Noble Lady Reformation Guide - Chapter 152

The establishment of Ravenclaw Academy was progressing rapidly.

As Derek stepped onto the construction site where the opening schedule had been finalized and groundwork was well underway, he felt an inexplicable headache coming on and had to press his temples firmly.

"Ah, Derek! You're here! I heard about Count Renuel's support. We can make the auditorium even larger than planned!"

Aiselin Eleanor Duplein—the epitome of nobility so dignified and graceful that even Diela, Elente, and the notoriously difficult Tricia were moved—stood holding an iron shovel with a towel draped over her shoulder, wiping sweat.

Her dress hem kept getting in the way, so she'd tied it up with strings, which was absurd. The thought"If you're going to do this, why wear a dress at all?"died in Derek's throat as Aiselin continued speaking.

"Ahaha. I just came out to check on things... The garden layout wasn't quite to my liking... Just needed a slight adjustment at the edges, but it felt awkward to call workers for such a small thing..."

"......"

"It's done now! The soil at the end of this flowerbed needs to be mounded up properly so roses or balsams planted later will look harmonious. I took a flower arrangement class once, and it really showed me how foundational groundwork affects the final garden's harmony. It's my first time doing this myself... but there's a certain charm to it..."

While gardening and flower arranging might be considered refined hobbies... what to make of someone deliberately picking up a shovel to dig through dirt? Derek, utterly bewildered, slumped onto the nearest bench by the flowerbed.

"Lady Aiselin... That's..."

"Hmm?"

"Never mind."

Her expression was so naturally innocent, as if she might wag an imaginary tail, that Derek found himself at a loss for words.

First, she awakened to commerce and management, then to civil engineering and construction... Now she was doing manual labor herself.

Despite Duplein's rapid resurgence, Aiselin still seemed to view herself as some fallen noblewoman.

Given the family's dire straits, it wasn't strange for Aiselin to roll up her sleeves and tackle everything hands-on.

But now, it was becoming problematic.

"Duplein's influence is recovering at an unprecedented pace. Though not quite its golden age, and the territory has shrunk... You're regaining your ducal authority, which means your position will change significantly."

"That's right! Thanks to all your help, Derek! I'm so grateful!"

"Which is precisely why... you can't keep acting like this."

"..."

Aiselin stiffened slightly, as if realizing something.

Was this acceptable? She felt a twinge of guilt... but Aiselin couldn't help her thoughts.

Ever since her family's decline, life had gained a sense of purpose.

Instead of being caged, reciting philosophy books, dabbling in magic, and receiving ladylike education... navigating this turbulent world felt like sailing through thrilling storms.

But her efforts bore fruit—Duplein was back on track.

"I apologize for saying this... but you should refrain from manual labor now."

"Wh-what do you mean? D-Derek... There are still so many vegetables to tend in the backyard garden..."

"...."

"I noticed dust on the main hall staircase railing on my way down... I was going to finish this and wipe it all down with the prepped dry cloth..."

"Have the maids do it."

"Then... what about the ivy creeping up the mansion walls? If left alone, the roots will dig into the bricks..."

"I'll tell the gardener."

Derek lifted his head decisively and stated firmly:

"A noble lady of House Duplein shouldn't be doing such things."

"No... My joy... My one and only hobby!!!!"

"This concerns the family's dignity. I can't compromise."

"I was going to make lasagna this weekend with homemade sauce! The tomatoes I grew myself...!!!"

Memories flooded back—sweltering summer days spent plucking pests one by one, pruning leaves, watering plants, wiping sweat with a satisfied smile.

"Have... the kitchen maids and chef make it for you."

Aiselin's mouth fell open as if her world had ended. But there was no helping it.

Aiselin was too noble for such tasks. During the family's crisis, it was understandable, but now that their status was rising, she had to act accordingly.

"...Derek. This might sound strange..."

"..."

"Does... House Duplein really need to be restored...?"

"Of course... Think of your struggling family and retainers..."

"That's... true...."

Aiselin bit her lower lip, eyes glistening.

Given her nature, she couldn't ignore her family's hardships.

Checkmate.

- Clang! Clang!

- Move this way! Carefully!

Defeated, Aiselin sat in the shade, quietly watching workers transport construction materials.

"I heard you fully delegated disciple recruitment authority to Diela. Frankly, I was surprised."

"Is that so?"

Aiselin kept her ears perked for shifts in Evelstain's high society. Derek's support and Diela's innate tyrannical temperament created a chemical reaction, propelling her to the forefront of Rosea Salon's influence.

Watching this unfold, Aiselin felt equal parts joy and concern.

"I thought she'd struggle matching Lady Elente or Lady Denise in evaluating and handling people."

"She certainly would. But I wanted to support Duplein, and more importantly, for Diela's own growth."

Flipping through documents, Derek spoke quietly.

"You know how taxing interpersonal matters can be, Lady Aiselin."

"That... I do."

After studying Derek's expression, Aiselin closed her eyes and gazed at the late winter sky.

"Diela needs to learn too."

Her thoughtful demeanor was evident. Though she played the clueless fallen noble, Aiselin always made wise decisions at critical moments.

Derek observed her before turning to the bustling construction site.

"Progress is impressive. At this rate, we'll meet all deadlines."

He kept the conversation strictly professional.

The chill lingering in Elfontaine Hall's corridor seemed endless.

No one anticipated Tricia—the wildest of troublemakers, a mustang of the plains—would hurl insults at Diela, the most notorious delinquent.

This wasn't subtle provocation or psychological warfare.

She actively antagonized Diela with vulgar language no noble lady should utter.

At this point, no one would blink if Diela slapped her.

Given Diela's history of disregarding others'opinions, she'd kick and trample Tricia before this crowd without hesitation.

Yet she didn't. For one reason:

It was too absurd to anger her.

"Did I hear wrong?"

"Going deaf already? Let's settle this. I'll crush that arrogant nose of yours."

- Whoosh! Crash!

A sudden gale erupted.

Magical winds carrying icy chill radiated from Diela, upheaving the surroundings.

At the storm's center, the girl's glossy hair fluttered as her terrifying eyes gleamed.

That piercing gaze, visible even in darkness, made the hothouse-flower noble ladies tremble.

Tricia was no exception.

Goosebumps crawled from her fingertips up her arms to her nape.

Yet she showed none of it.

Instead, she stiffened her neck, raised her nose, and smirked.

"Lately, Duplein's been acting high and mighty, but watching you strut around clutching that thread of hope like a sacrificial lamb thinking it'll save you is pathetic."

"..."

"Diela. Without Lady Aiselin, you're just another brat—bad-tempered, foul-mouthed, only good at pushing others down. Acting like you own the place now is like a child with its first toy. Disgusting."

"...You've got a death wish, Tricia."

- Whoosh!

- Crackle!

Thorny vines burst through the floor as ice spears hovered nearby.

Magic manifested without incantations—clear proof she'd reached 2-star rank.

Diela was naturally gifted in magic, needing little guidance from Derek.

Tricia, still struggling with 1-star spells, was in a different league.

The corridor wall cracked as magical heat radiated.

Diela no longer cared if Elfontaine Hall was destroyed—she'd punish this insolent girl first.

'Not scared, not scared, not scared... Okay maybe a little... No, not at all! What's fear? I don't know it!'

Tricia muttered while stepping back.

Though she swallowed dryly, she showed no outward fear.

Clearing her throat, she continued:

"Baron Ravenclaw entrusted you with recruitment authority, but you're wielding it selfishly. You don't want more direct disciples, do you? Admit it!"

"What?"

"It's obvious. But is that really what Baron Ravenclaw wants? You cutting off nobles seeking knowledge and ruling like a tyrant—is that his vision?"

Tricia clenched her jaw to steady her trembling voice.

"You think you have all the justification? Just because Baron Ravenclaw trusts your judgment? Pitiful. This shows your limits."

"What nonsense are you spouting?"

"It's not nonsense. You're drunk on the authority he gave you, wielding it however you please. No justification, no reason—just intoxication."

Though sweat dripped down her back, Tricia smirked with unparalleled arrogance. On the verge of tears, she channeled her father's inherited bravado.

Even with nothing to back her up, even if one hit would send her flying—never show fear.

Arrogant, greedy, vicious—but never bow your head.

"You can hit and curse me, but that truth won't change, Diela."

Justification matters.

Especially for entrusted authority—its exercise requires clear rationale.

If Diela was simply blocking potential disciples... she'd have no rebuttal.

Even the mightiest tyrant needs justification.

If public opinion painted her as a power-drunk brat, she'd be in trouble.

Thus, to claim justification, she'd need another approach...

"Do I look like I care? Take that debate to hell."

- Whoooosh!

'Eeek!'

Negotiation requires equal footing.

Diela's rage-twisted expression resembled a wild beast. Trying wordplay against her was laughable.

As Tricia's vision swam, intervention came.

- Whoosh!

- Crash! Bang!

Causing chaos here was unwise.

The one who stepped in... occupied the seat Tricia coveted most in Ravenclaw School.

Half-pinned bangs, flowing locks. Eyes as red as her hair.

Elente of House Belmierd. Rarely seen using magic outside dueling grounds.

- Crackle!

The thorny vines charging at Tricia burned away.

Holding books in one arm, Elente shook off residual magic from her other hand.

"That's enough, Lady Diela. Take further disputes to the dueling grounds."

Tricia pulled her dress lower to hide trembling thighs.

Elente's fiery gaze narrowed slightly.

Tricia had expected this.

Elente, the principled justice-seeker, wouldn't stay silent.

"And while Lady Tricia was crude... she wasn't wrong. Principles require consensus."

As Diela's anger waned, Elente softened her stance.

"As I said last meeting, I'll respect your judgment, Lady Diela. But if it breaches Rosea Salon's rules... I can't stay neutral."

"Fine. I admit—I acted emotionally."

Diela sighed deeply.

Still seething, she glared at Tricia, who held her breath.

"You're right. Arbitrary decisions lack justification."

"..."

Diela's compliance was unusual—she clearly had a plan.

"Understood. Then here's the standard: To join Ravenclaw School... prove your worth. Show you're not inferior to other disciples. Then we'll accept you as the youngest."

"So... a magic duel?"

"Not bad. But I'm too busy for you. Don't want to see your face either. So defeat whoever's lowest in Ravenclaw School's hierarchy first."

With that, Diela turned away.

"..."

Tricia recalled Ravenclaw's hierarchy.

Realizing who stood at the bottom made her breath catch.

Diela still followed some logic.

But one person transcended even that.

How Derek tamed her was a mystery, but she followed him with terrifying devotion.

Cross her, and you die.

Her mere presence exuded lethal aura.

A maniac who tore northern snowfield beasts apart barehanded, drenched in blood countless times.

"Me?"

A soft voice cut through the crowd.

A girl with ashen hair, lazily twisting her locks, spoke—the crowd parting around her.

Seated on an elegant sofa against the wall, she radiated chilling aura with a single stroke of her hair.

Ordinary people couldn't pinpoint why she terrified them. Only instinct recognized the gaze of a seasoned killer.

The continent's youngest 3-star mage.

Sieren Aleina Rocheste's eyes snapped open, locking onto Tricia.

"You'll fight me?"

Her casual question made gravity seem to multiply.

That such a monster was the"youngest"spoke volumes about Ravenclaw School's insanity.

Tricia swallowed dryly.

Could she nod here?

This opponent could kill her with a gesture.

Courage and recklessness differ. Now was time to retreat. Some battles can't be won.

No one would blame her for fleeing.

Tricia scanned her surroundings, back stiff to hide creeping chills.

Diela—awakened to wild magic since childhood, mastering ice and plant-based combat spells, reaching 2-star rank.

Elente—wielding House Belmierd's influence, preparing to command the world as a ruler.

Sieren—a monster in human skin.

Surveying Derek's disciples, Tricia slowly closed her eyes.

A hollow laugh escaped.

Had she lost her mind? No—she simply found the situation absurd.

'It's always like this.'

That she could smile here was laughable.

'Nothing but geniuses everywhere.'

Towering mountains surrounding a tiny hill.

Despairing over the insurmountable gap changed nothing.

Nothing at all.

A clenched fist surfaced in memory. Her banker father's firm grip extended toward young Tricia.

As if imparting strength, his smiling face—now gone—appeared behind that fist.

His misty eyes held complex emotions. A father foreseeing his daughter's limits.

"Then let's do it. Clear standards are good. Hahaha."

This wasn't some noble warrior facing insurmountable evil.

To the gathered noble ladies, Tricia's loud, cackling laughter seemed...

Like a clueless fool making a scene.

A third-rate villain. A lowly commoner. A hopeless braggart.

Appearances didn't matter. Tricia refused to back down.

"Bring it on, then."

- Whoooosh!

Soon, Elfontaine Hall's dueling grounds.

Sieren stood majestically, wielding unimaginable magical power.

A single flick of her finger could obliterate everything. The northern beast's killing intent alone could paralyze wolf packs.

It was too late to retreat. The magical storm strained the arena's protective spells.

This was the"youngest."

The lowest-ranked member of Derek's disciples.

"....."

In the maelstrom, Tricia clutched her fluttering clothes and thought:

On second thought... this was a mistake...

At least the distant stands hid her welling tears...