Noble Lady Reformation Guide - Chapter 32

The luxurious carriage carrying the Border Count of Belmierd was surrounded by a full escort of guards.

Even from a distance, it was obvious someone of considerable importance rode within—though by the Count's standards, this was actually a modest security detail.

The guards at Evelstain's entrance gulped dryly upon recognizing the Belmierd family crest emblazoned on the carriage. Though servants carried identification documents, the guards didn't even glance at them. The carriage's sheer presence made verification unnecessary.

Not a single soul in the city dared obstruct its path as the grand vehicle traversed the well-maintained roads skirting the commercial district. For all the attention it drew, this was an unusually quiet arrival considering the passenger's status.

'It seems the Beltus and Duplein factions haven't arrived yet.'

Leaning his chin on one hand while surveying the streets from his carriage, the Border Count organized his thoughts.

His journey to Evelstain had multiple purposes—officially for upcoming tariff negotiations, but primarily to meet with Grand Mage Drest Wolftail. And while here, he wished to check on his beloved daughter Elente.

Though protocol dictated sending advance notice, the Count had deliberately refrained. He wanted to surprise his daughter and observe her daily life unannounced.

How was she faring in Evelstain's treacherous high society?

These concerns filled his mind as he arrived at Elente's Noble District residence—only to find her sitting in the garden, looking utterly drained.

"F-Father?"

Elente nearly spilled her tea upon seeing him, her haggard face registering shock.

The Count was equally startled.

"Elente. If high society proves too taxing, you may return to the estate. While expanding connections is important for your position, you needn't torment yourself for it."

The Border Count, who maintained a stern demeanor before others, softened exclusively for Elente. Just her complexion told him everything—she'd clearly suffered some recent setback.

As the jewel of House Belmierd, her wellbeing outweighed all social considerations. No matter how vital high society standing might be for noblewomen, seeing her like this pained him.

"N-no, Father. I've just been... disappointed in my recent lack of progress. I suppose I've grown lazy."

"Lazy? Elente! You're our house's pride! To achieve so much at your age while remaining so composed... Who dares speak such nonsense?"

"...You flatter me too much. I simply... lost a magic duel recently and have been contemplating how to improve."

"A magic duel? Elente, your skills surpass any noblewoman I've known. How could this happen?"

"Well... It was against Lady Aiselin of House Duplein..."

The Count fell silent.

Massaging his temples with a heavy sigh, he redirected his thoughts toward comforting her. He knew of Aiselin—in fact, he should have guessed immediately. Few in Evelstain's social circles could rival Elente magically.

"This setback is temporary. Perseverance will bring brighter days."

"Thank you for your kindness. Though I've actually improved considerably since hiring a new magic instructor. You'd be surprised at my progress."

"This instructor... Pellmier, correct? I thought he was still at our estate..."

"No. I temporarily hired a mercenary from Tavern Street to prepare for dueling Lady Aiselin. Initially just for basic instruction, but his knowledge proved unexpectedly valuable."

As Elente shared updates, she watched her father's reaction carefully.

She couldn't predict how he'd take news of a street mercenary tutoring her. Even for someone as open-minded as the Border Count, this breached noble propriety.

True to her expectations, his brow twitched.

After brief contemplation, he asked,"What exactly did he teach you?"

"Things beyond aristocratic etiquette... Practical magic theory, and methods for genuine victory."

"Yet you lost to Aiselin. Anyone can preach determination."

His tone turned unusually sharp. The Count rarely spoke so bluntly to his beloved daughter.

Elente realized he was probing for something specific through this questioning.

"Effective teaching is itself a skill. At the very least... I feel my perspective has broadened."

"..."

The Count studied Elente's expression before closing his eyes thoughtfully.

Having read every letter she'd sent, he could roughly gauge her social progress. Whether learning estate management back home or navigating high society here, Elente had always radiated quiet confidence.

But exposure to greater talents often humbles even the brightest. This could be crushing—or enlightening.

How one responds to such moments shapes their character.

"Perhaps... you shouldn't return to the estate after all."

"You think so? I... did plan to remain in Evelstain."

"Continue your studies. Lady Aiselin is formidable, but I believe my daughter will prevail."

Recalling her now would invalidate her entire Evelstain journey. As parents, they must sometimes release their children into the wider world—though offering support where possible.

"If this mercenary instructs so well, perhaps House Belmierd should retain him officially."

"He's affiliated with the Velderun Mercenary Group... The senior retainers might object."

"What matters is whether he aids your magical progress."

The Count laughed heartily, patting Elente's shoulder.

"Leave it to me. Commoners always yield to sufficient gold. I'll summon the head butler."

- BOOM! CRASH!

"Gah! Derek! I-I'll get hit too...!"

A gale-force wind swept through the dungeon as the damp cavern filled with the stench of blood.

On Evelstain's outskirts—though among the weakest labyrinths, it remained dangerous. Derek, who'd been methodically slaughtering magical beasts with practiced ease, suddenly froze.

The 2-Star Combat Magic"Fireball"—a spell he'd cast hundreds of times—felt strangely potent today. The familiar sensation had shifted unsettlingly.

Yet increased power suggested improved magical adaptation—a positive development.

Amid the carnage, Derek stared at his open palm.

"Derek? What's wrong? More are coming! Eek! I struggle in close quarters!"

Pellin hastily drew her longsword. As a ranged fighter, swarming enemies were her bane.

Derek flexed his hand repeatedly, still sensing that peculiar feeling—like breaking through some barrier yet remaining incomplete.

"..."

Failing even this minor mission wounded his mercenary pride.

Yet separately, he felt tantalizingly close to a new magical threshold.

Losing over half his mana in one spell? Just like when Lady Aiselin first exhausted herself spamming Fireballs.

An expected phenomenon when attempting higher-star magic prematurely. A sign of impending advancement.

Could he have nearly cast 3-Star magic?

The thought made his heart race.

At seventeen—nearly an adult—reaching 3-Star would be extraordinary. Perhaps unprecedented among commoners.

Talent he had in abundance. Effort he'd never spared.

Not a single day without magical training. Results were overdue.

Yet something intangible still eluded him.

That frustrating sensation of being one step shy of 3-Star—close enough to touch, yet still beyond reach.

- Creak

As Derek contemplated his palm, the tavern door opened late at night.

"Last call soon, but one drink's fine."

"No matter. Your finest, preferably something strong."

"Heh, a connoisseur for my final customer."

Near dawn, when streets stood empty, the occasional patron still wandered in.

The robed figure—face obscured—sounded elderly. Despite empty tables, he sat adjacent to Derek's.

While Pellin drunkenly rambled opposite him, Derek studied the newcomer from the corner of his eye.

Frail build. Arms beneath the robe were skeletal—barely able to support himself. Wrinkled hands betrayed at least fifty years of life.

Just another old man drinking late—until Derek closed his eyes to sense his magic.

"No need for frustration or force. Wild School magic flows with nature's rhythm."

The man spoke abruptly, without context.

Derek and Pellin both turned in surprise, but the stranger remained hooded.

"Huh?"

Derek's question—Who are you? Why say this?—went unanswered as the man lowered his hood.

Derek's eyes twitched.

"Of course, telling mages to abandon ambition is futile advice."

"..."

Wrinkled forehead. Cropped hair. Dull, dreamy eyes. Downturned mouth. Parched lips. More corpse than man.

Not fifty—likely nearing a century old. Derek knew his remaining lifespan was short.

- Thud

Jayden placed a drink before the old man, who thanked him casually before remarking:

"Tobellon vintage? Milder than expected."

"A discerning palate! But don't judge our remaining stock too harshly."

"Adequate. Were I younger, I'd drink until insensate."

The man turned to Derek.

"Skilled in Combat and Confusion magic, but lacking in Summoning and Detection. Ample mana, yet its flow remains partially blocked. Efficiency diminishes toward your extremities."

"..."

"Remarkable for your age, but you overthink when casting magic, boy."

Pellin gaped. Derek listened intently.

Few could instantly assess his level—Grand Duke Duplein had managed during their first meeting. 4-Star Detection Magic permitted such insight, though practitioners at that level were vanishingly rare among nobility.

Yet this man's perception surpassed even that.

"May I ask your name?"

"You already know it."

The man knew Derek had recognized him.

Combat, Transformation, Confusion, Summoning, Detection.

Magic's five primary schools (excluding forbidden arts).

People inevitably rank everything. Nobles endlessly debate each school's greatest practitioner—rarely reaching consensus.

Except for Detection Magic. There, all agreed.

Though his unusual background made him obscure outside aristocratic circles, those who knew never disputed his supremacy.

"Drest Wolftail."

The name of the skeletal old man sipping ale before them.

Called the"Wandering Specter"by nobility for his elusive nature—going where he pleased, never caught unless willing.

His ghostly gaze seemed to see through everything.