Reborn as a Useless Noble with my SSS-Class Innate Talent-Chapter 320: Ch : To War - Part 2

The morning sun rose over the village like a quiet witness to history in the making. Kyle’s people had woken early, moving with purpose, their armor glinting under the morning light and their weapons sharpened.

The air was thick with anticipation and nerves, but no one faltered. They were ready.

Bruce stood beside Kyle near the front of the convoy.

"Young Master, the surprise is ready. We can leave whenever you give the word."

He said, a rare grin tugging at his lips.

Kyle nodded, gaze sweeping over his assembled soldiers and villagers-turned-fighters.

"Good. Then let’s not waste time."

He stepped forward, voice firm and clear as he addressed them all.

"The time has come to use your power. Not to survive—but to dominate. The gods may watch us. The world may turn against us. But none of that matters. We will not bow. We will not break. You are stronger than divine will. You are the new order."

A ripple of fire passed through the troops, heads lifting, backs straightening. They were no longer afraid.

Before they departed, Kyle knelt before the great, scaled creature resting near the village gates.

Lysander, his dragon cub, had grown massive in a matter of months—now the size of a house, with piercing eyes that glowed faintly with mana.

Though he still bore the childish curiosity of a hatchling, the power radiating off him was unmistakable.

Kyle reached up, resting a hand against the beast’s snout.

"Lysander. You’re staying here."

The dragon huffed, his wings twitching with displeasure.

"I know you want to come. But I need you to protect the village. Everyone who stays behind is your responsibility now."

Kyle said calmly.

Lysander let out a low growl, his tail thudding once against the ground—but then he nodded, almost solemnly. He understood.

Kyle smiled faintly and rose.

"Good boy."

The army finally departed, marching with discipline and confidence. But barely an hour into the journey, Kyle felt it—the unmistakable tingle of a mana signature too familiar to be coincidence. They were being followed.

He raised a hand, signaling the column to halt.

"Take a break. I’ll patrol the area."

He said.

Bruce frowned.

"You sense something?"

Kyle nodded but didn’t elaborate. As he prepared to leave, a snide voice spoke from the rear of the convoy.

"You’ll regret it, Kyle Armstrong."

Sir Barton Grace, bound and riding on a secured wagon, was smirking like a madman.

"You’ve made enemies of the wrong kind. Going against the gods... this war is only the beginning. You’ll lose everything—your people, your land, your life—one piece at a time. Divine power will devour you."

Kyle didn’t even look back. But Bruce did.

With a cold expression, Bruce walked over and, without warning, slammed his fist into Barton’s face, knocking the man out instantly.

The other guards didn’t flinch—they’d seen Bruce’s temper before.

Kyle returned a few minutes later, having confirmed that they were indeed being watched—but not attacked.

"We’re being shadowed. But not approached. Likely scouts."

He told Bruce.

"Should we smoke them out?"

Bruce asked.

Bruce stepped forward, sword glowing faintly with his mana, eyes narrowed on the cloaked intruder whose presence had finally become tangible thanks to Kyle’s suppression.

"You’re not going anywhere."

He said coldly, the sword thrumming in his hands.

Moments earlier, Kyle had sensed the shift first—an unnatural thrum of divine power pressing down upon the area.

He had excused himself and walked into the forest, hoping to track the source. But the divine mana was elusive, pulsing and shifting like a living thing, making it hard to pinpoint.

Still, Kyle tried. His own mana, sharp and controlled, lashed out like threads of silver in all directions, attempting to weave a net that could force the wielder of the divine power to reveal themselves.

But before he could complete the net, he noticed a sudden drop in divine activity. It wasn’t retreating—it was being redirected.

"They’re not after me. They’re after the prisoner."

Kyle muttered, eyes widening.

He turned on his heel and raced back toward camp.

At the same moment, the cloaked figure had infiltrated the camp and slipped past the guards with shocking agility.

Most wouldn’t even notice the shift in air or shadow—but Bruce did. From the corner of his eye, he caught something shimmer unnaturally near Sir Barton’s cage.

Without hesitation, Bruce struck. His sword, charged with a crescent of mana, slashed downward in a clean arc.

The intruder dodged mid-swing—barely—but Melissa was already there, a knife in each hand.

She lunged, and though the intruder twisted away, her blade sliced across the figure’s shoulder. A grunt of pain echoed through the air, and the cloaking spell shattered like glass.

The attacker, now fully visible, was a man in light silver armor lined with divine inscriptions—clearly a devout warrior of Okla.

His blond hair was soaked with sweat, and his eyes blazed with fanatical fervor.

"Run!"

Sir Barton barked from within his cage, pushing himself toward the bars.

"You can’t win here! Flee and regroup!"

But the young zealot stood tall, blood trailing from his shoulder.

"The divine watches me. And I am not alone. If I must die today, then so be it. But I will not run."

He said calmly.

Melissa scoffed.

"Then you’ll die for nothing."

Bruce didn’t waste words. He lunged forward with his blade, and the clash began.

Steel met steel, but it was more than a contest of weapons—it was a clash of wills.

Bruce’s technique was solid, honed from years of strict discipline and combat experience.

But the zealot fought with the fury of a true believer. His strikes were erratic but devastating, powered by bursts of divine mana that left scorch marks in the soil.

Melissa supported Bruce flawlessly. She darted in when the zealot left gaps, her knives nicking and slicing at his armor.

But his divine protection absorbed some of the hits, glowing faintly each time.

Despite the advantage of numbers, the fight was no easy win.

Kyle arrived just as the zealot forced Bruce back with a concussive blast of mana. He took in the scene and quickly assessed the zealot’s level of control.

"Lower-tier divine blessing. Artificial. It won’t last."

Kyle muttered.

The zealot turned to Kyle, his expression hardening.

"You must be Kyle Armstrong."

"I am."

"I came here to free Sir Barton, not to kill anyone. But if I must slay you all to fulfill the will of the gods, then so be it."

Kyle rolled his neck slowly.

"You’re not the first to say that."

He extended one hand, his mana wrapping around the area like a net—tighter, more focused this time. The divine energy within the zealot sputtered in response, his confidence faltering for the first time.

"What—what is this?!"

"Suppression. Your god isn’t here."

Kyle replied.

The zealot shouted and charged, his blade aimed at Kyle’s throat.

But Kyle was ready. With a sharp breath, he sidestepped the swing and placed his palm on the zealot’s chest.

Mana surged from Kyle like a flood, striking the zealot’s internal flow of energy and scattering it.

With a final kick, Kyle sent him sprawling back into the dirt, groaning.

Bruce stepped forward and pinned him with a foot.

"I’ll give you credit. You’ve got guts."

He said, panting.

Melissa crouched beside the zealot and ripped a strip of cloth to tie his hands.

"But guts don’t win wars."

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