Noble Lady Reformation Guide - Chapter 124

The Duke of Beltus's office was steeped in a chilling atmosphere.

When Denise entered through the opened door, the characteristic coldness had already settled across the floor.

The Duke of Beltus—who had been receiving various reports from his eldest son Rovenalt and head butler Alex—glanced toward the doorway before beaming with paternal warmth.

"You've arrived, Denise. You must be exhausted from your journey to Ravenclaw Territory."

His smile was so tender and affectionate that an uninformed observer might mistake the Beltus family for being as amiable as the Dupleins or Belmierds.

However, the expressions of Rovenalt and Alex—who had spent decades by the Duke's side—remained stiff. They knew better than to take the old fox's expressions at face value.

Naturally, Denise was no exception.

Smoothing her dress, she bowed gracefully and greeted him.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Father."

"Hospitality is the least I can offer. Aren't you the most intelligent, perceptive, and capable member of House Beltus? My beloved daughter—it seems I was truly blessed with filial piety."

"You flatter me."

Despite openly praising Denise over his eldest son Rovenalt in front of both, no one voiced dissent.

Rovenalt himself knew—his gentle nature and lack of grand ambition made him unfit to inherit the family. Though he remained heir by birthright, he was prepared to eventually cede the position to Denise.

Yet paradoxically, Denise harbored no desire for the family's power. If anything, she actively supported Rovenalt's succession rights.

"Brother Rovenalt. It's been a while."

"Indeed."

Rovenalt kept his gaze lowered as he quietly acknowledged her.

Denise took a deep breath.

The dignified Duke seated at his desk, stroking his arm like a doting parent, was in truth a fox steeped in lust for power.

To him, the southwestern continent was merely a chessboard—every person under the Beltus name, expendable pieces to be moved at his whim.

In this grand game, pieces that refused to obey were unnecessary. No—beyond unnecessary, they were threats requiring immediate elimination before they turned their blades against their master.

Purges were essential, and justification could always be manufactured... The Duke of Beltus was a man who wouldn't hesitate to exploit even his own family for power.

His nature stood in stark contrast to the Duke of Duplein—who maintained principles while protecting his kin—or the benevolent and magnanimous Border Count of Belmierd.

That said, he did love his family.

Because no pretext was more convenient for binding others than familial bonds.

"Denise. My expectations of you are high—and you've always met them. Your contributions to Evelstein's high society have consistently benefited House Beltus."

"..."

"My beloved daughter Denise. This inadequate father has always relied on you."

And so, under the pretext of family, he ensnared Denise like a spider's web—molding her into his perfect pawn.

Denise had no rebuttal.

This magnificent mansion, her luxurious lifestyle, the reverent gazes she received—all existed solely under the prestige of House Beltus.

Thus, betrayal was unthinkable.

Compared to a fleeting connection—a mere slum-born tutor who once taught her magic—sacrificing the immense prestige of her house would be idiotic. Beyond right or wrong, it was a matter of basic intelligence.

Moreover, Derek himself had repeatedly affirmed this.

"Betray me if you must. I understand your position. Given how precarious your standing would be if you openly opposed Beltus, strike my back with all your might."

What magnanimity! She couldn't possibly squander such consideration.

Denise was the most cunning, perceptive girl in House Beltus—one who always made the right choices. Even if her decisions occasionally lacked efficiency, she would never make a foolish move that harmed herself.

"As commanded, I've visited Ravenclaw Territory. Being newly established, there were naturally many amateurish aspects—their organizational structure lacked thorough systematization. Understandable, given how preoccupied they must be with launching their training institute."

Thus, Denise steadied her breathing and spoke.

"—However, Baron Ravenclaw has handled critical areas impeccably. Military organization is streamlined, public security is rigorous, and disaster preparedness seems adequately established... At present, I couldn't identify any exploitable vulnerabilities."

Denise paused deliberately after this statement.

Showing tension would be fatal. If even a drop of cold sweat betrayed her, the vicious fox would instantly notice something amiss.

Maintaining her usual composed tone and posture—as if simply delivering a routine report—was essential.

In truth, Ravenclaw Territory was riddled with vulnerabilities that could be shaken with minimal scheming. This was inevitable—no matter how thorough Baron Ravenclaw was, a newly established territory couldn't be perfected overnight.

Over ten potential schemes came to mind—misleading the public, fabricating accidents under the guise of natural disasters, artificially creating incidents... Countless methods existed to undermine his authority and cripple his house's standing.

—Yet despite this, Denise remained silent.

This was perhaps the most foolish choice she'd made since entering high society.

To prioritize some backwater baron of commoner origins over Beltus—her true backing and source of actual authority? What madness was this?

A transient connection. A mere tutor who once taught her magic. That was all he was.

Meanwhile, the Duke of Beltus was a cold-blooded man who wouldn't hesitate to eliminate any pawn that dared raise its blade against its master.

'......'

An idiotic, senseless choice. Why had she done this?

As Denise struggled to rationalize her actions, no logical explanation came to mind.

Derek Raidof Ravenclaw was just an insignificant frontier noble.

Yet—he was steadfast. Despite his lowly origins, he dedicated himself to training. He aspired, dreamed, strived, achieved, and continued ascending.

That was all.

So why couldn't she bring herself to betray him?

-'Lady Denise, you're far more valuable than you realize.'

A dusty underground art storage room.

Those words—casually spoken to a self-deprecating Denise who saw herself as merely a tool—now pierced her heart like a dagger.

'I see.'

Denise lowered her gaze and mocked herself silently.

Unlike herself—forever shackled beneath the Beltus name—that man had effortlessly broken free from his given fate.

What weighed Denise down was merely one noble house, while what oppressed him was the entire world's system of lineage and aristocracy.

Watching him shatter those chains without hesitation, Denise had unknowingly been influenced.

An instructor imparts knowledge, but a mentor conveys life's value.

Without realizing it, Denise had been learning about life from Derek.

So what?

Did that justify defending him?

Receiving his teachings should have been enough. She could have acknowledged their worth privately before doing what needed to be done.

Then why was she siding with some lowborn baron of negligible influence over House Beltus?

What value could a fleeting connection possibly hold?

The most trusted daughter of the mighty House Beltus—why jeopardize that position?

< At those words, Lord Robain shed tears as he repeated: >

< I love you, Tracy. You were the only meaning left in my barren life. It wasn't family expectations or status differences that forced me to leave you. >

Suddenly, the lines she'd penned with her own quill stabbed into her heart.

The girl's pupils trembled momentarily.

Lord Robain was merely a fictional character.

Yet whether she liked it or not, fictional characters often voiced their creator's subconscious.

Lord Robain—who ultimately remained shackled by nobility and abandoned his beloved Tracy—now overlapped in her mind with someone else.

Herself.

In < The Arrogant Lord Robain >, Denise might have unknowingly poured out her own suppressed cries against the chains of House Beltus that had weighed on her for so long.

And on that moonlit night—

As a certain white-haired mercenary quietly perused that manuscript, he might have closed the book and gazed at the moon outside his window.

He might have instantly recognized the roots of Denise's self-deprecating attitude through those passages.

Thus, he might have scrutinized every word of what even Denise considered trivial.

Thus, unlike Denise who was endlessly embarrassed by her own writing, he might have treated those words with utmost sincerity.

Thus, he might have permitted her to betray him without resentment.

Thus, his retreating figure might have seemed utterly unburdened by regret or bitterness.

All these realizations collapsed like dominoes, stirring turbulent waves in Denise's heart.

Having come this far, she couldn't betray Derek. Even if Derek himself claimed it was fine—even if he said opposing him under Beltus's orders wouldn't matter—such words meant nothing.

Because this wasn't Beltus's choice—it was Denise's own.

Now, she had to deal with the consequences.

"Thus, I believe more time is needed. To devise the most effective method of dismantling Ravenclaw Territory, we must thoroughly identify vulnerabilities—"

"I see."

Denise tried to cleanly wrap up her report to prevent backlash, but the Duke of Beltus abruptly cut her off.

Here, Denise already sensed dissonance. Though she'd carefully avoided revealing anything, some emotional turbulence had created an opening.

And the Duke of Beltus never missed such subtle cracks.

"Father?"

The Duke's warm, familial smile had vanished.

Head Butler Alex and Rovenalt had already stiffened—they'd noticed something amiss.

When Denise looked up at the Duke's face, she found him wearing an expression cold as ice.

"I'm going to strike Beltus."

Baroness Pellin—collapsed in the VIP room from a hangover.

Derek, who had visited her early in the morning, tossed some hangover-relief snacks her way before straddling a corner table.

"Ugh... hurl..."

"..."

"What... are you... ugh... talking about... with this hangover..."

"Did you drink again last night?"

"Even if it's some backwater noble house... the amenities are damn good. They've got liquor you'd never see in slums or tavern streets..."

"Gifts from frontier nobles, I assume... Did you drink all of it?"

"You don't even enjoy alcohol much anyway. Someone who appreciates fine liquor like me drinking it makes the alcohol happier too."

Pellin lifted her drool-stained face, sweeping back her disheveled hair as she sat up on the bed.

Her yawn and disheveled attire might shock strangers, but neither she nor Derek cared.

Having treated each other as inanimate objects for years, such formalities were meaningless.

"Anyway, attacking Beltus? Even I—who's disillusioned with nobles—have heard of them. That absurdly powerful house that does whatever it wants?"

"Exactly. I'm going to hit them."

"Well, you always have your reasons. But why tell me?"

"I need your help—and the Velderun Mercenary Group's."

Pellin groaned while pressing her temples, trying to suppress her headache.

"Ugh... what? Our help?"

"Objections?"

"You're offering me a legal chance to punch nobles—do I look like someone who'd refuse?"

"Thought so."

Grinning broadly, Pellin asked for confirmation:

"What's the plan?"

"An open assault on Beltus Territory. Ravenclaw Barony's military forces are too weak alone... so I'll gather allies. The Velderun Mercenaries will be one faction."

"Old man Jayden will help if you pay well enough. But will other factions support attacking a powerhouse like Beltus?"

"I'll secure Belmierd's backing and form a coalition with Count Renuel's house."

"Wow. Bigger scale than I expected. But hey... I don't know much about noble nonsense—don't you need some excuse? Justification?"

A sharp observation. But Derek had obviously considered this.

"I'll frame them. Create sufficient pretext for nobles to unite against Beltus."

"You'll handle that, I'm sure. But what's the real reason? Why suddenly attack Beltus out of nowhere?"

Not the public justification—the true motive behind Derek's actions.

Though her words were crude, Pellin's way of speaking often carried hidden sharpness.

A lifetime of battlefield experience had honed her pragmatism.

"If I don't act, Beltus will strike me first."

Thus, Derek answered in Pellin's language.

"Currently, Beltus hasn't made any overt mistakes."

They had attempted to ambush Pellin, but failed without leaving evidence.

Yet Derek couldn't dismiss the threat. Naturally.

"They likely hold no personal grudge against me. Whatever they're plotting hasn't surfaced yet. Externally, they remain dignified—their family traditions relatively sound."

"..."

"But Pellin. You know I'm not foolish enough to stand still and wait to be struck."

Derek maintained his cold gaze as he spoke decisively.

Pellin's expression was unreadable—her thoughts impossible to discern.

"Noble customs may differ, but mercenaries know better. Waiting passively for death is idiocy. The first to swing a blade or draw a bowstring always has the advantage."

"..."

"I won't offer my neck just because my enemy appears innocent and hasn't moved yet. That's my only reason for attacking Beltus... Hard to accept?"

Launching a preemptive strike against someone who hadn't even revealed hostile intent.

An act straddling the line between villainy and self-defense.

How should such actions be judged?

Stuffy nobles obsessed with justification might criticize Derek for rashness.

"No? It's perfect. Absolutely flawless."

Yet Pellin's grin stretched ear to ear.

That was Pellin for you.