Noble Lady Reformation Guide - Chapter 173

What Sirine realized while navigating Evelstain's high society was how endlessly complex humans could be.

For someone who'd spent years confined to Rocheste Mansion's spire, the aristocratic social scene—where every step carried etiquette and every smile concealed intent—felt like an impossibly high wall.

The only reasons Rosea Salon's noble ladies refrained from tormenting her were the bloodcurdling rumors surrounding her, her absurd magical prowess, and her status as (former) youngest disciple of the Ravenclaw School—all serving as protective shields.

The visible respect shown by salon powerhouses like Diela, Elente, and Denis naturally created dissonance, while her legendary beating of Tricia for hours without blinking was already the stuff of legends.

These factors let her exist at Rosea Salon as someone no one dared approach casually—yet that didn't mean she remained entirely unaffected.

-'Like wild animals with their fangs removed.'

The girl mused while seated at a tea party buzzing with aristocratic chatter.

Noblewomen often dreamed romantic fantasies—fateful encounters, dashing princes on white steeds.

Hardly strange for girls entering marriageable age to harbor such dreams, yet to Sirine, it felt utterly alien.

Naturally. To her, the world was a merciless tundra—waiting idly for someone to sweep her away was no different than sitting in a wasteland waiting to freeze to death.

Survival meant scavenging corpses, evading predators'claws, endlessly seeking shelter—the life of northern snowfield beasts.

To Sirine who'd roamed such harshness, noble ladies in frilly dresses discussing porcelain teacups resembled declawed wild animals.

Wasn't aristocratic society meant to refine oneself through study, magic training, and mutual improvement?

Seeing cheerful young ladies pushing clichéd romance novels like <The Kelveron Family's Troublemaker> or <The Arrogant Lord Robain> and asking her opinions made her feel they viewed the world through rose-tinted glasses.

-'Magic and history lessons from Ravenclaw Barony help, but socializing with Rosea Salon's ladies seems rather pointless.'

With such indifferent thoughts, she'd return to the noble district mansion and sprawl blankly across her bed.

Still, hadn't she come to Evelstain precisely to learn aristocratic culture?

Rather than dismissing seemingly meaningless activities as worthless, participating was basic courtesy toward her father who'd sent her here.

Personally, she'd prefer continuing 3-Star magic training at Ravenclaw Barony, but Sirine forcibly smoothed her bored expression and skimmed the romance novels lent by good-natured salon ladies.

- Flip.

-'Barely any substance. All characters seem to have flower gardens for brains.'

-'How can anyone think only of romance in such a cruel world... This Lord Robain fellow has terrible character too...'

Her assessment of the piled-up pages was merciless.

To Sirine, the female leads all seemed mentally deficient, while male leads appeared incapable of thoughts beyond romance.

Such simplistic living could never survive winter's harshness.

Repeating this internally, Sirine kept turning pages.

-'...'

Page after page after page.

The initially slow page-turning gradually accelerated. Surprisingly smooth readability made it hard to look away.

Through crises befalling noble houses, a male lead reaffirming convictions amid war, a female lead's noble sacrifice for refugees, culminating in their mutual confession... her pupils darted rapidly.

Between wistful moments and occasional audacious scenes, she lost track of the pages turning.

- Flip, flip

-'...Hmm...'

The purer the original canvas, the easier it absorbs new colors.

And tragically, Sirine was that pristine canvas incarnate.

Though meticulous in all things, Melberot overlooked one critical factor.

Derek was Evelstain's most renowned tutor—a virtuoso in ladies'education.

Evelstain's aristocracy boasted the continent's most glamorous, historic high society, with Rosea Salon's ladies at its forefront.

Melberot assumed receiving Derek's guidance in such refined environments would naturally produce a daughter any parent could proudly present.

But what was Rosea Salon?

A hothouse of aristocratic culture where noble ladies'dreams and romances blossomed.

Frequenting such places inevitably exposed one to starry-eyed, romance-obsessed peers.

Bad influence? Not at all.

This aligned perfectly with Melberot's hopes.

Yet wishes rarely manifest exactly as envisioned.

"Melberot... What emergency concerning Sirine warrants summoning me at this hour...?"

When Kalimford entered Melberot's office, several advisors had already assembled.

From legal counsel to... each a key figure in territory management.

Gathering such personnel—not mere servants—signaled unprecedented gravity.

Kalimford paled as he studied Melberot.

"Wh-what's this...?"

"Sirine appears to be awakening to romantic feelings."

Advisors wore wistful expressions; Kalimford turned deadly serious.

"You... what...?"

"No need for lengthy explanation. Sirine has developed affection for someone."

"Did I mishear?"

The archmage who'd remained composed facing 6-Star necromancers now gaped, fingers trembling.

"What bastard would...! I mean... what... who dared...!"

"..."

Kalimford slammed the table, murderous intent radiating.

"Of course Sirine's grown enough to explore emotions... but it's still too soon."

"My thoughts exactly, Kalimford."

All fathers instinctively deem their daughters"too young"for romance—regardless of actual age. When exactly becomes"old enough"? They never know.

Even world-renowned archmages obey this universal law.

"Can't let some no-name scoundrel snatch Sirine. First identify who—"

"Baron Ravenclaw."

"..."

Silence hung between them.

Truthfully, both Melberot and Kalimford had privately acknowledged Baron Ravenclaw as exceptionally capable.

But someone they'd happily hand their daughter to? No such father exists.

They might donate body parts more readily than relinquish their one-and-only, precious Sirine.

Yet throwing unreasonable tantrums would be illogical.

Moreover, Sirine's feelings were one-sided—Baron Ravenclaw had done nothing wrong.

That didn't make it any easier to accept.

Melberot and Kalimford felt struck by an indescribable, monumental trial.

"Your Grace... what makes you think...?"

"A father's intuition."

"..."

When legal advisor Elden finally breached the oppressive atmosphere, Melberot answered with world-ending seriousness.

Elden found himself speechless.

"Melberot. What exactly... did you see..."

"When discussing Baron Ravenclaw, Sirine blushes noticeably. Initially thought it residual fever, but unlikely."

"..."

Pure gut feeling—no concrete evidence or direct confirmation.

Under normal circumstances, Kalimford would've scoffed. Instead, he scowled grimly.

"Damn. At that point, it's practically confirmed."

"Agreed. I'm certain."

No one in Rocheste Territory could dissuade them now.

Paternal love is noble—yet misdirected, becomes pure folly. Not that either recognized this.

Only the late-night summoned advisors'stiffening expressions reflected the absurdity.

However, advisors serving major houses know when to voice principled dissent.

Treasurer Theron smoothed his mustache before bowing solemnly.

"Your concerns are reasonable, my lord. Yet concluding Lady Sirine's feelings seems premature."

"Explain, Treasurer."

"Might simply be lingering illness, or fleeting infatuation..."

"And if not?"

"..."

Melberot and Kalimford were beyond reason.

The treasurer fell silent. While typically rational in all matters, Melberot transformed completely where Sirine was involved.

Though he vehemently denied it, all advisors knew the truth.

Their only recourse was urging patience and observation.

'Seems I've reached a plateau where mere magic exchange won't suffice.'

Derek flexed his fists repeatedly while leaning against the mansion's outer wall.

Unlike Sirine—born with transformation magic instincts—surviving this bitter cold required multiple thick layers.

Though restricted movement made dueling grounds preferable for training, true mastery meant controlling magic freely in any environment.

As exhausted Derek steadied his breathing, his visible breath misted then vanished into the air.

While the north remained frozen, the southwestern continent would soon welcome warmer seasons.

By the time tender leaves sprouted on bare branches, Ravenclaw Academy should be completed—when he ought to return to Duplein Territory.

'Good mentors are blessings, but still insufficient alone.'

-'You only shine when life hangs in the balance.'

Phee's words resurfaced—spoken between snack bites from a salon sofa in that carefree tone.

Though he'd hunted magical beasts en route north and trained extensively since arrival, only once had he truly felt mortal peril.

When witnessing Kalimford's magic. That sky-rending meteor made one intimately acquainted with death.

In that moment, Derek felt an indescribable chemical reaction within his mind.

Merely studying established magical theories couldn't stimulate growth matching a Wild School master.

'Continuing such repetitive lessons now feels like wasted time.'

Just as Derek reached this conclusion—

"Derek. What are you doing here?"

—a familiar girl appeared before him as he leaned against the wall, embracing the northern chill.

Her downward gaze felt novel—usually he looked down at her petite frame.

"Lady Sirine."

"Y-you hurt?"

"No. Just resting after magical exhaustion."

"It's warm inside. Why rest here?"

"Brief break before readjusting mana flow."

Sirine studied him silently, platinum hair cascading down.

Oddly, the perpetually barefoot girl wore neat flats, and her usual rolled-sleeve dress was neatly tucked beneath a fur-lined winter coat.

As Derek puzzled over her uncharacteristic elegance, Sirine plopped down beside him.

"Father worries excessively... so I'm dressing warmer."

Finally resembling a proper noble lady her age.

Derek complimented her appearance before steadying his breath.

"Never seen you panting so hard from magic use before."

"Naturally. Still much to improve."

"I see... Derek. Actually, I have... concerns. Nobody else to consult..."

A girl whose minor cold made Melberot and Kalimford lose sleep now sought serious counsel—the gravity made Derek swallow hard.

"Concerns?"

"Yes. Father worries over everything, so I thought to ask you."

"I... see. Doubt I can help, being unrelated."

"Actually... you're not entirely unrelated."

As Derek tilted his head, Sirine scooted closer against the wall, poking her cheeks awkwardly.

"Thing is... I've been feeling strange lately."

"...?"

"Whenever I see you, think about you, or sit this close... my cheeks keep burning up."

"..."

Derek exhaled slowly, momentarily doubting his ears.

"Thought it was another cold at first, but probably not. Maybe imagination... yet feels real..."

"I... Is that so?"

"Any idea why? If it's magical, I'd hate to cause worry..."

Behind this girl stood two 6-Star mages who could paralyze criminals with a glance.

"..."

For Derek—no stranger to life-threatening situations—this was the most palpable danger he'd felt in years.