Noble Lady Reformation Guide - Chapter 82

A considerable amount of time had passed since Aiselin departed for the northern Duchy of Rochest.

The sight of her boldly declaring"I'll go earn money"before vanishing northward with Derek had been so dramatic... Diela hadn't even considered trying to stop her.

"That's roughly how it happened, brother."

The Duplein Ducal Mansion, once patched with makeshift tents in places, had now been mostly restored to its former dignified appearance as a ducal residence.

Miriela had been sent to the main family estate to recuperate after falling into complete mental and physical exhaustion, while other retainers similarly struggled to return to their duties.

Though nothing but bad news seemed to arrive these days, there had been one recent development that could be considered fortunate.

"I see..."

Raeg, the second son of House Duplein who had fallen into a coma, had finally awakened.

After being struck by necromantic magic and subdued by Derek, Raeg had hovered near death's door until now.

His once-short hair had grown out somewhat, and his unkempt beard combined with his vacant eyes made him seem different from before.

Yet his burly physique remained unchanged, still radiating an intimidating presence.

"Father... and elder brother... gone like that... Aiselin went north to earn money... Damn it... damn it all!"

Despite the pain wracking his body, Raeg managed to sit up in bed with a miserable expression.

"You must have suffered greatly while I lay unconscious, Diela. Forgive this incompetent brother of yours."

"I'm alright. I just went around bowing my head to various people. If anyone suffered, it was Aiselin unnie who bore the brunt..."

"Aiselin... Yes, she must have endured much. Trying desperately to keep our crumbling house from collapsing entirely while running herself ragged... Ugh..."

Raeg swallowed his manly tears and took a deep breath.

"A girl raised in noble privilege suddenly thrust into such harsh realities... I can't even imagine how devastated she must have been... While I just lay here unconscious..."

An image surfaced of Aiselin looking up at the clear blue sky with satisfaction after sweating in the fields.

Diela quietly watched Raeg wallow in self-blame before awkwardly averting her gaze.

While it was true Aiselin had suffered, from Diela's perspective there was something... odd about it all.

It sounded strange to say, but... Aiselin seemed almost suited to being a fallen noblewoman.

Yet saying"Don't worry, she seemed fine with it"felt inappropriate... Diela had to choose her words carefully.

"Forgive this unworthy second son! Even if I couldn't correct elder brother's path, to be swayed so easily by necromancy... Knocked unconscious at the most critical moment, leaving my younger siblings to suffer..."

"It's alright. Focus on recovering your health, brother. Every member of House Duplein is precious right now."

As the only surviving legitimate son of the late Grand Duke Duplein, Raeg was the natural successor to the household leadership.

Yet Raeg bowed his head with hollow eyes and said:

"How could I possibly claim the right to be master of Duplein Mansion...? Who would follow a common soldier who lost consciousness at the most crucial moment?"

"..."

While etiquette demanded she refute this, the retainers had indeed been looking to Diela and Aiselin for leadership in Raeg's absence.

With Raeg himself lacking confidence, it was unclear whether he could reclaim authority and lead the house from the front.

The situation grew increasingly dire. Diela sighed deeply.

'We really need Aiselin unnie back...'

Though barely weeks had passed since Aiselin left for the north, Diela could only hope for her swift return.

- Creak

Just then.

Amid the gloomy atmosphere, Head Maid Katarina entered carrying a letter.

When Diela looked up, Katarina bowed deeply and announced:

"A letter has arrived from the northern Duchy of Rochest."

An unexpected piece of news.

The next day, while returning to the spire after breakfast, Siern encountered Derek in the hallway.

Dressed in his neatly arranged mercenary attire with his cloak fluttering, Derek approached from the opposite end of the corridor.

As always, he cut an impressive figure, though closer inspection revealed bandages wrapped around various parts of his body—all Siern's handiwork.

"Eek..."

Siern, walking with servants assisting her, flinched and stepped back.

Only a day had passed since the violent incident in the mansion gardens.

Though she'd been fully briefed on Derek's intentions, she couldn't help feeling unsettled.

The memory of his terrifying glowing eyes as he strode toward her across the snowfield lingered like a nightmare.

To Siern, Derek remained a difficult and frightening figure.

"..."

When Derek reached her, he gave a slight bow of acknowledgment.

Though Siern recoiled, Derek showed no particular reaction.

"D-D-Derek... was it...?"

"My apologies for yesterday's events. Since Lady Aiselin has explained the circumstances, I won't offer further excuses."

Siern felt dizzy.

The slaughter-machine who hunted demons was gone, replaced by this dignified gentleman observing noble etiquette.

The contrast made her doubt they were the same person, forcing her to blink repeatedly at Derek's face.

"You must find this unpleasant. But please understand it was necessary."

"N-no... that's not... I mean..."

Derek waited patiently as Siern struggled to speak.

Just meeting his gaze made her breath catch in her throat.

Technically, as a noble lady, she held authority over this commoner. She could scold him if she wished, or praise him if deserved.

Yet Siern found herself unable to act decisively, like prey frozen before a predator.

"..."

After steadying her breath, Siern studied Derek again, noticing the various wounds covering his body.

Evidence of his endurance against her magic to help restore her reason. Though the head maid had treated them, such injuries wouldn't heal overnight.

The sight made Siern uncomfortable.

"S-sor..."

"...?"

"Sorry... I think... or maybe not..."

"..."

Derek looked at her incredulously.

"No need to force an apology if it pains you. I don't particularly care."

"...Sorry."

"..."

"You know full well I can hardly be called human. Even now like this, someday I'll come for your life again."

Siern stared at the floor as she spoke honestly.

"If you want to teach me, you'll need to stay stronger than me. That's why I don't accept just anyone as my teacher."

-'I heard you came to teach me magic.'

-'Then you must be stronger than me?'

Derek recalled Siern's words when they first met—how she'd suddenly thrown monster corpses at him upon arriving in Rochest territory.

Having now seen Siern completely lose control, he understood. That day, she'd been fully lucid.

Yet she'd still attacked him.

Without reason, she'd assaulted this new tutor to frighten him away.

Perhaps not the arrogance of a spoiled noble girl, but something else entirely.

Through countless experiences, she'd learned: when ambiguous humans extend their hands to teach her, those hands inevitably become stained with blood.

So at the territory's border, she'd issued threats to drive them away.

Perhaps this was the conclusion she'd reached after resisting her nature. Words alone could never convey this truth.

The girl who spent her days alone atop the spire watching the snowy wilderness knew no other way.

This land obeyed the wild's rules, where only strength mattered.

Thus Derek met her gaze squarely and stated with absolute certainty—she needed conviction, not hesitation.

"Don't worry. I'll always be stronger than Lady Siern."

"For now, yes."

Siern looked back just as intently. Her brief reply carried deeper meaning.

No one could predict how Noir's blood flowing through her veins might develop.

Though Derek was blessed with extraordinary magical talent, whether it could surpass the potential of Noir—the great demon who ravaged the north—remained unknown.

If Siern someday surpassed Derek and stained her hands with his blood... the wound in her heart would be far greater than this.

That terrified her.

What she feared wasn't the world or some unimaginable evil—but herself.

So Derek lowered his stance to meet her eyes and declared more firmly:

"No matter when, Lady Siern could never surpass me. So spare yourself unnecessary worry."

Though baseless, Derek's unwavering gaze left no room for doubt.

"Who worries about becoming muscular before even starting exercise? Please face reality."

"...That's somehow irritating."

"It's no different from worrying about becoming beautiful before buying cosmetics, or becoming an archmage before learning magic. Frankly ridiculous, don't you think?"

"Eek! You're definitely trying to annoy me now!"

"All learning begins with self-objectivity. I'm simply helping you achieve that."

Derek's words were sharp but truthful—a quality that earned trust among high nobles. He never offered empty flattery.

"If you fear killing me, dismiss such pointless concerns. I'll always remain stronger than Lady Siern."

Siern fell silent before Derek's repeated declaration.

This was Derek's true nature.

Feeling this undeniable truth, Siern could only relax with a wry smile and nod.

A truly mysterious phenomenon.

"Then we'll begin training tomorrow as planned."

"Understood... Is there anything I need to prepare?"

An immense training regimen unfolded above Derek's head.

The intensity defied description—only those who experienced it could understand.

Had Diela, Elente, or Denis been present, they might have warned her... but sadly, this was the remote northern territory of Rochest.

"Nothing at all. Don't worry."

Meeting Derek's reassuring gaze, Lady Siern answered brightly:

"Got it!"

These became her famous last words.

"Huh... why do I have chills...?"

Lady Elente shuddered as a servant delivered the letter, goosebumps rising along her spine. Her lustrous red hair swayed in response.

Likely because she'd spotted Derek's name in the letter.

Though Elente fully acknowledged Derek's capabilities, remembering their training sessions still gave her occasional chills.

Regardless of Derek's reliability, his curriculum pushed students to their absolute limits. Even the extraordinary Elente turned pale under his tutelage.

"Are you cold? Shall I have the maids add more firewood?"

"N-no, I'm fine. Don't trouble yourself."

Elente waved off the concerned maid and refocused on the letter.

Hearing it came from the northern Duchy of Rochest, she'd wondered if Derek sent it. She knew he'd gone north.

But surprisingly, the sender was Lord Melberot himself, master of Rochest.

Receiving correspondence directly from one of the era's greatest mages was rare.

'They say all 6-Star mages are eccentric—seems true enough.'

The wanderer Drest of the southwestern continent.

The northern guardian Melberot.

The royal magic advisor Kochella.

All were strong-willed, exceptional figures difficult to control, yet worth maintaining connections with.

Reading the letter with utmost courtesy revealed unexpected contents.

"..."

After finishing, Elente rested her chin thoughtfully.

It proposed granting Derek a barony including the vineyards near Rodellen.

While high nobles typically handled titles, the process wasn't simple.

Though small, Rodellen belonged to the southwestern continent.

Before convincing central nobles and the royal court, they needed approval from influential southwestern nobles whose territories bordered it.

And the southwestern powerhouses were predetermined: Duplein, Belmierd, and Beltus.

The recently weakened Duplein held little sway.

Even if they opposed, they lacked the means—and considering their members'dispositions, none seemed likely to object.

Belmierd posed no major issues either.

The Belmierd border count had already delegated most authority to Elente to cultivate her administrative skills. She could decide such matters herself.

Since the count himself held Derek in high regard, the outcome wouldn't change even if he intervened.

'Lord Melberot might be surprised how easily this resolves.'

Derek's students were already embedded throughout the southwest.

While teaching them, he'd casually built connections that would now prove invaluable for entering noble society.

However, Elente worried about House Beltus.

"Hmm..."

The Beltus Grand Duke was cautious and wary of other nobles.

No matter how small and remote the territory, he'd likely oppose new power emerging in the southwest.

The silver lining was Beltus housed Derek's student, Lady Denis.

If she persuaded the Grand Duke, things might change... but her standing within the family wasn't particularly strong.

'Lady Denis is clever—she'll voice her opinion...'

Regardless, Beltus was beyond Elente's influence. She could only hope for the best.

Elente tucked the letter into a drawer.

"Breakfast will be ready soon. Shall I have the servants prepare?"

"No, I'll leave early today. I want to check on the Rosea Salon."

"Very well."

Derek had gone north, Aiselin left her post, Duplein faltered, and the Labyrinth of the White Wilderness stirred.

Yet the world moved on. Circumstances always changed, and survivors adapted.

Evelstein's high society continued coldly indifferent to worldly affairs. Falling behind there left noble ladies with no footing.

As maids adjusted her attire, Elente reflected:

'Is Derek really teaching that infamous Lady Siern?'

The lack of disastrous news suggested he might have actually tamed the so-called madwoman.

If true, did that mean her debut in high society approached? Elente struggled to imagine such a scene.

Though rumors claimed her magical prowess was unparalleled for her age, being able to wield 3-Star magic before her coming-of-age ceremony was talent beyond comparison.

Having inherited Noir's power directly, her gifts defied normal standards.

If such a person entered high society as Derek's student, the repercussions were unpredictable.

'What a bad habit—indulging in pointless speculation.'

Elente chuckled wryly and strode down the corridor with maids attending her.

For now, the Rosea Salon demanded her attention.

With Duplein's lion absent, Evelstein's high society had become a battlefield.

Losing focus meant becoming the next casualty.