Noble Lady Reformation Guide - Chapter 1

From SaintMTL

Derek's first mentor was a shabby old man who begged in the slums.

Even in Evelstain, a renowned metropolis on the continent, there existed slums where society's outcasts gathered.

At the entrance of a dark alley frequented by thugs and prostitutes, the old man would raise his raspy voice toward the empty air as if senile, proclaiming himself to be a great mage.

"Back in my prime, I was a Grand Mage who soared through the great northern wars~!"

"Even the famous Duke Beltus personally sought me out to eliminate magical beasts along the border regions! Kekeke~!"

His wrinkled scalp, with only a few remaining strands of hair, was caked with grime. His tattered leather shirt and frayed pant cuffs were conspicuously stained with dust and food scraps.

To any observer, he was clearly just a deranged street beggar—nobody believed a word he said.

"Tch! You damn brats... Pah!"

As if deeply offended, the old man would shoot flames into the air or summon gusts of wind without prompting.

Magic was a rare art in this era.

Even the most basic spells were an irreplaceable talent in this gutter where the dregs of society gathered.

Passersby would clap and exclaim in awe at the old man's magic, but those with some knowledge would stroke their chins and solemnly critique him.

"Sure, I get that you can use magic... but isn't calling yourself a Grand Mage a bit of a stretch?"

"The hell? Who's this brat, barely older than a whelp, acting all high and mighty?"

"I'm just saying. From what I see, you're barely at the entry level of 1-Star magic—something noble kids with good bloodlines master before their coming-of-age ceremonies, no?"

The old man gulped dryly at the man's criticism, clearly not expecting someone in this slum to discern magic ranks.

"Granted, being able to use magic at all in this wasteland is impressive, but claiming you were some hotshot Grand Mage is pushing it. Let's be real here."

The critic, well-dressed and articulate, stood in stark contrast to the ragged old man rolling in the gutter. It didn't take a genius to see who was more credible.

Bystanders burst into mocking laughter, throwing trash and dirt clods at the old man.

"Knew it! This geezer's always shouting about himself like he's hot shit!"

"All talk, no substance! Just a stinking pile of trash justifying why he's stuck in this back alley!"

Even basic magic would normally earn respect in the slums—but behavior mattered more. The old man, who constantly looked down on others while boasting of his nonexistent greatness, became an overnight laughingstock.

From then on, whenever he lay sprawled on the street, passersby would spit or jeer at him.

"Idiots. Can't recognize true talent, tsk..."

Muttering to himself and rolling over was the only defense the old man had left.

Then one day, as he sat grumbling and gnawing on oat bread scavenged from a dumpster—

"Please teach me magic."

A grimy white-haired boy approached him.

The child looked barely ten, with unkempt hair caked in dirt and the malnourished frame typical of slum orphans. Only someone unhinged would ask a disgraced old liar for magic lessons.

His oddly solemn eyes stood out, but in this hellhole where every day was a struggle, that kind of weariness was common.

"My name is Derek."

"...Alright."

The old man studied the boy, then bared his yellowed teeth in a grin.

The old man was a fraud.

Far from being some legendary mage, he was a third-rate talent who'd wasted his youth chasing magic glory only to end up a washed-up failure.

He lacked both the skill to teach and the sincerity to try.

Yet aging failures often crave wide-eyed followers to validate their tall tales. A naive boy was exactly the ego boost his dried-up soul needed.

"Heh heh, boy. Count yourself honored to learn from me. I may be on the streets now, but back in my day—"

And so he launched into grandiose speeches to feed his petty pride.

Passersby clicked their tongues or pitied Derek, but the boy listened without reaction.

Between self-aggrandizing monologues, the old man would reluctantly spout basic magical theory—badly inflated versions of concepts noble mages mastered in days.

Whether oblivious or indifferent to the old man's flaws, Derek quietly absorbed every word.

Seasons flowed like river currents.

Autumn's colors faded to winter's chill, then spring's warmth.

They slept by rivers, stole butter bread from bakeries, and huddled in ramshackle shelters.

Time reveals all truths. After a year, even the boastful old man noticed something unusual.

"You some noble's bastard or what?"

"..."

In magic, lineage was everything.

Even to the old man's mediocre eyes, Derek's comprehension was unnatural. Teach him one principle, and he'd deduce three more.

By now, his theoretical knowledge rivaled 1-Star mages—a level noble heirs struggled to reach at his age.

"I wish."

Derek replied flatly, steam curling from the bread in his hands.

They'd hit the jackpot—a whole stash of freshly stolen bread. The old man pocketed the best butter loaves for himself.

"Don't know why you're so hellbent on magic, but commoners hit their limits fast. You know that."

"..."

"Nobles beyond the northern wall reach 3-Star before adulthood—heights we'd take decades to scratch. Why bother?"

Derek's world-weary demeanor grated on him. Yet time breeds attachment, so the old man offered advice:

"That talent of yours will feel special... until you hit the wall."

He spoke from experience—his lifelong efforts eclipsed in a week by a Duplein Duke's second son.

"Dream small. Grit your teeth and survive. Like me."

"I'm not chasing greatness. Just survival."

"Tch. Brat acts like he knows everything... Mmm. This butter bread's divine. Lucky steal."

"Mine just tastes like grain."

"Heh..."

Derek chewed his dry loaf as the old man grinned, yellow teeth glinting.

"Took all the good bread already. Should've grabbed yours first."

"..."

"Life's about looking out for yourself. Want butter? Fight for it."

Classic beggar logic—swindling his own apprentice. Derek just kept eating the stale bread, vowing to hoard the good stuff next time.

The next dusk, Derek found his"mentor"bleeding out by the river.

Caught stealing a 2-Star spellbook from northern wall guards—a suicidal move for a slum rat nobody would mourn.

"Master."

"Ghk... Hkk..."

Broken ribs rattled as the old man trembled in his blood pool, mouthing silent words before going still.

A fitting end for a street beggar.

Derek buried him with a broken shovel, then returned to their hovel—just smelly hides, a wooden drawer, and rag pillows.

No valuables, just a leather pouch with leftover bread.

Wrapping himself in the old man's hide cloak, Derek walked toward Evelstain's grand avenues.

The old man was right—without noble blood, magic mastery was near impossible.

But Derek wasn't of this world.

- [Magic Fundamentals] mastered. You may now approach 1-Star magic.

- Select a primary magic school. This choice is irreversible.

He'd only needed someone to teach the basics. Anyone would do.

Yet in his own wretched way, the old man had tried to impart something real—the desperate tenacity of scraping by at society's bottom.

On the road to the capital, Derek chewed the last bread from the pouch.

No butter.