puppet sliced through the air, and Kyle sidestepped smoothly before launching a feint that made the puppet stumble slightly.

But even then, it adjusted faster than Kyle expected.

'Who taught you this?'

He wondered silently.

And then, the puppet faltered.

Only for a heartbeat.

It froze mid-swing—just for an instant—but long enough for Kyle to step forward and gently tap the wooden sword against its shoulder. The impact made no sound.

The puppet lowered its weapon, staring at Kyle.

Kyle, breathing only lightly, wiped his forehead and tilted his head.

"Why do you feel familiar?"

He asked, not expecting an answer.

The puppet didn't react.

But the negative emotion Kyle had felt before—the frustration—was still there. Still rising. Its hands trembled slightly, not from exhaustion, but something deeper.

Confusion?

Kyle sheathed his sword.

"You were holding back. Even now."

He said softly. The puppet stepped away and walked back to its corner on the edge of the arena. It sat down slowly, limbs folding in like an automaton shutting down.

But Kyle could still feel that locked mana struggling inside the body.

He approached, crouching in front of it.

"You're not just a puppet, are you?"

No answer.

Kyle exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I don't know who you were. Or what you were made for. But something's breaking inside you. I can feel it. And I don't think I'm the only one who'll notice soon."

He stood again and looked toward the sky above the open arena. The sun had started to set, casting long shadows across the sand.

More battles were coming. Bigger ones.

He had to be ready.

And so did the puppet.

Kyle's grip tightened around the wooden sword as he took a step forward, eyes narrowed and mana crackling faintly in his palm.

The puppet had matched him blow for blow until now, but Kyle had reached his limit of patience—and curiosity.

"Let's see what you're really hiding."

He muttered.

With a burst of energy, he surged forward, mana spiraling into the wooden blade. The puppet instinctively brought its sword up to block, but the surge of mana was too much.

The impact exploded outward with a shockwave, hurling dust into the air as the puppet staggered backward.

Its mask, glowing faintly with divine remnants, cracked from the pressure. A second later, it shattered.

Kyle stood still.

The dust settled.

And from behind the broken mask, a blank but unmistakably familiar face stared back at him.

His breath caught.

No divine energy clouded his mind now—he could see it clearly.

Those sharp features. That stoic gaze. The faint scar over the brow.

"…General Raen."

Kyle's voice trembled.

A name spoken like a ghost's.

The general who had died for him in a past life. A man who had once commanded Kyle's armies with unwavering loyalty.

A man who had died—smiling—after defending Kyle's final stand.

Now, reborn in the form of a puppet. Silent. Soulless. Yet still watching him.

Kyle stared, frozen. The face behind the shattered mask was unmistakable—General Raen, his most loyal comrade from a life long buried.

His breath hitched as memories surged: battles fought side by side, Raen's unwavering loyalty, his death in Kyle's arms.

"Raen…?"

He whispered.

But the puppet didn't respond. Its gaze was empty, stripped of soul and will. Yet something deep within it trembled. Kyle's heart pounded.

This wasn't coincidence. Someone had used Raen's body—his memory—as a weapon.

Kyle's eyes darkened. Whoever dared do this would pay.