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

Kyle's arm ached from the constant parries, his breath coming harder now. The halberd swept for his legs; he jumped back, boots skidding on the dirt, only for the swordsman to lunge in.

Kyle caught the thrust on his blade, twisting it away, but the halberd's butt end rammed toward his stomach.

Melissa tried to grab her lost dagger, but the chain wielder kicked it away. She drew her backup blade from her boot, eyes narrowing.

The chain lashed at her head; she ducked and lunged, slicing the chain wielder's arm before spinning to parry the spear.

Bruce planted his sword in the ground for a split second, using it to block a downward blow, then yanked it free in a sweeping uppercut that tore through a shield.

The shield bearer fell back, but before Bruce could finish him, another attacker slammed into him from behind, forcing him forward.

The clash of steel rang louder now, feet shuffling over dirt and stone. Every breath was ragged, every movement precise but slower than before.

And then—

From the far end of the street, more figures appeared, weapons drawn, their steps quick and sure. Bandits reinforcements.

Kyle's eyes narrowed, sweat trailing down his cheek. Melissa's grip tightened on her blades. Bruce set his stance again, chest heaving.

The circle of enemies tightened, the first wave grinning now that help had arrived.

The fight was far from over.

Steel clanged against steel as the chaos of the melee roared around them. Bandits surged forward in wave after wave, blades flashing, eyes wild with desperate aggression.

Kyle cut down another attacker with a smooth, efficient strike, his expression calm—almost bored—as if this was just another day at work.

His sword moved with crisp precision, sliding past guards, catching wrists, and knocking blades aside before a clean thrust or slash ended the fight.

Bruce was a wall of muscle beside him, his greatsword cleaving wide arcs that split through leather armor and bone alike.

Every swing forced three men to stumble back in panic, buying breathing room for the rest of their formation.

Melissa, quick and sharp, danced between the two of them—her twin daggers flashing in the sunlight, slicing tendons and slipping between gaps in armor.

Another bandit lunged for Kyle's flank. Without even looking, Kyle stepped aside, caught the man's wrist, twisted until a sickening crack sounded, then shoved him toward Bruce, who finished him with a single downward strike.

Melissa ducked under a spear thrust, flipped her dagger into a reverse grip, and drove it straight through the attacker's thigh before kicking him away.

Kyle's eyes narrowed as he swept the battlefield with a quick glance. There were too many of them.

Far too many.

The sheer number, the way they moved—not chaotic, but with an edge of coordination—spoke volumes.

"This isn't right."

He muttered under his breath, slicing through another foe.

Melissa heard him over the din.

"What do you mean?"

She asked, yanking her blade from an enemy's ribcage.

"These aren't just random stragglers. There's too many for a natural bandit group. Someone organized this."

Kyle said, parrying two strikes at once and sending both men staggering back with a powerful shove.

Bruce's sword smashed a shield apart like kindling.

"Then who sent them?"

Kyle's gaze stayed cold and calculating.

"We'll find out later. For now—end it."

Melissa hesitated, catching another attacker's blade with the flat of her dagger.

"Wait… where is everyone else? Grand Duchess and Silvy?"

Kyle sidestepped a wild swing, his sword darting in to pierce a man's throat before answering, voice clipped.

"Gone to check the root cause of this. Which means it's just us here."

"Fine by m.,"

Bruce growled, swinging in a wide horizontal arc that dropped two men instantly.

From that moment, their pace changed. Kyle pushed forward like a stormfront, his strikes measured but relentless.

He fought with minimal motion, conserving energy while cutting down foes with surgical precision—thrust to the ribs, slash to the hamstring, quick pommel strike to the temple.

Melissa became a shadow in motion, weaving between enemies, her daggers flickering in and out like fangs, each movement economical and deadly.

Bruce carved space for them, each blow hammering through defenses and scattering their opponents.

Even surrounded, the three moved in perfect unspoken rhythm, their years of combat together showing in every exchange.

The bandits, for all their numbers, began to falter. Their lines wavered as bodies fell, their confidence eroding with each passing heartbeat.

Yet still, more came.

Kyle's sword slid past another guard and opened a deep line across a man's chest.

He stepped over the falling body, eyes locked on the next wave. His voice carried, low but sharp.

"Melissa, Bruce—tighten formation. We're going to clear them all."

And so, the three pressed on—unyielding, methodical, and entirely in control.

The battle wasn't over yet.

Steel met steel, but this time it was not a contest—it was a slaughter.

Kyle's order was clear, and Bruce and Melissa moved like hounds loosed from a leash.

Bruce's blade cut through the front line in one great sweep, his momentum carrying him into the second.

A spearman tried to meet him head-on, but Bruce turned the shaft aside with a casual flick and drove his sword through the man's chest.

Melissa was quicker, darting between the staggered foes. Her twin short swords flashed in tight arcs, finding gaps in armor with surgical precision.

A bandit raised his axe—only for Melissa to be behind him in the next heartbeat, his weapon clattering to the dirt as she slid her blade free.

Kyle advanced without hurry, parrying an overhead strike and countering with a short thrust that dropped his opponent. His movements were economical, every step measured, every blow ending a life.

"Push through!"

Bruce barked, though it was hardly necessary—the bandits were already breaking.

A few tried to rally, but the sheer disparity in skill crushed their spirit.

Melissa drove them apart like cattle, Bruce penned them in, and Kyle cut down those too slow to escape.

Within minutes, the clearing was quiet save for the groans of the dying and the wind stirring the grass.

Kyle wiped his blade clean, his gaze sweeping the field.

"Gather what's useful. Leave the rest."

Melissa sheathed her swords, still frowning.

"Too easy."

She muttered.

Bruce kicked a dropped spear aside.

"A waste of good steel on trash like this."

Kyle's expression didn't change.

"If it was this easy for us, imagine what it'll be for whoever sent them."

The message was clear. This wasn't over—this was just the opening move.

Bruce hauled one of the wounded bandits upright by the collar, his massive hand clamping around the man's jaw.

"Who sent you?"

He growled, voice low but carrying the weight of promised pain.

The bandit spat blood, glaring.

"You think I'd talk?"

Bruce's grip tightened until the man choked, eyes bulging.

"I think you'll talk before I decide whether you keep breathing."

Nearby, Melissa crouched by another prisoner, her dagger's point idly tracing circles on his chest.

"You should answer. He's not patient."

The second bandit's resolve cracked first.

"We—we were paid… coins stamped with the crest of a black serpent… orders came from a hooded man. Never saw his face!"

Bruce's eyes narrowed.

"Where?"

"A camp… west ridge…"

The man sagged as Bruce dropped him.

"West ridge. Looks like we've got a trail, young master."

Bruce repeated, glancing at Kyle.