Noble Lady Reformation Guide - Chapter 119

The arrogant Lord Robain gazed at the sunrise over the Rotenheim Mountain Range.

The sunlight peeking through the dawn air seemed to symbolize some form of hope. Feeling as though a turning point had arrived in his turbulent life, he momentarily lowered his bloodstained sword and held his breath.

The magical beasts had been vanquished, his family's crisis had ended, and life would continue.

All he ultimately held was a single bloodied sword and a sliver of honor. He wondered where his own happiness lay in this life.

The proud young noble finally realized something.

Whenever he grew weary from life's journey and needed respite, the image of that humble girl who'd always boldly patted his back kept surfacing.

Amidst the blood-soaked corpses of magical beasts, he staggered forward with his wounded body.

Setting aside his once boundless arrogance, he wandered through this long, dark ordeal searching for that petite woman he ultimately wished to hold.

Memories surfaced—of sharing a blanket in a hut during stormy nights, giggling together; of pushing her away due to social status differences.

At the battlefield's edge, finding the girl lying bloodied among troll corpses, he collapsed before her.

Lord Robain's chin trembled as he slowly sobbed and embraced Tracy's body.

When his shaking arms lifted her, blood flowing from her stomach ran down his sleeves. As an experienced warrior, he instantly recognized the wounds were beyond emergency treatment.

Miraculously, Tracy opened her eyes to see the normally insolent noble shedding tears. With her weakening body, she feebly stroked his face and managed a faint smile.

She whispered that she was glad to see him one last time.

Tears streaming down, Lord Robain apologized—for pushing her away, for letting pride over status differences make her sacrifice herself.

Hesitating over their marriage due to family pressure, he'd rejected her. Yet she'd remained on the battlefield for him.

As Lord Robain poured out apologies, Tracy continued smiling beautifully while coughing up blood.

"Rather than sorry... say you love me, Lord Robain,"the girl whispered.

Though her life was short, at its end she wished to hear those words.

Through flowing tears, he repeated it endlessly—"I love you, Tracy. You were the only meaning left in my barren life. It wasn't that I yielded to family pressure or status differences. You were the only woman I've ever truly loved."

Finally content, Tracy smiled before slowly letting her hand fall.

Lord Robain stared down at Tracy's completely limp form with trembling eyes.

Gradually, the vitality faded from her happily smiling eyes.

Yet her gently upturned lips seemed to tell him"It's alright"—that smile piercing his heart like a thorn.

Sobbing repeatedly, Lord Robain buried the petite corpse in his embrace.

The war against magical beasts had ended. The bright rising sun dispelled the battlefield's horrific atmosphere from the previous night.

Amidst it all, a single man remained weeping alone.

>

- Tap

"......"

Late at night. In Denise's private mansion within Evelstein's noble district.

Denise set down her quill with a tap, leaned back in her chair, pouted, and fell deep into thought.

She was writing the final volume of her self-proclaimed magnum opus, crafted after years of research and contemplation.

The tragic love story of Lord Robain torn between status, family, and love for Tracy was reaching its conclusion after wasting time in anguish until her death.

While satisfied when envisioning the scenes, something felt lacking upon actually writing them. The overly gloomy ending might obscure her intended message.

"..."

Arms crossed, Denise sank into contemplation. Having run this marathon so long, she'd forgotten something crucial.

The message.

What did she want to convey through? The embarrassing answer surfaced immediately.

She didn't really have a message—she just wanted to write about a handsome, capable, cold-blooded noble who's warm only to his woman, with plenty of heart-fluttering romance.

How much profound philosophy or inner meaning could such self-indulgent drivel contain? Assigning deep significance to this would only make her back sweat.

Remembering that silver-haired mercenary reading it seriously made her cringe unbearably. She'd rather parade naked than show this to her daily mentor.

Yet she couldn't help agonizing over improving it.

Despite her usual lazy demeanor, she became deadly serious when holding a quill. But clear answers eluded her.

Lord Robain's anguish and inner conflict lacked genuine insight—just pretentious scraps cobbled together plausibly.

Yet fictional characters inevitably reflect their creator's heart.

Amidst this tragic love story between nobility and lowborn Tracy, Denise couldn't help but ponder what to reveal and conceal.

Finally sighing deeply, she swept back her lustrous silver hair and buried herself in bed again.

The night was long—no need for immediate anguish.

Come to think of it, it was time to visit Ravenclaw Barony under the pretext of checking on Aiselin.

"..."

Emerging from her creative immersion, reality's weight pressed heavily on her chest—a frequent occurrence.

The matter had already been decided through several family meetings.

As the Beltus family's agent, Denise would seek ways to undermine Derek Raidof Ravenclaw.

Find weaknesses to exploit, however trivial. Ideally, deal enough damage to reduce him back to a usable commoner.

Then Duke Beltus would embrace her more warmly than ever. Her comfortable life would continue, her family standing secured.

Though Derek had greatly helped her during her wandering phase, betrayal was natural in ruthless noble society.

Even prestigious families constantly schemed against each other—let alone some backwater baron.

Taking a deep breath, Denise covered her face with her hands and exhaled heavily.

"I don't think I originally planned this scene..."

Was this the story's narrative, or reality?

Even she couldn't quite distinguish them anymore.

After House Duplein's decline, the Belmierd and Beltus families divided power in Evelstein's southwest.

Though Countess Rodea recently rose with an imperial title, she remained an emerging force compared to the two established houses.

It would take 5-15 years before she could rival them. Until then, Belmierd and Beltus remained the southwest's dominant powers.

This dynamic extended to central Evelstein, where Rosea Salon became Elente and Denise's domain.

Elente was born to lead.

She possessed innate charisma to command followers. Though young and still immature, she'd clearly become a ruler like her father Count Belmierd before long.

Denise was harder to pin down.

She wasn't indifferent to politics but rarely took initiative. While occasionally voicing opinions on key matters, she generally maintained laissez-faire policies.

Thus she commanded fewer followers and held less family prestige than Elente. Where Elente was Belmierd's de facto leader, Denise remained just the pretty, smart daughter.

Losing the succession to timid, small-minded eldest son Rovenalt was telling. Even the status-obsessed Duke Beltus recognized Rovenalt's inadequacy.

By now, southwest powerbrokers understood:

Denise lacked a ruler's temperament. Clever and perceptive, she was better suited as a chess piece.

Though lazy about assigned tasks, she delivered results. Competence and diligence don't always align—the lazy but effective make ideal subordinates.

In this regard, Beltus valued Denise highly.

Disinterested in power yet not rebellious, ambitionless but desiring stability.

Her complete contrast to Elente made their shared Rosea Salon dominance ironic.

"Many at Rosea Salon expressed concern for Lady Aiselin. Building goodwill matters—even as Duplein declines, more people worry about her."

Arriving by carriage from her Evelstein mansion early morning, Denise looked exhausted.

Though playing the refined noble lady at Rosea Salon, she seemed unwilling to maintain that tiresome act before Derek, sighing heavily with drooping eyes.

Her lustrous silver hair shone—Bella had styled it meticulously that morning.

Yet her behavior contrasted sharply with her elegant attire.

Truthfully, she'd long stopped formalities with Derek.

"I see. Though I didn't expect you'd visit personally, Lady Denise."

"You think I wanted to rush over at dawn? After you barred all visitors, they begged me to check on Lady Aiselin."

"...Given her need for rest, I couldn't easily permit visitors."

"Right, understandable. Playing the noble daughter isn't easy. Ugh."

Dangling her arms, she descended the carriage steps. Derek offered his hand.

After snorting and laughing at his outstretched hand, she took it firmly and alighted.

"Wow. More buildings? This rivals half our Beltus estate."

"Mostly new facilities built through patronage."

"Well... backwater nobles or not, they can't have their daughters in shabby quarters."

Amused, Denise chuckled while heading toward the main manor with Derek.

"How is Lady Aiselin? Rosea Salon will throw a fit without news."

"Stabilized now. But I've insisted she rest all week."

"Good. Quite unexpected—I thought her made of steel. At the salon, I often marveled at her diligence..."

Crossing her arms, Denise grew pensive.

Until last month, Derek had clashed with Elente. The contrast was stark.

Even when relaxed, Elente maintained an air of authority—Denise treated Derek as a complete equal.

Yet Derek's honed instincts detected subtle unease beneath her casual demeanor.

Unlike her languid self at the Evelstein mansion, she occasionally glanced at him or studied the buildings oddly.

Unable to read minds, Derek asked directly:

"Is something troubling you? You seem... uncomfortable."

"Eh? Oh!"

Startled, Denise swept back her voluminous silver hair, twisting the ends.

"Was I that obvious? Well... the estate's larger than expected. It's... nostalgic?"

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. When we met, you were just a wandering mercenary. Now look at you—it's bittersweet seeing it firsthand."

"I appreciate that."

"Don't mention it."

Waving dismissively, Denise looked toward the main building.

"My throat's parched. Let's have tea first."

"Of course."

Her hurried steps ahead of him felt unlike her usual self.

'She's lying.'

Derek frowned thoughtfully.

'But why?'

Noblewomen were often inscrutable.

While not worth dwelling on, staying alert seemed prudent.