Noble Lady Reformation Guide - Chapter 154

Sirine hadn't even broken a sweat.

Her pristine white blouse and sky-blue skirt looked freshly laundered.

Meanwhile, Tricia's condition was so pitiful it pained the eyes.

Most spectators had already left the dueling grounds, sparing her the humiliation of being seen in such a state.

"Huff... huff..."Tricia gasped as she struggled to rise, pushing tangled hair from her face to glare upward."You're... quite skilled..."

Skilled was an understatement—she couldn't touch Sirine's toes.

No one remained to applaud her bravado now.

Yet Tricia gathered her magic again, preparing for the fifty-sixth duel.

Sirine wiped an exasperated bead of sweat before slowly shaking her head at Tricia's stubbornness.

Her closed eyes and sigh radiated the frustration of watching a fool bang their head against a wall.

Again, Sirine glanced at Diela for guidance.

Derek had requested they respect Diela's authority, so she sought direction.

Diela, observing from the stands, wore an uncharacteristically conflicted expression.

'I thought... she'd just embarrass herself and give up...'

Watching Tricia's battered form struggle upright evoked strange familiarity.

A memory surfaced—of a girl from a once-great house, ostracized for lacking magical talent.

That girl had barricaded herself in a family annex, wrapping herself in thorns to push the world away.

Then she met a mentor, awakened to magic's wonders, and fought desperately for recognition.

She'd dueled her unbeatable second brother until collapsing, covered in wounds, and wept uncontrollably in the Duplein gardens.

Ancient history now.

Current Diela stood far removed—a 2-Star mage under Derek's tutelage, wielding authority in Rosea Salon as Ravenclaw School gained prestige.

Yet climbing ever higher sometimes made her look back.

Like Derek maintaining his weapons to remember his mercenary days, Diela had learned from his life philosophy.

'Why does she keep getting up?'

Diela remained young at heart.

Though noble ladies feared her lioness reputation, beneath lay ordinary teenage cravings—validation, affection, ambition.

Seeing her past self reflected in Tricia's struggle... she couldn't bring herself to sneer.

How strange.

Considering how casually she'd struck servants and tyrannized noble daughters, this inconsistency was baffling.

A trickle of sweat traced her cheek.

"This could escalate, Lady Diela."

Elente appeared beside her, gripping her dress hem tightly.

The red-haired young ruler who'd earned House Belmierd's allegiance without being called a tyrant continued gravely:

"Tricia is Count Renuel's daughter. No matter how justified this duel, there's a line we can't cross."

Sirine felt no compunction about killing.

One misstep could bring consequences reaching even Derek.

"........."

Diela studied Tricia—breath ragged but still glaring at Sirine—and saw her younger self.

Everyone has lines they won't cross.

For all her arrogance, this girl too had her limits.

Namely: Never admitting defeat.

"..."

Finally, Diela closed her eyes and bowed her head.

The first time the young tyrant had lowered her gaze before others since entering Rosea Salon.

"Ohohoho! Ufufufu! Ahahaha!"

Midwinter's grip held firm—spring would wait.

Amid Ravenclaw Academy's construction, Derek visited House Renuel to collect promised supplies from Countess Rodea.

Waiting in the reception room, he was startled when Tricia appeared in her mother's stead—bandages peeking from her collar and sleeves.

Though she'd concealed facial scratches, her injuries clearly hadn't fully healed. Unbecoming for a noble lady.

Yet Tricia wore her trademark villainous grin as she slammed a document on the table.

- Thud

A letter bearing Diela Catherine Duplein's seal, recognizing Tricia as Ravenclaw School's newest member.

The handwriting and Duplein crest were authentic.

Derek checked twice—the contents were undeniable.

Even the unflappable baron arched an eyebrow at the improbable document.

"Impressed? Fufu. Fufufu..."

"I suggested the approach but never expected Lady Diela's approval. How?"

"Who knows? I only received this letter this morning... though it's hardly surprising, no?"

Tricia planted hands on hips, chin raised arrogantly as she fanned herself with a lace fan—the picture of a third-rate antagonist.

Her smirk was so shameless it looped back to impressive.

"I am Tricia of House Renuel! The very flower of high society—grace, dignity, and blooming refinement incarnate! Solving this trifle was inevitable. Did you underestimate me, Baron Ravenclaw?"

Her narrowed eyes and"Ohohoho"laugh perfected the caricature.

As Tricia prattled on, Derek studied the bandages on her wrist and ankle.

If visible injuries looked this bad, the hidden ones must be horrific.

"..."

"Baron Ravenclaw would do well not to—"

"You've worked hard."

"..."

The abrupt interruption stabbed like a dagger.

Tricia's eyes widened comically, smile freezing.

Silence stretched for a beat.

Then her lips twisted through several expressions before settling on an even more exaggerated grin.

"Hardly! It was pathetically easy! What exactly are you—"

"Is that so?"

"Regardless! Now you've no choice but to accept me as your youngest disciple! However shall you cope? Fufufu..."

"I'll be delighted. My humble teachings may yet prove useful."

"Eek!"

Derek remained impervious to taunts.

Tricia always left their exchanges feeling oddly flustered.

Yet her mountainous pride never faltered.

"Obviously! Only natural!"

"As the newest member, you'll need to respect seniority. The hierarchy is quite strict."

"Th-that goes without saying..."

Her triumph over Diela faded as reality set in.

Being the youngest meant serving those above—Diela, Elente, Denise, Sirine... each formidable.

"Frankly... that may prove harder than magic studies."

"P-please. They're reasonable people."

"Reasonable..."

Derek's distant gaze at some far mountain sent shivers down Tricia's spine.

Reasonableness was relative.

He clenched a fist and extended it toward her.

"Fight on... There's always a way through crumbling skies..."

"W-what kind of metaphor—"

"Even stormy seas eventually calm..."

"Why the sudden poetry—"

Derek exhaled, falling silent.

He'd assess Tricia's magical aptitude next week, though the conclusion seemed predetermined.

Her limits were clearly visible—any potential would've surfaced earlier.

Not that she was untalented by noble standards—her fundamentals were solid.

But her comparison group was... unfortunate.

Tightening his fist, Derek offered quiet reassurance:

"Just remember..."

"...?"

"Never lose heart."

Tricia responded with a smile both haughty and strangely pure—a paradox embodying her essence.

"What unnecessary concern."

Perhaps this was Tricia's true nature.

- Creak

Exiting the reception room, Tricia encountered Countess Rodea approaching down the hall.

Her shoulders tensed—she hadn't personally reported Diela's letter yet.

Spotting her daughter, the countess beamed and quickened her pace.

"I heard the news, Tricia! Officially a disciple now! So proud...! I could barely focus on work!"

"Mother, you're overreacting."

Rodea's uncharacteristic joy reflected how rare Derek's acceptance was.

"I've... underestimated you. You've done wonderfully."

"This is nothing. With my Ravenclaw connection, you'll gain political leverage. Worth celebrating, I suppose."

"That's not why, Tricia."

Rodea grasped her shoulders warmly.

"The political value matters, yes. But I'm proud of your effort. As your mother, that's what moves me."

"..."

"I heard about your injuries from Elfontaine Hall. It couldn't have been easy."

"Exaggerations, surely. It was child's play."

Tricia raised her voice, as if such fuss was beneath her.

"Who do you take me for? Tricia of House Renuel! Celebrating some backwater baron's acceptance would disgrace our name."

"If you say so. I'm glad you're taking it well."

"Baron Ravenclaw awaits. Academy matters to discuss. I'll retire now."

With practiced poise, Tricia bowed and strode down the corridor.

- Clack clack

Rodea watched her depart with satisfaction before entering the reception room.

- Creak

- Clack clack

Halfway down the hall, Tricia paused to reread the morning's letter.

Each character penned by Duplein's tyrant, acknowledging her worth.

Her mother's joyful face flashed before her.

Something peculiar stirred in her chest.

Her back remained straight, of course.

Only her nose felt oddly damp.

"The air's unusually humid for winter."

Tricia wiped her face with a sleeve and marched on, head high.

Ravenclaw Academy's completion neared.