Noble Lady Reformation Guide - Chapter 150

The fragrant aroma of rosemary tea wafted from the cup before her, yet Tricia had no desire to bring it to her lips.

Facing the man seated across from her made her crave gulping down cold water rather than savoring fine tea.

Though she restrained herself from such undignified behavior, she couldn't control the weary expression creeping onto her face.

Simply sitting across from him made her feel like she'd aged ten years.

"I was aware Lady Tricia doesn't find my company particularly comfortable."

Derek made the first move.

Without any formal greetings or ice-breaking pleasantries, he crossed his arms and spoke bluntly.

Most titled nobles would carefully navigate conversations with someone of Tricia's standing, but this man displayed no such caution.

To be fair, such personalities weren't unheard of—usually among rural frontier nobles—but they weren't Tricia's preferred company.

Still, rotten fish still smells of fish—Tricia was a noble lady through and through.

Her fundamental training in rhetoric and social graces allowed her to respond naturally even to Derek's bluntness.

"Of course I can't possibly feel completely at ease. With your rising fame lately... how could I possibly relax around you? Baron Ravenclaw's prestige is simply too..."

Tricia's concept of"relaxing"carried layered implications.

She was fundamentally the type to look down on those beneath her, quick to suppress and dominate anyone she perceived as weaker.

Arrogant and authoritarian—Derek had witnessed this side of Tricia multiple times.

For Tricia to suddenly feign modesty before someone who'd seen her true colors was absurd. Better to speak frankly than put on airs.

"...Fine. I'll admit it. Baron Ravenclaw isn't someone I can treat carelessly."

Though his title remained merely baronial, his influence in Evelstain's high society couldn't be ignored.

Anyone could see how he'd restored real authority to the Duplein family and its two young ladies—whom most nobles had written off as doomed.

He was quietly amassing considerable secular power.

But so what?

Tricia remained the sole young lady of House Renuel.

No matter how celebrated this magic instructor and territorial noble became, she could still hold her head high.

Don't lose your nerve.

With this resolve, Tricia raised her voice and forced a tittering laugh.

"You may consider this an honor. I, Tricia, don't easily acknowledge others. Baron Ravenclaw would do well to feel grateful."

"Yes, I'm deeply honored."

"Eek.."

But Derek refused to play along with Tricia's rhythm.

Such provocative statements usually elicited either indignant expressions or complete submission.

Yet Derek showed no emotional reaction to Tricia's inflated bravado.

It felt like performing antics before a towering adult, making Tricia sigh while rubbing her forehead.

"I keep noticing—Baron Ravenclaw doesn't seem to care about me at all."

"If Lady Tricia herself feels burdened by me, what can I possibly do about it?"

"That's... technically true but... sigh... whatever..."

Tricia slumped her shoulders and exhaled deeply.

Then, glancing at the fan decorated with ducal feathers in her hand, she spoke in an uncharacteristically subdued voice:

"Let me be direct."

In this brief exchange, Tricia had realized something.

Against this iron-walled man, superficial wordplay and psychological games were meaningless.

A mercenary who'd lived solely in practical battlefields was completely immune to such trivial power plays.

Thus, she had no choice but to speak plainly.

"I want to become your apprentice."

This was a tremendous gamble for Tricia.

She pushed aside her teacup, set down her fan, removed her gloves with a toss, then gripped her knees tightly as she spoke.

Derek, who'd been about to sip his rosemary tea, raised his eyebrows slightly.

Clearly not expecting Tricia to adopt such a humble posture, a hint of surprise flickered across his face.

"Are you interested in magic?"

"No. I have no particular talent for magic, nor any grand aspirations in that regard."

"...Then why seek apprenticeship?"

"Because becoming your apprentice would bring me closer to secular power."

Wasn't that too brutally honest?

This was the moment for flowery lies about wanting to become a great mage.

Yet Tricia lowered her gaze and declared firmly:

Here, Derek looked genuinely surprised. He hadn't expected her to outright admit such blatantly opportunistic motives.

For Tricia, this represented a major psychological breakthrough—a decision to lay everything bare with complete honesty.

Whether this was the right approach remained questionable.

Derek only taught those worth teaching.

Someone with no interest in learning itself, only the accompanying social prestige, didn't merit his instruction.

If anything, Tricia's chosen answer leaned toward the wrong one.

Still, it was the only approach available to her.

"..."

Tricia closed her eyes tightly in thought.

What surfaced was the image of Aiselin, whose oceanic heart sought to forgive all.

Seeing her had broken something in Tricia. That was what a truly noble, elegant lady looked like.

Could Tricia of House Renuel ever hope to match even the hem of Aiselin of House Duplein?

The answer didn't come easily.

Elente of House Belmierd, upon seeing such a lady, seemed to develop not just competitive spirit but outright inferiority complexes.

Strange as it sounded, Tricia envied that about Elente.

Rivalry only exists between equals. Inferiority only emerges toward those almost within reach.

But flowers blooming in utterly unreachable heights inspire neither envy nor insecurity—just awed admiration from below.

That Elente could struggle with inferiority toward Aiselin proved she too belonged among the clouds.

"To put it bluntly, I'm mediocre."

In this deflated atmosphere, Tricia confessed like a penitent.

"Magic? Of course I'm better than commoners—being nobility—but nothing extraordinary. Academically the same."

"..."

"My status surpasses lower nobility but remains awkward among true high nobility. Just... that's how it is. Ohohoho."

Feeling strangely unsettled, Tricia forced a laugh.

"..."

But Derek neither laughed along nor reacted. He remained impossible to read.

"Just... yeah."

Tricia's mother was Countess Rodea, the southwestern continent's greatest slayer of necromancers.

Her father was Hutton, a penniless runaway who built a massive merchant empire through sheer ability.

Tricia was the ordinary child sandwiched between these extraordinary figures.

She lacked Aiselin's innate noble grace.

She possessed none of Elente's sovereign qualities.

She couldn't match Denise's shrewd calculations and clever maneuvers.

Nor did she have Diela's dramatic backstory of wandering through hardship.

Just an ordinary soul born to a noble house, squabbling her way to the present. Adequate in magic, academics, and authority—nothing more.

Had she ever risen from soul-crushing tragedy? Not at all.

Had she ever wielded power over masses? Of course not.

Tricia wasn't unique—most people live such lives.

Never summiting peaks nor plumbing depths.

A life without extremes. One can't condemn such existence as lazy or irresponsible.

Unfortunately, Tricia's world overflowed with brilliantly exceptional individuals.

Each bearing remarkable achievements, flaunting them for all to see.

Ordinary souls in extraordinary company often feel wretched by comparison.

Thus, one must inflate their meager possessions, speak loudly when necessary.

Shout until hoarse that you too have worth.

-'No matter how many dance upon your head, never lose heart, Tricia.'

Hutton's parting words had seeped deep into Tricia's heart.

Since childhood, she'd marched forward bellowing these words, arriving at Evelstain's high society before she knew it.

Now facing its most renowned instructor... Tricia momentarily faltered:

"Could someone like me... become your apprentice?"

The reflexive question made Tricia's shoulders jerk involuntarily.

Regretting the impulsive words, she scrambled to retract them—

"Of course you can."

But Derek answered before she could backtrack.

So unexpected was this reply that Tricia's head jerked up, eyes widening.

"I teach those worth teaching. I've never considered teaching magic solely for secular power, though realistically speaking, that's more natural."

Derek learns magic to gain secular power. Tricia represents the opposite approach.

Studying magic to enhance noble social standing. In many ways, this seems more natural.

Seen this way, Derek found it perfectly understandable.

"Then what could possibly prevent it? Of course it's possible. Provided your resolve is firm."

Only then did Tricia feel she understood Derek slightly.

He practiced and taught magic... but rarely wielded it as some grand authority or power.

Perhaps his disciples bowed to him precisely because they recognized this purity—his transcendence beyond worldly calculations.

She began to see why Derek was Evelstain's foremost magic instructor.

Because he taught magic—nothing more, nothing less.

Tricia smirked wryly and bowed her head.

"Didn't expect such certainty."

Having exposed her innermost thoughts, Tricia felt inexplicably embarrassed.

Yet she couldn't deny the strange relief Derek's assurance brought—that even she could become his apprentice.

If this teacher could accept someone as arrogant, opportunistic, insecure, and unremarkable as the Renuel family's mediocre talent...

Perhaps she could let her guard down slightly.

In this comfort, Tricia relaxed her lips for the first time and spoke softly:

"Then... will you accept someone like me... as your apprentice?"

"I refuse."

"..."

Tricia's mood crashed in under a second.

-Bang!

A sound like a table being slammed echoed through the reception room.

Tricia, near tears, cried out indignantly:

"Wasn't the flow leading to you accepting me?!"

"That's one thing... this is another... separate matters."

The attending servants paled.

Countess Rodea had stressed treating Baron Ravenclaw as an honored guest, yet Tricia's tearful complaints showed no trace of dignity.

The scene made them break into cold sweats.

"You say all these heartwarming things then reject me outright?! What am I supposed to do?! I smiled wistfully thinking this would become some touching anecdote...! Ugh... my... my back's burning..."

"I publicly declared I'd only accept apprentices endorsed by Lady Diela. Going back on that now would disrespect her. What would that make Lady Diela?"

"B-but... from the start...! How am I supposed to earn that wild mare's approval?! You know as well as I do that stubborn brat has no intention of approving anyone!"

"A fair point. Hence my directness."

Derek adopted a deadly serious expression, interlacing his fingers solemnly.

Tricia gulped nervously, hoping to hear how to handle that tiger-like Diela—

"...Not my problem."

"Aack!"

Tricia grabbed her head and buried herself in the chairback.

"Th-then... is there another way?! What... what must I do to become your apprentice?! How to win Lady Diela's favor... anything...!"

"How should I know? Only Lady Diela knows that."

"Aaargh!"

Tricia made a choking sound before exhaling like a dragon.

Derek quietly closed his mouth.

Really—what could he do? There was nothing to help with.

-'Just saying no, it's difficult...! I'm dying here...!'

-'What if you sent a gift? Lady Diela likes sweets.'

-'G-gifts won't solve this... ugh... uuugh...'

-'Frankly, you brought this on yourself, no?'

-'......'

"Countess. Th-that is..."

When Countess Rodea arrived for urgent business, the servant guarding the door stuttered with a pale face.

Despite orders to treat Baron Ravenclaw with utmost respect, the conversation inside completely lacked dignity.

The loyal servant racked his brains for solutions but found none.

"Pfft."

After listening briefly at the door, Countess Rodea chuckled and patted the servant's shoulder reassuringly.

She then signaled her legal advisor to follow and turned toward her office without entering, humming cheerfully.

"Leave them be. Let's finish the military budget first."

The servants could only watch her retreating back in bewilderment as she walked away whistling, unusually pleased.