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

In the depths of the Temple of Moras, an oppressive silence hung heavy in the air.

Rows of acolytes stood motionless, heads bowed, eyes avoiding the grand altar that loomed like a beast waiting to feed.

The stillness was broken only by the quiet, pitiful sobbing of a child—a sound so fragile and raw that even the priests, trained to ignore emotion, found themselves shifting uncomfortably.

The boy sat on the cold stone floor, clutching his knees, his shoulders trembling. His cries echoed faintly off the marble walls, blending into the eerie silence of the sacred space.

Some of the younger priests looked to one another uncertainly, as if considering stepping forward. But then, as if struck by a shared realization, they lowered their gazes once again.

This was the chosen one—the offering selected by Moras himself. Who were they to interfere?

The doors to the inner sanctum creaked open, and the High Priest stepped into view.

Dressed in ceremonial robes woven with gold and black thread, his face was veiled by a mask of polished obsidian.

He walked with calm deliberation, the hem of his robe brushing the floor in a rhythm that made the boy's crying grow softer.

When he reached the boy, the High Priest knelt—an unusual gesture. He removed his mask slowly, revealing a kind but tired face. He smiled, gently placing a hand on the boy's head.

"Why do you cry, child?"

He asked softly, almost kindly.

The boy looked up with tear-streaked cheeks and wide, fearful eyes.

"I don't want to die. I don't want to become a sacrifice. I want to go home. I want to see my mother. My sister… she's waiting for me."

He whispered.

The priest's smile remained, but there was something unsettling beneath it—something too calm.

"You misunderstand, child. You are not dying. You are becoming more. Far more. With the blessing of our god Moras, you will be elevated beyond mortality. You will walk where others crawl. Speak where others are silenced. You are the vessel. You are chosen."

The boy recoiled, his mistrust growing.

"No. You just want to use me. This isn't a blessing… it's a curse."

He whispered.

The priest's smile faltered for a moment, but then returned. He stood.

"Doubt is natural. But it will fade. When Moras takes your body as his, you will understand. Now, come. It is time."

The temple's torches flared with sudden golden light, and a strange hum filled the air—soft and divine, but terrifying.

The great golden mural of Moras on the far wall shimmered, as if something behind it had begun to stir. The priests all dropped to their knees, whispering prayers in a forgotten tongue.

The boy's breathing quickened. He tried to scramble away, but the guards were already moving.

Strong hands grabbed him, lifting him up and dragging him forward. He kicked and screamed, but it was useless. The altar loomed closer and closer.

"No! Let me go! Please!"

He cried out, his voice cracking.

Desperation overtook him.

He reached within himself—deep into his very soul—and forced his mana to move.

It was unstable, untrained, and raw, but powerful enough to burst into a faint pulse. He directed it outward, a flare of hope and fear sent into the world beyond the temple.

Maybe someone—anyone—would feel it.

The High Priest noticed the flare, his eyes narrowing. But before he could act, the boy was slammed against the altar.

A priest pressed a glowing sigil to the boy's chest, and darkness swarmed over him. His vision blurred, and his final thoughts were of home—of a woman's warm embrace, and a young girl's laughter.

Then, nothing.

The temple pulsed golden again, and the High Priest looked up at the mural of Moras, now glowing fiercely. He smiled, eyes gleaming.

"He is ready, my lord. Your vessel is prepared."

He whispered.

But somewhere, miles away, that flare of mana brushed against a slumbering presence. And it stirred.

______

Kyle jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat. His eyes snapped open as the remnants of a distant, desperate mana signal faded from his mind.

Though faint, it had carried raw fear, pain—and the unmistakable scent of divinity.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair and letting out a bitter scoff.

"The gods really haven't changed. Still dragging innocents into their games."

He muttered.

From beside him, a small chirp broke the silence.

Queen, who had been curled up in its little nest of blankets, had woken up from the disturbance. It fluttered up, landing lightly on Kyle's shoulder, peering at him with glowing, curious eyes full of concern.

Kyle softened a little at the sight.

"It's nothing, Queen. Just… bad dreams."

Queen tilted its head and chirped again, nuzzling his neck. Kyle gave it a gentle pat, coaxing it back toward the blanket.

"Sleep, Queen. You're not part of this mess. Not yet."

Once Queen had curled up again, Kyle stood and walked quietly to the window.

Outside, the forest was still dark, stars glimmering above. The soft hum of the village settling into peace only made the weight in his chest grow heavier.

He glanced at the room's other corner, where Lysander lay asleep.

The dragon's slow, steady breaths filled the room with faint traces of smoke and warmth. Kyle frowned slightly.

As much as he wanted Lysander at his side, especially if divine forces were at work, something told him this wouldn't be a fight the young dragon should witness.

If things went wrong, Kyle needed fewer people in danger—not more. And someone had to stay behind to protect the village… and Queen.

He turned, making his decision.

By the time morning came, Kyle had packed essentials and summoned Bruce and Melissa to meet him outside.

Melissa arrived leaning lightly on a cane, pale but composed. Bruce followed closely, already armored and battle-ready. The elf healer, Seloise, was right behind, clearly agitated.

"You can't take her. She's still too weak. She shouldn't travel—let alone fight!"

Seloise said, stepping forward as Kyle approached.

"I'll be fine. I want to go. You said the remedy's in Moras's territory. I can't sit here waiting while you risk everything for me."

Melissa cut in, her voice firmer than it had been in days. She looked to Kyle.

Kyle looked at her for a long moment, eyes narrowing. She was shaking—barely—but he saw the fire burning behind her exhaustion. The same stubborn flame that had followed him since the day they met.

"I won't hold you back. I promise."

She added quietly.

Kyle sighed, glancing at Bruce. The knight gave a small nod.

"Fine. But the moment things go south, you pull back. I won't lose you, Melissa. Not to a curse. Not to some god's tantrum."

Kyle said.

Melissa nodded, eyes misty but determined.

Kyle turned to Seloise.

"I'm trusting you to hold the village. Protect Queen. Watch over Lysander."

The elf's lips trembled slightly.

"Please… just bring her back safe."

Kyle didn't respond. He simply turned, cloak fluttering as he led Bruce and Melissa down the path, away from the village.

Behind them, Seloise stood alone at the gate, staring after their retreating figures.

The early morning sun had just begun to rise, but the warmth did little to ease the cold feeling growing in her heart.