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

The air in the village felt heavy—too still for a place supposedly free of trouble.

Kyle walked down the uneven dirt path, his eyes sweeping over the crooked wooden houses, the shuttered windows, and the way every villager he passed stiffened before silently stepping aside.

It wasn't fear of strangers in general—they weren't panicked, just… avoiding. Avoiding him.

Bruce frowned at the odd silence.

"Young master, should I look around and ask what's going on?"

Kyle didn't slow his pace.

"You're free to do as you wish."

Bruce gave a short nod and broke away, circling toward a few men who were repairing a fence.

His voice was polite, his stance unthreatening, but they muttered excuses and walked off without meeting his gaze.

Every attempt—whether from Bruce, Melissa, or Silvy—ended the same. Doors shut. Conversations cut short.

Bruce returned after a few minutes, shaking his head grimly.

"No one's talking. They're either scared or… hiding something."

Kyle's gaze lingered on a nearby alley, where a pair of eyes quickly disappeared behind a wall.

"Then we'll find out another way."

Before anyone could speak, a shout split the air—followed by the thunder of feet.

From the treeline, a group of armed men burst into view, their crude weapons glinting in the late afternoon light.

They didn't charge directly at Kyle's group—no, their focus was on the villagers.

Panic erupted instantly. Mothers clutched their children, old men hobbled toward shelter, and the market stalls were abandoned mid-sale.

The few guards present seemed hesitant, their eyes darting toward the newcomers rather than stepping forward to protect their people.

Melissa's expression hardened.

"Bandits?"

Kyle's tone was calm, almost indifferent.

"Looks that way."

The first of the bandits reached the outskirts of the village, their leader barking orders. One swung a club into a barrel, spilling grain across the dirt, while another kicked over a cart.

Silvy stepped closer to Kyle.

"Do we intervene?"

Kyle's eyes sharpened as he took in the scene—the lack of resistance from the guards, the way the villagers were running without looking toward them for help, the calculated chaos of the attack.

"Yes. But let's see who they really are first."

He said quietly, his hand resting on his sword.

And as the bandits closed in, the ground between peace and bloodshed narrowed to a heartbeat.

The sound of boots crunching on gravel was the only warning before shadows detached themselves from the alleys.

Steel glinted in the dim light—mismatched swords, chipped axes, and rusted spears. The bandits grinned like wolves circling prey.

"Company."

Bruce muttered, shifting his stance.

Kyle's eyes flicked over them—about two dozen. Too confident for common thugs. They moved like men who'd killed before.

The first charge came without a word.

Kyle stepped forward, drawing his blade in a smooth arc that caught the first attacker's sword mid-swing.

Metal clanged, the shock running up his arm. He shoved hard, the man stumbling back into his comrade.

A spear lunged from the side; Kyle twisted, letting it pass under his arm before his elbow slammed into the wielder's jaw.

Beside him, Melissa was a blur.

Her twin daggers flashed in tight arcs, catching a descending axe, turning the strike just enough for it to miss her shoulder.

She stepped in close, her knee driving into the attacker's gut, then slashed at the back of his thigh.

Bruce met a pair of bandits head-on, his greatsword sweeping in a brutal horizontal cut. One man's guard shattered, the force sending him crashing into a market stall.

The second raised a shield—Bruce's sword slammed against it with such weight the man buckled, dropping to one knee. Bruce followed with a kick that sent him sprawling.

The fight exploded into chaos.

A scarred man with a curved blade came at Kyle fast, feet light, strikes sharp and precise.

Kyle blocked high, then low, his sword angling just enough to deflect without locking blades. He feinted a step back, drawing the man in, then snapped forward with a thrust aimed for the ribs.

The man twisted away, slashing at Kyle's arm. Kyle caught the blow on his crossguard, shoved the blade aside, and slammed his pommel into the man's cheek.

Melissa darted between attackers, always moving, never staying in reach.

A sword hissed past her hair; she dropped low, slicing across a shin, then pivoted up into another man's blind spot. Her dagger found a gap in armor at the hip, drawing a sharp cry.

Bruce, meanwhile, was a wall of force. Every swing was an event—bandits scattered or paid in broken weapons and bones.

Two tried to flank him; he pivoted, using one attacker's momentum against the other. A short, sharp headbutt stunned the first, while his sword handle smashed into the second's jaw.

The locals had vanished into doorways and behind shutters, leaving the street to echo with metal and ragged breaths.

A wiry bandit with twin knives darted for Kyle's back. The faint scrape of boots on stone was enough—Kyle shifted sideways, sword coming up in a diagonal sweep that knocked one knife wide.

The second came dangerously close; Kyle twisted his wrist, parrying it away, then drove a boot into the man's stomach, sending him stumbling.

Melissa found herself pressed by three at once.

One hacked downward with a cleaver; she caught it on one dagger, twisting to let the second dagger slash across the attacker's forearm.

Another tried to rush her with a spear—she sidestepped, using the man with the cleaver as a shield.

The spear went through the man's side, and Melissa shoved him into the third attacker before spinning away.

Bruce's blade locked with a bandit wielding a heavy mace. Sparks spat between them as the two men strained.

Bruce pushed forward, forcing the mace down, then smashed his forehead into the bandit's nose. Blood sprayed.

Bruce shoved him back and swung in a brutal diagonal slash that sent the mace clattering to the ground.

The bandits weren't breaking. If anything, their ferocity grew.

A tall man with a halberd cut in from the side, forcing Kyle to step back.

The reach advantage was significant—the sweeping arcs kept him from closing in. The halberd came down in a heavy overhead chop; Kyle sidestepped, but the weapon's shaft snapped out, cracking against his ribs.

Melissa barely ducked under a wild sword strike, feeling the wind of it pass over her head. She slashed the man's knee, but another bandit came in from behind.

She spun, catching the strike on crossed daggers, and kicked the man squarely in the chest.

Kyle's eyes swept the fight. They were holding good.

The halberdier came at him again, this time with another swordsman at his side. Kyle blocked the sword strike, used the clash to pivot around, and kicked the halberd's shaft to throw off its aim.

Melissa's opponents regrouped, circling. One had a chain, swinging it lazily, the weighted end whistling in the air. Another had a short spear, jabbing in quick bursts.

She weaved, the chain grazing her sleeve, then lunged in—but the spearman's point forced her back. The chain wrapped around one dagger, jerking it from her grip.

Bruce roared, shoving his greatsword forward and forcing his nearest enemy back, but the effort left him open.

A bandit with a cudgel slammed it against his side, the thud echoing. Bruce grunted, staggered, but refused to fall.

The fight had turned into a grinding stalemate—no magic, no tricks, only sweat, steel, and willpower.

Mainly because of the sheer number of people on the other side.