Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 10

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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 10
The Winter Sword (10)

Guert, standing face to face with Yefnen, could not hide his fear. His shoulders trembled ceaselessly—evidence of his terror.
Guert held a sword in his hand as well, though he did not appear particularly skilled with it. By contrast, Yefnen stood with complete mastery, his hand resting upon the hilt with practiced ease.
Boris had witnessed his brother cross blades with young men from neighboring estates several times before. These were not duels to the death. They were contests of swordsmanship—when one side drew blood, it ended.
He had heard that his brother had engaged in a true duel before. Yet he had never witnessed the moment of combat itself. Standing several paces away, his brother’s eyes held a light utterly unlike the warmth they carried in ordinary moments.
Yefnen spoke.
“Draw your sword.”
As Guert drew his blade, Yefnen’s hand moved in the same instant. The moment the Winter Sword emerged from its sheath, all the spectators—including the witnesses—recoiled in shock. Several leaned hastily toward their neighbors, whispering urgently.
“Look at that white blade. That’s no ordinary sword.”
“What in the world is that? Has anyone ever heard of a sword like that?”
The Backyard lay bathed in the crimson light of sunset. The faces of those gathered around wore the flushed hue of drunkenness. Against such a backdrop, the pale radiance of the Winter Sword struck like ice driven into the heart—a chill that seized the breath.
“I’ve heard tell of something called the Winter Sword in this world….”
Then the two duelists burst into the center of the yard. Blade sought blade. The Winter Sword, drinking in the sunset’s glow, began to burn crimson.
Guert attacked first. Like a novice swordsman, he believed that striking first was paramount.
Yet the moment his blade met the Winter Sword, a thought flashed through his mind—something was wrong. No, everything was wrong. The strength he had felt when his throat was seized earlier was no illusion. The slender young man Yefnen possessed arm strength far exceeding his own, despite his years of earning his bread with his fists in the streets.
And the Winter Sword was a blade possessed of both magical beauty and demonic sharpness. As the tip of his own blade shattered cleanly and fell to the ground, Guert scrambled backward in panic.
Now it was Yefnen’s turn. In two strides, Yefnen closed to striking distance, pressed his opponent’s wavering blade, and drew his elbow across. The blades slid past one another with a metallic rasp, and Guert’s sword trembled with a vibrating hum, then moments later released a sharp, ringing sound.
No one understood what that sound meant. Only someone who had wielded the Winter Sword could know.
Guert, veins bulging at his temples, managed through desperate effort to block and deflect the Winter Sword twice. That was all.
Screeeech… Clang!
“No, no way!”
The crowd gasped. Some were left speechless. Boris watched as Guert’s sword literally shattered into fragments and scattered to the ground. Not two or three pieces. Something utterly impossible for a weapon of steel had occurred. What in the world was that white blade?
“Ah….”
Guert quickly grasped the situation. Seeing Yefnen’s Winter Sword thrust toward him, he threw himself flat on the ground, pressing his head into the dirt. He thrust his hands above his head and scrubbed frantically.
“Please, please don’t kill me. I beg you….”
There was no room for pride or dignity. Yefnen halted his blade, aiming it at the back of Guert’s neck.
“Do you concede?”
“Yes, yes, of course, absolutely.”
Yefnen’s voice was cold.
“Then you remember the promise you made to me?”
“That is….”
It was a terrible thing. Yet it was better than death. After a moment, Guert nodded, trembling violently.
“Stand up.”
The sun had set. As the innkeepers brought out lamps to illuminate the space, Yefnen herded Guert into the Inn, his blade still leveled at him. Boris followed, watching his brother with growing unease. Would his brother truly make him consume all of it? The brother he knew would never…. Yet hadn’t his brother himself swallowed it earlier without chewing?
The eyes of the crowd remained fixed upon the Winter Sword. They exchanged whispered words beyond Yefnen’s hearing. As they entered indoors, the Winter Sword blazed with white light once more, as though freshly cleansed.
Guert sat before the table, and Yefnen stood behind him, blade leveled. He spoke briefly.
“Eat.”
“Eat it.”
Guert picked up the spoon. His hand trembled visibly. Meanwhile, several insects were crawling out of the bowl. Though the quantity might have diminished because of them, the sight only intensified his revulsion. Before he could even eat, he was already retching and gagging.
Yefnen’s voice came again.
“I don’t repeat myself.”
“Brother….”
Though Boris’s voice wavered, Yefnen did not meet his gaze. His face remained expressionless. This was not the brother who had smiled warmly at Boris before.
Several people looked away. It was not a pleasant sight to witness. Yet for some reason, no one left the room entirely.
Guert thrust the spoon into the bowl with trembling hands. His shoulders shook visibly enough for those seated behind him to see. He brought the spoon to his mouth.
Yefnen did not avert his eyes until the end. He watched as Guert ate several spoonfuls from the bowl, vomited, ate again, vomited once more—witnessing the entire ordeal.
Only after Guert, completely exhausted, finally hurled the spoon into the empty bowl and collapsed while retching violently did Yefnen rise and leave with Boris.

“Brother.”
“What is it?”
Yefnen was examining the candlewick and about to sit on the bed when he turned to find Boris crouched upon it, his face anxious. Yefnen’s expression softened.
“Is something troubling you?”
“….”
Yefnen removed his boots and set them against the corner of the wall, then climbed onto the bed and stroked Boris’s back. His younger brother was trembling faintly.
“Come now, tell your brother what’s on your mind.”
Boris lifted his head. Upon seeing his brother’s peaceful expression, his eyes wavered with surprise. Yefnen perceived what Boris was thinking.
“Boris, you….”
“I’m relieved you’re all right.”
The words burst from Boris’s mouth. They came from his heart.
“I’m so relieved you defeated that man. But I… at that moment, I thought you seemed different somehow. I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I understand the situation left you no choice. If Father had been alive, he surely would have praised you for it. But….”
“No.”
Yefnen spoke suddenly.
“No, Boris. You saw correctly. No one would perceive it as keenly as you do.”
Yefnen smiled faintly, then leaned back against the wall. He gazed out through the open shutter, avoiding Boris’s eyes.
“Boris, you see….”
Yefnen’s words trailed off again. Boris followed his brother’s gaze out the window. Stars glittered, scattered across the night sky. It was the same sky they had seen from the manor.
“You and I were never the sons Father’s will demanded, were we?”
Boris remembered too. Father had not faulted their brotherly affection, but he had wished for them to become stronger, more resolute—people who would not be swayed by sentiment.
Father was a man who had stood in opposition to Uncle for so long, harboring thorough hatred. It was perhaps understandable that he held such convictions.
The candlelight flickered, and Yefnen continued.
“I realize now, only now, far too late, that Father was right. Since I must stand in Father’s stead, I must tell you this: do not let your heart weaken with pity. You must grow strong enough to endure pain, to turn away from suffering. That is how you must become.”
What was Brother trying to say?
“If I could watch over you for a long time, if only I could…. I would protect you so that you could live as you do now—with a warm heart, with gentle eyes.”
Why did Brother speak as though he would soon depart?
“But I cannot always be at your side. No—even if I could, I should not be. You will have your own path to walk. To find it yourself, you must become truly strong. You must become utterly unyielding.”
His blue eyes, inherited from Mother, suddenly seemed to glisten with moisture. Yefnen spoke words he did not wish to speak, infusing each one with resolve.
“Boris, if you cannot be a stone, then become a shell. Lock yourself away so tightly that no one can perceive your tender heart, so no one can ever open you. But in the deepest chamber where no one sees, you may weep freely. There, no one will judge you.”
Boris did not understand. He could not fathom why his brother was speaking this way.
It was clear that he spoke out of love for his younger brother, yet that was not all there was to it. This confession had come abruptly—not the natural, easy words that usually flowed between them.
“I wish you would realize sooner that this is not a world that will leave you as a small, gentle boy.”
Sooner, sooner… Yefnen’s voice carried a note of anguish.
Like hoping a fledgling whose nest vanished overnight would take flight that very evening. Like yearning for something impossible. Like it had become something that simply had to be.
“So that’s why you became that kind of person?”
After a long silence, Boris asked, and Yefnen swallowed his words, gazing elsewhere for a moment before answering.
“Yes.”
“I see…”
Boris decided that his brother was hinting at this because he feared Boris might grow weak now that the family had fallen. So he nodded vigorously to reassure him. Today’s events were something they would never have experienced had they remained only at Longord Estate. Even if his brother showed a different side, it would not have been strange. This was not their domain protected by soldiers. On all sides were only strangers or enemies.
As he prepared himself and began to remove his clothes, his brother shook his head.
“Do not remove your armor, Boris.”
“Why?”
Yefnen spoke with a bitter expression.
“There may be visitors coming to seek us out. Come now, I will keep watch, so you may sleep first. I will wake you at dawn.”
With a soft breath, Yefnen blew out the candle.
At first, Boris thought he was dreaming. But as sleep gradually fled, he realized it was no dream.
He saw his brother, who had set the Winter Sword upright on the floor and crouched down beside it. His brother sat with his back against the bed, his head bowed. In the moment Boris wondered what sound had awakened him, he realized his brother was weeping—silently, desperately.
In truth, there was almost no sound. Perhaps Boris had not awakened because of any sound at all. Then what was it?
In the darkness of the room, Boris understood from the silence alone that Yefnen was suffering over something grave. The quiet pressed against the boy’s ears and crushed his chest. It was as though this very sorrow, this profound silence itself, had called him awake.
Should he have spoken?
But Boris could not open his mouth. Tears traced down his temples. Without knowing why, tears fell silently.
Why?
Why, oh why?
Why is that, I wonder.

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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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