Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 1

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 1
The Winter Sword (1)
“There is a specter at Emera Lake that snatches away children.”
At the edge of the plains lay a dead lake. Rotting aquatic weeds tangled like a witch’s hair, creating a shadowed swamp where even the midday sun could not penetrate.
The Nanny had told me that as long as I didn’t venture that far, I could wander anywhere else freely.
“So you mustn’t go anywhere near Emera Lake. Not even in broad daylight! The specter glares with blazing red eyes, always watching for children to devour.”
If I didn’t respond quickly, her voice would grow louder.
“Goodness, are you listening, young master? On stormy nights, it can even be seen from the manor. Ever since I was as small as you are now, I’ve seen it whenever the tempests rage!”
Young Boris of the Jineman Family half-believed and half-doubted the Nanny’s words, but he chose to believe them anyway. Yet despite venturing outside the manor on every stormy night and staring intently into the darkness, he had never once glimpsed the red eyes she spoke of.
However, because not only the Nanny but others as well—especially the elderly servants—insisted it was true, he couldn’t quite dismiss it as an outright lie.
If only the darkness that lingered around the manor were nothing more than the specter of the lake, that would be preferable.
I was twelve years old that year. If there was any wound, it was only the early loss of my mother; my childhood memories were peaceful. I had never witnessed anything so terrible that it would haunt my nightmares for years to come.
Yet above the manor, a palpable darkness drifted.
It pressed down upon a fragile child.
I was neither so young nor so foolish as to remain ignorant of it.
“That’s not something you need to concern yourself with, little Boris.”
When I felt my older brother Yefnen’s hand stroking my head, I looked up at the sky. His eyes, silhouetted against the heavens, were as blue as the dress worn by my mother in her portrait. But my own eyes, gazing upon his, were a grayish-blue like a rain-laden sky.
The two of us brothers had come to the Longord Plains, the domain of the Jineman Family.
The horizon was blanketed in the color of grass, and overgrown needlegrass stretched endlessly before us. The climate beneath the Katuna Mountain Range, which encircled the Shell Peninsula, was cool, and such grasslands were common there.
As I lay down in the late-summer plains, my head sank deep into the grass. Something—perhaps an insect—fluttered and brushed against the tip of my nose. Yet more than that, my brother’s unusually radiant smile troubled me today.
Why did I feel this way? There was no reason to. Truly.
No, my brother had always been bright. He would take his younger sibling—who was shy and didn’t laugh easily—by the hand and go anywhere. Wherever we went, he tried to show me only what was fun, amusing, and cheerful. Whenever I managed to laugh aloud, he couldn’t contain his own laughter, delighted beyond measure.
My tall, handsome brother with his striking features, whose swordsmanship was the finest among the young men of the nearby domains and made our father proud. Yefnen Jineman—the only person little Boris truly trusted and followed.
“Come now, let’s practice sparring as we promised!”
I nodded and sprang to my feet. My hair, grown long enough to cover my shoulders, fluttered in the breeze. Yefnen loved to tousle his younger brother’s hair, and as he handed me a wooden sword, he had already made my head look like a bird’s nest.
Rather than complain like a small child, I merely moved my lips and chuckled quietly.
“Whoosh, whoosh! Don’t lay eggs in our little brother’s hair!”
When my brother pretended to chase away birds that didn’t exist, I deliberately turned to look, as if fooled. In that moment, his wooden sword lightly jabbed at my ribs.
By the time I turned back, he had already retreated some distance, his posture loose and playful, his face still wearing that smile.
I suddenly felt something strange.
Even as I chased after the wooden sword he offered, stumbled, scraped my knee, quickly pushed him down when he came to check if I was hurt, and rolled through the grass with him while giggling, that strange feeling never left me.
For some time now, I had been visited by an odd intuition. Intuition is not an ability that manifests at will, but sometimes it became so acute that it transformed into something like foresight.
I was just a child who didn’t even know the basics of swordplay, and Yefnen was a young man who had trained in the sword for years, so in truth we could not be proper sparring partners. He simply indulged me because I enjoyed wielding a wooden sword, using the pretext of developing my reflexes as we rolled about the plains together.
My father wished Yefnen would train more rigorously in swordplay rather than play with his younger brother. But this kindhearted young man preferred to hear his brother laugh heartily than to improve his own technique.
Our father, Yulken Jineman, took little interest in Boris, who was merely a child. He regarded Yefnen’s deep affection for his younger brother as merely the immaturity of youth, a tendency to be swayed by emotion.
In Yulken Jineman’s heart, a younger brother was not someone worthy of love at all—merely a potential threat, creeping up from behind with a blade to the throat.
Yefnen was the firstborn son. He was the only one Yulken could truly trust. Not only trust, but the sole object of his absolute expectations. Moreover, he believed that Yefnen too must obey his father’s words without question.
Yet Yefnen was still too young to understand everything. In time, as he matured, he would come to know what his father expected of him.
Crack!
A crisp crack echoed across the plains. It had been some time since their wooden swords had collided with such force.
Yefnen feigned surprise and stepped back several paces, inviting his younger brother to press forward with greater intensity.
This time, Boris charged without stumbling, moving with speed. The wooden sword felt heavy in his grip, the way his older brother had taught him, causing it to waver slightly, but his stance was respectable enough. He swung leftward, aiming for Yefnen’s shoulder. His brother appeared ready to meet the blow, then deftly sidestepped.
Boris, spurred by determination, closed in more aggressively. He had already crossed the distance his brother had warned him about. Yefnen’s wooden sword thrust straight toward Boris’s neck. There was no time to evade.
“Ah!”
Yefnen was startled. Perhaps because his younger brother had performed so well, an instinctive counterattack erupted from his body without thought.
Though it was merely a wooden sword, its tip was quite sharp. A red mark appeared on Boris’s neck, and soon blood welled up in droplets.
“Damn!”
Yefnen dropped his wooden sword and rushed over, cradling his startled brother’s face in his hands. He examined the wound while gently stroking his back with one hand—fortunately, it was not severe.
The blood droplets grew larger, then trickled down his neck. Yefnen wiped the blood away with his sleeve and drew out a handkerchief, pressing it against the wound. His brother’s pulse fluttered beneath his touch like a small bird’s wings.
“You were frightened, weren’t you? I’m sorry, truly sorry. I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
Boris was indeed frightened. Just moments before, the speed of his brother’s wooden sword had been so swift that he’d forgotten who his opponent was. An unexpected terror had swept through him—the fear that someone meant to kill him.
“…Yes.”
Then a voice called out to the two brothers. Someone was running toward them from the direction of Jineman Manor.
“Young Master Yefnen! Young Master Boris!”
It was the servant who attended to Boris. Yefnen had already intended to return, so he thought it fortunate timing and pulled his brother’s hand. But the servant’s manner was strange—he was waving his hand as if telling them not to come this way.
“What’s happened?”
The servant finally reached the brothers, breathing heavily, his face drained of color.
“Young Masters, you mustn’t go to the manor now! Something terrible has occurred!”
Yefnen did not press for details but waited for the servant to finish his explanation. He was well acquainted with the servants’ tendency to panic and showed no great alarm on his face.
But Boris was different. Since this morning, he had been on edge, as if something were about to happen.
“Blado Jineman… that man has returned!”
Yefnen’s face turned cold. He squeezed his younger brother’s hand, fearing he would be alarmed. Yet he did not notice that even his own hand had grown frigid.
“I see. So it is.”
Boris could not quite grasp the servant’s words. The vague premonition that had haunted him all morning suddenly crystallized, yet he did not even notice the chill that always accompanied such moments. He simply repeated the words slowly, as if speaking of someone else’s affair.
“Uncle Blado… has returned?”
A rain-laden wind spread its wings above the brothers’ heads. Soon, wet feathers began to fall.

A Golden Retriever lay sprawled in the doorway before suddenly lurching to its feet, growling fiercely. Though large in frame, the beast was ordinarily gentle—even little Boris could lean against it and play without concern—but something was different now. The dog tensed, its fur bristling on end, and it barked relentlessly.
“Hah, that mutt! It’s been so long it doesn’t even recognize people anymore. Stupid creature.”
The man was lanky, with arms that seemed disproportionately long. His dark complexion bore the marks of the southern sun’s relentless glare, yet standing before the dim window, he appeared as though stained by some tangible darkness. His yellowish eyes, buried beneath fine wrinkles, gleamed like jewels embedded in crocodile skin.
The man clicked his shoes sharply against the floor as if to kick the dog, and shouted again.
“Get away! Get away!”
The dog continued barking ferociously, but its training was sound—it did not bite without its master’s command.
Footsteps echoed from deeper within the living room and came to a halt. The man with crocodile eyes smiled, deep creases forming at the corners of his mouth.
“It’s been a long time, Yulken.”
“Quiet! Hush, Mallory.”
Yulken Jineman silenced the dog first. Then he turned a cold gaze toward his younger brother, whom he had not seen in years.
Hmm.
He smiled. Both he and his brother had aged considerably. Their faces bore the distorted marks of those who had lived twice as fiercely as ordinary men.
“You’ve managed to stay alive, Blado.”
“Is there something unsatisfactory about that?”
It was a meaningless exchange. There was no need to maintain the pretense of familial courtesy as they once had. The parents who had borne them both had died together two years ago.
If only they had died a little sooner—I would have killed that wretch the last time we met.
As I ruminated on this, I felt a fresh surge of caution, realizing my brother was likely harboring identical thoughts.
“It’s been five years. You could at least offer me a seat.”
“Sit.”
The two sat facing each other across the table, neither lowering their guard.
A low rumble echoed.
Thunder rolled, though rain had not yet fallen. I found myself wondering if Yefnen had returned home. Indeed, from the moment my brother had walked through the entrance, the servants must have been thrown into chaos, and at least a few of them would have rushed out to find my sons.
As I had made abundantly clear, should anything happen to me, Yefnen would be the head of the household. By now, the servants and soldiers would have found him, were protecting him, and awaited my orders.
My one and only younger brother, Blado Jineman.
What scheme brings you to this remote, forsaken place?

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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