Noble Lady Reformation Guide - Chapter 113

Many still remembered the sight of the Great Demon Noir roaring with fury enough to overturn the entire northern continent and set the world ablaze.

The'Dawn War'—one of the greatest calamities in imperial history—was still recounted among people, with memorials for its horrors spread across the continent.

That terrible disaster where blood flowed like rivers and corpses piled like mountains.

The brave party who stopped this cataclysm—called humanity's crisis—were still spoken of as legends.

Melberot, Feria, Levellton, Lusric.

And Kalimford—the 6-Star combat mage who led them at the forefront.

These five names had spread across the continent, becoming synonymous with the heroic generation.

Yet those enchanted only by heroic tales remained unaware.

Hidden behind their valorous deeds lay necromancy—an art all regarded as abhorrent sin.

-"Layna. I need your help."

The time was during the Dawn War's peak in the north, the location a shabby warehouse in the remote Barony of Ankheil.

There knelt Kalimford—the legendary hero preparing for his final expedition against Noir—meeting the gaze of a bewildered girl with one knee on the ground.

His stubbled beard and faint crow's feet marked the hero's aging. Behind him stood his oldest friend Melberot, his lover Feria, and trusted comrades Levellton and Lusric.

Light from the open warehouse door haloed them like a divine glow.

Yet inside the blood-stenched warehouse lingered only ominous darkness.

Amidst this eerie space filled with necromantic traces, the legendary hero remained unfazed, making his request with steadfast resolve.

-"To reach Noir, we need someone who can counter his necromancy."

Kalimford's plea was directed at a girl barely past puberty.

Crouched in the warehouse's bloody corner hugging her knees, she stared up at the hero with eerie gleaming eyes.

Her name was Layna now. —For now.

Once Eileen, before that Seraphine.

Earlier still Isabel, then Lyes, Poina, Catlan, Amelia, Coylen, Magat, Victoria, Frederica, Agnes, Sirk, Lushiel, Letty...

──And eventually, the girl who would bear the name Phee.

The girl silently studied the hero before suddenly curling her lips in a bloodthirsty grin.

-"Kehehe... kehahaha."

-"..."

-"How amusing. The empire's last remaining hero—who so desperately sought my death—now extends a hand begging for help. The irony is delicious."

Archaic central continent dialect spilled from this girl who looked barely thirteen.

While intelligible, hearing such antiquated speech from a child evoked inexplicable dread.

This girl was inherently ominous.

-"I fail to see why I should aid you, Kalimford. Hindering you would be more fitting. Noir's necromantic prowess is said to be extraordinary—perhaps he could help fulfill my wish. Perhaps I should kill you here instead."

At this, Kalimford's comrades behind him flinched, hands reaching for weapons.

But Kalimford raised a hand to stop them. Still kneeling, he quietly responded:

-"Layna. Noir cannot grant your wish."

-"Who's to say?"

-"Do you regret studying necromancy?"

Layna's eyelids twitched.

After a silent glare, the hero continued softly:

-"The Cycle's Brand—that blessing all life craves, guaranteeing transcendence beyond death. But you're starting to realize."

-"Shut up, Kalimford."

-"It's not a blessing. It's a curse."

Layna's shadowed eyes darkened further as she gritted her teeth.

The endless cycle. Dying again and again only to reincarnate as noble daughters, continuing life with eternal youth—seemingly the ultimate blessing.

But traversing this wheel of rebirth for eons brings realization.

Once touching necromancy, one's hands inevitably stain with blood.

Wandering the shadows'endless path, you gradually forget who you are.

Who am I? Layna? No, that's merely my current self.

Then Isabel? Lyes? Poina? Catlan? Amelia? Coylen? Magat? Victoria? Frederica?

Chasing this regression to the origin, you forget your very identity, life's journey rendered meaningless. Your original purpose buried under eons of futility.

Thus you become a wandering ghost, adrift in emptiness, unable to find life's meaning.

The end that comes for all is denied only to you.

Such is the pinnacle of necromancy.

For the first 200 years, you might consider it a blessing.

But eventually you wander like a specter, craving only rest. No matter how exhausted, the world grants you no reprieve.

Only one desire remains. Rest.

Steeped in necromancy's curse, living only in blood-soaked shadows—through countless lifetimes, the sole craving is rest.

-"I can kill you. Not just your body—your very soul."

Before this wraith, the legendary 6-Star combat mage Kalimford spoke.

Though his body aged, his brilliant eyes still shone.

6-Star combat magic'Soul Incineration'

Having reached 6-Star gazing at constellations alone in the Rotan Mountains—his magic could reduce existence itself to nothingness. Given months of preparation, even a 6-Star necromancer could be erased from this world.

Unlike Melberot, Kochella, or Drest's magic—this was his unique domain, paradoxically appearing as salvation's lifeline.

The legendary combat mage Kalimford could kill her.

─That simple fact made the girl lift her head.

The following year, Kalimford's party succeeded in slaying the Great Demon Noir that had swallowed the north.

Yet Kalimford couldn't keep his promise.

For he died with Noir.

- Drip, drip

On a drizzling day.

Before Gremfort Palace where Emperor Gertrel resided, a massive portrait of the legendary hero who perished with Noir stood prominently.

Countless citizens wept before it during memorial services.

Even the cold-blooded Melberot—his oldest friend—bowed his head, while all his legendary comrades stood in somber silence.

Amid the crowd, a girl in a hooded robe glared at the portrait before abruptly turning away, grinding her teeth.

'That... damn bastard...'

As she melted into the capital's streets, an eerie aura still clung to her.

Kalimford had broken his promise.

Thus, coldness seeped into the girl's eyes.

Realistically, no matter how renowned Derek was as a tutor or how thorough Aiselin was, their newly established training institute shouldn't have operated smoothly from the start.

Aiselin had mentally prepared for dozens of unforeseen scenarios, expecting countless problems upon opening.

She'd readied thorough countermeasures for every conceivable issue.

Yet Ravenclaw Training Institute was running—absurdly well.

"......"

Ten days since operations began.

Aiselin sat in her private quarters within Derek's estate, blankly reviewing lesson materials.

Having checked them three or four times already, there was little point in further review.

Court etiquette she'd struggled with during her debut, essential banquet manners, basic noblewoman education—all neatly organized for easy comprehension.

Her etiquette classes required no concern, and Derek's magic instruction was equally solid.

Noblewomen attending marveled at this true land of learning, progressing exponentially despite the recent opening.

Students were thoroughly satisfied, and newly hired servants operated smoothly despite minor hiccups.

External instructors, while eccentric, diligently fulfilled their roles without major conflicts in the estate.

Everything was proceeding flawlessly.

No problems whatsoever.

Meaning—she had nothing to do.

"...."

"Lady Aiselin... Are you troubled?"

Head Butler Delbritton approached, prompting Aiselin to pout.

"I'm troubled by having no troubles..."

"..."

Delbritton had learned enough about Aiselin while preparing the institute.

Initially thinking only Derek was eccentric, he'd realized Aiselin was equally abnormal upon closer observation.

Obsessive individuals often achieve early success.

In short—not entirely sane.

"Speaking of which, is Derek not overworked? We see each other at meals, but he's so busy we rarely talk..."

"The Baron faces no particular difficulties. In fact, he's been concerned about you lately."

"R-really...?"

Aiselin perked up at this, having felt their recent interactions were purely professional.

Though startled by Elente's recent visit, that was now past.

However formidable Elente was, she couldn't surpass Aiselin who worked at Ravenclaw daily.

Especially with Derek personally worrying about her health—it stirred strange satisfaction.

She knew it was likely mere courtesy, but couldn't help feeling smug.

As they say—the first to fall loses.

Aiselin cleared her throat and gazed outside where autumn approached.

Time was flying like an arrow.

"..."

Suddenly, cold sweat trickled down her back.

"When... was the last time I visited home...?"

Only after settling into routine did this thought strike.

By all rights, Aiselin remained the fallen noblewoman shouldering the Duplein family's decline.

"The salary division? Ah yes, we agreed to discuss that."

"I-it's awkward discussing money... but accounts must be settled."

Derek ate simple vegetables, bread and fruit at the now lavish dining table.

Aiselin approached to discuss profit distribution.

Derek reviewed schedules for basic mana training and supplemental classes for struggling students.

His diligent nature hadn't changed since mercenary days.

This reliability was why Aiselin admired him.

"The quarter's tuition has been calculated. You'll receive 50%. I'll keep the remainder."

"...Pardon? Half for me? That's too..."

"Too little? I'm open to negotiation with a notary present."

"N-no! The opposite! It's too much!"

Aiselin fidgeted, voice shrinking uncharacteristically around Derek.

He studied her before setting down his fork and pushing his plate aside.

Servants promptly cleared the table.

"Lady Aiselin... I do have a conscience..."

"Huh...?"

Derek massaged his temples.

Ravenclaw Training Institute bore his name, stood on his land, with him as nominal head.

Yet Derek merely taught magic while Aiselin single-handedly managed all administration.

She'd built the foundation and resolved every issue.

Though still unstable post-launch, Derek suspected she could eventually run it without him.

Him monopolizing profits felt increasingly inappropriate.

"And... you need funds, don't you? To rebuild your house."

"W-well, yes but..."

"The Dupleins require immediate capital. The institute's success means more cashflow for your family. Contributing here is rebuilding Duplein, no?"

His logic was impeccable.

Over thirty noblewomen had brought substantial tuition fees—enough to solve Duplein's immediate crises.

Aiselin's eyes sparkled as she watched Derek straighten his clothes at the head of the long table.

"Derek..."

"Yes?"

"I'll... dedicate my life to this place..."

"Th-that's unnecessary."

Even Derek found Aiselin slightly intimidating lately.

After accepting Duplein's decline and her fallen status... she seemed enlightened somehow.

Though Derek himself was a hard worker scheduling every minute, even he hesitated to compare himself to her.

"Once this autumn term ends, I'll conduct supplemental classes for struggling students."

"Oh? A few students are indeed lagging. Our policy is to leave no one behind."

"Lady Seedmer, Lady Rosepelt, and Lady Phee of House Tigris will need extra sessions."

"Really?"

Aiselin knew Lady Seedmer and Lady Rosepelt lacked confidence, slowing their progress.

But she hadn't considered Phee of House Tigris needing remediation.

'...Derek's been paying special attention to Lady Phee lately.'

Likely professional responsibility, but it unsettled Aiselin.

Buried in work, she'd barely spoken privately with Derek.

He seemed particularly invested in Phee—staying after class for advice, visiting her dorm for life lessons, even hiking together on weekends. (All torturous ordeals for Phee.)

Now planning special remedial classes. (Pure agony for Phee.)

In short—Derek had little attention left for Aiselin.

"..."

How cruel.

This fleeting thought startled Aiselin, who shook her head in self-reproach.

Cruel? What had Derek done wrong? He was simply working.

Baffled by her own pettiness, Aiselin blinked rapidly.

Derek studied her with concern—given her workload, burnout was inevitable.

Flushing at his genuine worry, Aiselin hastily shook her head.

"I-I spaced out. My apologies. I'll go review the morning schedule."

"Your dedication is admirable."

"As if I could match you. A-anyway, thank you for the profit share. On behalf of House Duplein, you have my deepest gratitude."

Clutching documents, Aiselin hurried into the hallway.

Fanning her flushed cheeks, she drowned in bewilderment.

Still oblivious in such matters, Aiselin failed to realize.

With Elente, now Phee—for the first time in her life, she was experiencing jealousy.

'...I'll expel Phee before autumn ends. With proper justification, even she won't protest.'

After Aiselin left, Derek reviewed his remedial plans.

Phee had withstood his subtle pressure surprisingly well.

Though playing the stereotypical strict instructor, her centuries-honed social skills surpassed expectations.

'...I didn't expect such resilience.'

Necromancers were like viruses.

Left unchecked, they inevitably consume groups and cause disasters—proven by Duplein's tragedy.

This wasn't enough. Drastic measures were needed.

Derek prepared to play his trump card.

"After this term ends, I'll conduct supplemental classes. Lady Phee still lacks certain achievements, so we'll continue together. I'll teach you wise approaches to life's hardships, respecting elders, and life's profound truths."

That evening after class, Derek announced to Phee.

"...Oh! Th-thank you...! I'm grateful for your time...!"

Phee maintained her stiff smile through superhuman endurance. Even Derek marveled at her composure.

Clearly, she was no pushover. A stubborn mule like himself.

And when two stubborn mules clash, situations escalate to extremes.