Noble Lady Reformation Guide - Chapter 99

"Lady Elente, we must ask you to remain in your room until the Family Head issues further instructions."

The retainers escorting Elente wore grave expressions.

Elente remembered each of their names—Monter, Briana, Revilin, Tion, Fior...

These were people who had been with her since childhood, whose gradual rise through House Belmierd's ranks she'd witnessed firsthand.

Thus, none appeared pleased about confining their lady.

"You refuse to share even a single word about the investigation results."

Elente didn't blame them, yet couldn't resist voicing her thoughts.

The guest chamber, though luxurious by common standards, paled compared to her personal quarters—likely still being searched.

"Our apologies, Lady Elente. We simply..."

Monter, the elderly guard captain who'd once been her personal escort, hesitated before falling silent.

Clearly, investigators had forbidden sharing information.

"...We must suspect Lady Elente."

Briana, the ever-stoic scribe, broke the tense silence.

Beneath her professional demeanor lay warmth Elente knew well.

"Detailed findings will follow. But presently, we cannot disclose anything. As you know, we must follow orders precisely."

Her bureaucratic tone suggested icy detachment, yet Elente smiled warmly.

"Conclusive evidence emerged, then?"

"..."

Briana clenched her teeth before exhaling sharply.

"We must suspect you. But that doesn't mean we've abandoned faith in you."

Her voice dripped with lingering respect.

"This suspicion exists precisely to prove your innocence. Everyone here knows you'd never dabble in necromancy."

"Briana..."

"Thus we must uncover why this happened—who orchestrated it. Suspicion is necessary to demonstrate you had no motive."

All verification begins with doubt.

Understanding this, Elente studied each retainer's conflicted expression before biting her lip and nodding.

"Go. Being alone grants me time to study Professor Pello's magical treatises."

Seated by the window with practiced ease, she smiled.

"I trust you all."

'Stay composed.'

Alone, Elente set aside her book and approached the window.

Servants scurried through sunlit gardens like startled ants—House Belmierd had become a swamp of unease.

The legitimate heiress allegedly practicing necromancy—should this spread beyond the estate, the consequences would be catastrophic.

Not even a year had passed since necromancy's madness consumed House Duplein.

In this climate, association with death magic meant social execution before disinheritance.

Elente swallowed dryly, forcing calm.

Without information, panic would only worsen things.

Yet that cold stare from the corridor haunted her—Derek's gaze, once brimming with encouragement:

-'Lady Elente! Just once more! Push through when exhausted—that's how you grow!'

Now reduced to icy side-glances.

If Derek had succumbed to Leonard's persuasion, it meant he'd turned against her.

'Derek thinks deeply and acts decisively—not easily swayed...'

But Elente knew Leonard equally well.

His methods ranged from honeyed whispers to grandiose speeches, or offers too tempting to refuse.

Perhaps he'd fed Derek slander about her, lessening guilt before dangling magical treasures as reward.

Leonard possessed uncanny insight into human desires—he'd surely recognized Derek's obsession with magical advancement.

'If it's mere persuasion, we can talk. But meeting him now is impossible...'

Elente steeled herself, gripping the windowsill until her knuckles whitened.

Misunderstandings could be clarified.

Whatever lies Leonard planted, Derek would eventually see the truth.

She mustn't lose composure—in power struggles, the first to falter collapses.

Losing Derek was a painful move, but recoverable.

Leonard's scheme relied on fabricated evidence—and all fabrications contain flaws.

Expose them, and the game reverses.

She simply needed to identify the"evidence."

To Valerian, Prince of House Duplein,

Your last letter left me pondering our path's dangers and potential outcomes. Yet I believe the changes our research could bring justify all risks. Fully understanding necromancy's secrets may allow transcending life and death's boundaries—power to transform not just the Empire, but the entire continent.

The ancient texts you sent from the White Wilderness proved invaluable. Particularly the"Echo of Souls"incantation—my underground experiments briefly animated small animal corpses. Imperfect still, but greater achievements await.

I shall visit Duplein Manor during Lady Dihira's social debut next month. Let us meet at the agreed location to discuss further, including newly discovered spells.

Take care, Prince Valerian. You seem increasingly influenced by necromantic energies lately. Guard our secrets vigilantly.

Your eternal ally,

Elente

Count Belmierd sat heavily at his desk after reading the letter from the underground laboratory, surveying his retainers'grim faces.

Investigator Revilton closed his eyes.

"The handwriting matches Lady Elente's signature hydrangea-scented Belov ink. Sealed with House Belmierd's crest."

"..."

"This draft was never sent—perhaps revised due to changed circumstances."

Briana and the head maid added:

"Traces of Lady Elente's perfume remain. Our hounds confirmed it's authentic."

The letter detailed necromantic exchanges with Valerian—Duplein's eldest son, who'd allegedly gone mad studying death magic artifacts.

Material evidence aligned perfectly with circumstance.

Coincidentally, Elente had attended Duplein's fateful banquet when the tragedy occurred—emerging unscathed while demanding no reparations.

Individual clues held little power, but their convergence became damning.

Elente's attendance had simply been to celebrate Dihira's debut.

Her forgiveness stemmed from not wishing to burden Aiselin.

Her survival resulted from quick thinking.

Truth was often this simple—Elente had been gracious.

Yet layered coincidences painted an ominous picture.

Had she truly collaborated with Duplein on necromancy?

One seed of doubt made all"evidence"credible.

Count Belmierd massaged his temples.

"I... don't wish to doubt Elente."

"..."

"Nor do any of you."

Torn between father and Count, he suffered immensely.

Part of him wanted to free his daughter, proclaiming unwavering belief.

But as ruler of Belmierd lands, responsible for countless lives, he couldn't.

Rumors had already spread internally—if unchecked, they'd leak beyond the estate.

Should it emerge he'd concealed necromantic involvement due to familial bonds, the scandal would engulf all Belmierd.

Count first, then father. Father first, then Count.

In this chasm, the Count could only writhe in agony.

-'Lady Elente dabbling in necromancy? Can it be true?'

-'Nonsense! You know her character!'

Doubt resembles embers sprouting weakly from kindling—often feeble, quickly extinguished.

Yet sometimes they persist, consuming branches before growing uncontrollably.

Doubt exerts influence simply by enduring, as rumors distort and amplify.

What breaks people isn't rumor itself, but its accumulated weight.

Illogical, irrational, unfounded whispers corner their victims.

They erode minds until even the wisest eyes cloud with helpless frustration.

Time is key.

What gnaws at people isn't sudden, brutal strikes, but persistent, nibbling discomfort.

These small twists inevitably seep into daily life.

-'L-Lady Elente!'

-'Shh! Don't approach her!'

Servants fleeing like startled deer as Elente walked guarded to meals.

Days passed.

-'Where is Lady Elente?'

-'Still under house arrest.'

-'The Rosea Salon's queen confined alone... The investigation must be serious...'

-'Could she truly have...'

-'Hush. Watch your tongue.'

Late-night whispers drifting through open windows as Elente read.

More days.

-'If... if Lady Elente really practiced necromancy...?'

-'Remember Duplein's tragedy? There'd be no forgiveness.'

-'Then... who inherits Belmierd?'

-'With Lord Ryner refusing... perhaps Lord Leonard? Though he insists he covets no power...'

-'How detached...'

Conversations overheard via detection magic.

After five days, the weight in her chest grew unbearable.

-'Lady Elente. Your change of clothes.'

Briana's increasingly bureaucratic chill.

-'Lady Elente. We must question you further.'

Monter's fading remorse.

Each interaction piled like poison in her heart.

The terrifying part? She barely noticed.

Minds break slowly—like frogs in gradually heated water.

When commanding respect as Belmierd's jewel, all had revered her.

Retainers saw her as celestial, servants handled her like glassware, family praised her floral beauty.

But when accumulated doubts reach critical mass... something snaps.

"Hah..."

Days later, Elente jolted awake in her candlelit chamber—time had blurred.

Spring breezes fluttered through half-open windows. The bright moon felt eerily cold.

She shook her head sharply.

"I lost focus. Uncharacteristic."

She'd tried everything—probing retainers for evidence, sending letters to Duplein, seeking allies at Rosea Salon.

Yet here she sat, staring at candle flames in an empty room.

She never lost concentration—even during tedious philosophy lectures.

This sudden lapse was unprecedented.

"So this is their game? Pathetic. Ruling requires enduring suspicion—did they think Belmierd's heiress would crumble so easily?"

House Belmierd couldn't easily discard her—many retainers still believed despite the evidence.

Yet the dark room remained silent.

A gust made candlelight dance, elongating her wavering shadow.

Elente hadn't walked alone to reach this position.

"Lonely"belonged in dictionaries—with so many believers, how could mere suspicion topple her?

Yet she didn't realize—what guards hearts isn't admirers'respect. Worldly authority cannot shield the soul.

Given enough time, even aquarium fish must eventually suffocate.

Whether a week or month varies, but the moment always comes.

Rising, Elente glimpsed a mirror and gasped.

Sunken eyes. Frazzled hair.

Rubbing her eyes, she grabbed a comb from the drawer.

"Grooming is basic... What's wrong with me...?"

Her trembling hands struggled to untangle knots.

When had she last combed her own hair?

Attendants had always handled it—she couldn't recall the last time she'd bothered.

Then the dark room registered fully.

Empty.

The woman who commanded worlds, Belmierd's uncrowned queen, Rosea Salon's jewel.

She was power incarnate.

Yet beside her—only void.

No one. The fact remained unchanged no matter how often she blinked.

In this cramped room, no one existed.

'Definitely necromantic texts from Rodentz Island.'

Derek stood alone in the musty basement—Elente's alleged necromancy laboratory.

Though senior retainers had confiscated and sealed the dangerous spellbook, traces lingered.

Breathing the metallic air, Derek analyzed the residual magic.

'His sudden"pilgrimage"was suspicious from the start.'

After alerting Ravenclaw Barony about Belmierd's situation, Derek had returned as an honored guest—odd, given the circumstances.

No sane lord would admit outsiders during such crises.

Yet Derek roamed freely—implying deeper schemes.

'...'

After contemplation, Derek ascended the creaking stairs.

-'Rogue necromancers fled Rodentz Island to Evelstain. Capturing them might reveal clues about that 6-Star necromancer.'

Lady Trisha's earlier request, which Derek had refused.

Necromancy wasn't his specialty.

Yet he knew one thing—the faceless 6-Star necromancer worshipped by Rodentz cultists.

An obscure figure, but her followers shared one trait:

Obsession with death magic.

- Thud, thud.

Climbing the stairs, Derek reached his conclusion.

Leonard was likely a survivor from Renuel Family's purge of Rodentz Island—his"pilgrimage"a cover.

His holy land had always been necromancy's birthplace.

Derek chuckled darkly.

No evidence existed. But that hardly mattered.

Evidence could be manufactured.

Just as Leonard had done.