Noble Lady Reformation Guide - Chapter 175

The moment his vision cleared, Derek instinctively knew he was dreaming.

The location was the Duplein Ducal Mansion's office.

Before him sat the long-deceased Grand Duke Duplein, diligently moving his quill pen across documents.

The neatly trimmed beard, intelligent eyes, and dignified aura—he perfectly embodied the Duplein family's golden age. This was Derek's first encounter with the man.

Grand Duke Duplein had been Derek's first exposure to a 5th-Class Mage.

Fresh from the slums and just beginning to navigate noble society... The sheer presence of that 5th-Class Mage had been overwhelming, making conversation nearly impossible.

Even now, Derek vividly remembered how the man had assessed his skill level with a single glance, read his intentions with seasoned intuition, and suppressed Derek's meager 2nd-Class abilities with nothing but a look.

That unreachable realm of 5th-Class mastery.

After countless years of relentless effort, Derek now felt he'd nearly ascended to that same height where the Grand Duke once stood.

Though still young, Derek's magical prowess approached the level of family heads.

Just one more step.

If he could cross this final threshold, he might finally glimpse the view they'd always seen.

'...'

When Derek blinked, the ruler who once commanded the world had transformed into a corpse.

Caught in the aftermath of necromantic magic, the Grand Duke sat slumped in his chair with a hollow expression—his pitiful end.

Behind him floated the restless spirits that always appeared where high-level necromancers gathered.

The Duplein family's banquet hall lay in ruins.

From behind the Grand Duke's collapsed figure emerged a small girl.

With striking lavender hair and eyes, this 6th-Class Necromancer wore the guise of a lovely noble lady while desecrating corpses and manipulating spirits—a researcher of forbidden arts.

Humming cheerfully, she skipped across the ruined banquet hall before turning to face Derek and saying something.

-'───.'

Though her words were indistinct, Phee smiled faintly and waved her hand as if it didn't matter.

As Derek furrowed his brow to listen, she approached with exaggerated generosity and whispered in his ear:

-'I'll come for you soon. My beloved apprentice.'

-'Even if you refuse me.'

- Whoosh!

When Derek's eyes snapped open, the maid changing his damp towel startled violently.

"Eek...!"

"..."

Derek tried sitting up without comment but winced as excruciating pain radiated from his shoulder.

Yet his pain tolerance was exceptional. Gritting through it, he managed to rise and survey his surroundings.

A room filled with winter gear. Layers of luxurious furs covered every surface.

A crackling fireplace. A lavish bed piled high with premium comforters.

The maid wringing out a cloth in warm water recovered from her shock and asked:

"Baron Ravenclaw. Y-you're awake. You've been unconscious for half a day."

"Half a day?"

"Y-yes..."

Scanning the room, Derek spotted Sirine facedown on the bed, breathing heavily into the mattress.

He vaguely recalled hearing her voice before losing consciousness. Derek wiped his face several times before sighing deeply.

'I felt like I was on the verge of understanding something.'

Because Sirine was involved, Kalimford couldn't properly guide him.

Normally, such training duels wouldn't brush against life-and-death stakes. Ironically, this allowed Derek to exchange spells with a 6th-Class Mage at his limits—perhaps he should thank Sirine.

Yet his epiphany had been cut short when his body reached its limit.

If he'd held out just a bit longer... If he'd manifested his magic just once more... He might have broken through to new heights.

The frustration made his skin crawl.

'Once more... Just once more!'

To wake from bloodloss-induced unconsciousness with this singular thought—Derek considered severe injuries trivial if they advanced his magic.

Before this sensation faded from his fingertips, he desperately wanted one proper duel with Kalimford.

As this unbearable craving burned through his chest—

- Creak

Speak of the devil—Kalimford entered.

The gaunt man surveyed the room with his emaciated frame before freezing at the sight of Derek's alert eyes.

"Y-you're awake. Sirine seems to be... asleep..."

"Yes. She's stayed by my side the whole time."

"She's grown more attached to you than I imagined. When you collapsed bleeding, all color drained from her face."

Kalimford glanced at the towel-wringing maid.

After tidying up, she bowed deeply and exited—likely to report to Melberot.

Kalimford approached and sat in the nursing chair beside the bed, leaning his cane against it.

"First, my apologies. This frail body lacks the control it once had, and I let emotions override judgment—a grave mistake."

"No need. Your full strength taught me much."

Derek pressed firmly on his bandaged shoulder.

Though the pain would make most scream, Derek endured it with clenched teeth.

"I wish we'd fought at this level from the start."

"Don't jest. Had this been a battlefield rather than sparring grounds, untimely treatment could've caused permanent damage."

"That's... true. But how can one grow quickly without risk?"

Derek's earnest gaze met Kalimford's.

"These wounds will heal soon. When I can move, let's train like this again. Real growth requires this intensity. I felt close to understanding confusion magic..."

"That won't be possible."

"...Pardon?"

As Derek looked up questioningly, Kalimford awkwardly avoided eye contact while sweating profusely.

Uncharacteristically hesitant for a legendary archmage.

Derek felt cognitive dissonance.

Kalimford—one of history's greatest mages—sweating nervously and dodging eye contact? Who could possibly intimidate him so?

'...'

Upon reflection, one person came to mind.

Whether hero, savior, or archmage... Fathers universally share one unbeatable weakness.

"Sirine was... furious..."

"..."

"She never raised her voice or spoke harshly... But that icy stare... felt like a dagger through my heart."

Kalimford looked paler than the injured Derek.

When asked what transpired during his unconsciousness, Kalimford replied shakily:

"I went to explain myself to Sirine after treating your wounds... We met in the hallway..."

"Yes..."

-'Hmph.'

- Clomp clomp

Sirine had turned up her nose and marched right past him.

"Damn it... After lifelong magical training, to lose control in this situation... Such a fatal error... The title'Grand Mage'is meaningless. How could a weakling like me be called a hero..."

"N-no, it wasn't that serious—"

"No. This was my failure. So I must ask a favor."

"A'favor'? Please, there's no need—"

"This is the most important request of my life."

Kalimford gripped Derek's arm desperately, eyes pleading.

"When Sirine wakes... could you put in a good word for me...? I'm begging you..."

Even the archmage who slew the Great Demon Noir couldn't defeat his own daughter.

Who would believe someone capable of subduing Kalimford with a single glare existed?

Sirine makes it possible.

Had Derek declared this, none would have believed him.

"Please... If Sirine keeps hating me... What reason do I have to live...? If you speak kindly on my behalf, perhaps she'll forgive me..."

"Ah... Of course..."

Derek couldn't refuse the utterly pathetic archmage.

"Sirine... clicked her tongue and turned away...?"

"Yes... Melberot... My life is over..."

"Damn it, Kalimford. You're a nuisance, but I never wished this upon you..."

Upon returning to Melberot's office, Kalimford looked utterly soulless.

As Melberot's longtime friend, Sirine wouldn't openly insult or mistreat him.

But warmth seemed equally unlikely.

Kalimford scratched his already gaunt face with a vacant expression.

"Melberot. My life ends here. This withered body has lasted long enough. Once the necromantic influence fades, I'll disappear completely. Farewell, Melberot..."

"Wait. Don't be hasty. Sirine's mood will pass. Given time, she may warm to you again."

"Perhaps... but hope seems slim. If she keeps clicking her tongue or giving icy stares... How should I respond? Damn it. I never anticipated such cruelty..."

"Compose yourself. There must be a solution."

Melberot's uncharacteristic cooperation hinted at shared terror—both men found Sirine's disapproval unbearable.

Melberot stroked his chin.

"Fortunately, Sirine remains fond of me. I'll mediate."

"R-really...?"

"I hear she's in Baron Ravenclaw's recovery room? I'll visit under the pretense of checking his condition."

- Creak

Thus Melberot arrived with servants in tow.

When Derek flinched in surprise, Melberot gestured for silence.

He observed Sirine sleeping facedown on Derek's lap before sitting beside them.

"L-Lord Melberot? To what do I—"

"No pleasantries. Answer my questions."

Derek knew Melberot adored Sirine despite his aloof demeanor.

Between Kalimford's breakdown and Melberot's piercing glare, Derek felt utterly trapped.

As Derek tensed, Melberot whispered:

"Are you experiencing any discomfort?"

"Huh?...Of course not. I'm being treated exceptionally."

"Mention even minor inconveniences."

"...Truly none. The magical training environment here is perfect—"

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

Melberot's deadly serious expression made Derek realize:

Having witnessed Kalimford's devastation, Melberot feared suffering the same fate. Navigating a teenage girl's moods proved more complex than single-handedly battling armies of magical beasts.

One pout from Sirine could reduce even 6th-Class Mages to helpless wrecks.

This realization made the peacefully sleeping Sirine seem like the Grim Reaper.

"Every minor detail... This is an order..."

Sweat trickled down Derek's throat.

This was truly a bed of thorns like no other.