Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 121

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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 121.
Two Blades, Four Names (5)
“Since our world and yours differ in such ways, what meaning could it hold whether one is past, present, or future? Setting aside its futility, perhaps there were never such things as truth and falsehood from the beginning.”
“Only oneself is real compared to another, and since no one knows any truth beyond that, does it not amount to non-existence? Or perhaps there was only ever such weak truth. The only god who could clarify strong truth does not exist in our world.”
“He created our world and then hid himself far away, never to show his face again. Like a young parent who carelessly bore a child and, seized by fear, fled.”
I did not fully understand their words. Just as one cannot remember all the dreams of the previous night. Yet I clearly grasped the warning they conveyed.
“Once our ceremony ends, you and we shall never meet again. I do not believe such a one-in-ten-million coincidence will occur again. Child, but if you too bear the same yoke as us and must carry that blade, it may be futile, yet I wish to offer you counsel.”
“I speak to you in earnest. The best course is to abandon that blade, but if you cannot, then constantly reflect upon yourself and question whether the power you possess is truly yours.”
“Since you have safely borne the blade for four years, we too speak with a glimmer of hope. Do not follow the blade’s voice. The Winter Blade originally possesses no voice, but over long ages, having been consumed by the blade, it has swallowed the spirits of countless who destroyed themselves in its grip, and thus contains innumerable broken souls. You must never heed such voices.”
“That is not the blade’s voice. The blade is merely like an excessively merciful king who bestows endless power and every gift. I hope the day comes when you truly grasp the terror of these words.”
“The voices beckon only toward evil, but the blade grants you the power to destroy all without distinction—both evil and good—and reduce even yourself to ruins, with no conditions whatsoever.”
“We who live are no different from a small child holding a torch before the blade’s power, standing before dry straw. Most could not endure the temptation and set the straw ablaze, burning the entire world.”
The other Winterer had nearly passed through the ring of light. All that remained was the round metal loop attached to the hilt’s end.
Finally, the sage in the blue cloak raised both hands and cried out. Yet the end of that cry faded into the distance.
“The blade grows infinitely in the direction you desire! Never forget this alone….”
As the blade passed through the ring and vanished, a whirlwind of mist spiraled and sealed the scene. Now no sound reached us.
I was left alone again. Beside me lay the Winter Blade.
I feared what I might witness next. Then I heard a voice calling to me. I turned around.
The monks and the teachers of Scoli had not directly witnessed the ceremony’s site.
Gathered at a distance, they had only heard the magical chant amplified by Despoina’s power and flowing through Isolet’s lips.
Yet that was sufficient to feel the might of the ancient power long forgotten—the Sacred Chant Tradition.
As the Ilios Priest died and Isolet lived alone in silence, few had witnessed the ability she inherited from her father. The stories passed down gradually grew obscured.
Moreover, Isolet, who would soon turn eighteen, was still nearly a girl in age, and thus impressions of her power could not escape the constraints of her youth.
Yet that day, those who heard the chant from afar were seized by a uniform thought.
With her voice that day, Isolet demonstrated how profound the magic dwelling within her was. The girl was a true Sacred Bard.
Since the time of the Ancient Kingdom, the Sacred Bard—most revered among mages as the noblest of beings—now stood beside them.
“A Sacred Bard….”
Morpheus murmured without thinking, then glanced sideways at Nauplion beside him. While everyone else gazed downward, Nauplion looked upward at the cliff.
“What do you see?”
After a moment, Nauplion shook his head and spoke.
“Daphnen could not have deliberately thrown himself from the cliff, yet I cannot fathom why there is only empty void above. If he had mistepped, should there not be a precipice above?”
Hearing those words, Morpheus too looked upward.
As Nauplion said, both cliffs dispersed along the ridge after rising only a few lengths, and above was only open sky.
Even the nearest mountain peak lay considerably to the right. It was impossible for human strength to leap such a distance and fall.
Had he fallen from the sky itself?
The priests, including those two, did not leave their posts but remained beside Isolet. Soon they witnessed the sight of a massive sheet of ice splitting like a pomegranate.
At first, slow cracks began to spread forward and backward from where Isolet stood. From the fissures, what had been transparent gradually became translucent. Then it transformed into white powder and began to scatter away.
Sharp fragments jutted out between the powder. As it was thus excavated, a deep opening revealed itself.
At the center, a white cocoon-like mass became visible.
Having accomplished this much, Isolet struggled to stop singing. Despoina, who had been lending her power to Isolet, looked upward and cried out.
“Come down and help us!”
All the priesthood descended. With their combined strength, the final obstacles were cleared away, and the cocoon was brought out into the healing sunlight.
Nauplion shattered the ice shards with his blade, sheathed it once more, and swept away the frost flowers that bloomed thickly across the cocoon with both hands.
Upon glimpsing the faintly visible face within, he exhaled a long, weary breath.
“Your Majesty… thank you.”
Yet their fortune seemed to end with that first stroke of luck.
The cocoon melted slowly, and the young boy inside was undoubtedly alive. The massive ice suspended between the cliffs began to thaw from that moment onward, and before half a day had passed, it dissolved completely into the river flowing beneath the cliff. By all rights, everything should have ended there.
But Daphnen did not wake from his slumber.
The young boy was moved to Despoina’s House. He was not taken to Morpheus’s House because he had suffered no physical injury.
No matter how carefully they examined him, his body showed no signs of affliction. His breathing was steady, his eyes gently closed—in every way, he was no patient. Though he had emerged from the ice after days, there was not a trace of frostbite upon him.
Yet he slept endlessly. After careful examination, Despoina concluded that his spirit had departed to some other place.
In Daphnen’s hand lay the Winterer. Despoina removed it and placed it beneath his bed.
Days continued to pass. The examination to select children for Silverskull was held, concluded, and the departure date drew near.
“This is truly terrifying. If that blade truly possesses the power to open a passage to another world, it should be destroyed without delay!”
As one man struck his knee and cried out, voices of agreement arose.
The Island lacked grain, so alcohol was brewed only sparingly for ritual purposes, and there was no tavern. Those who wished to converse gathered mainly during the day in the square before the Town Hall. At night, people typically retired early to conserve their precious oil.
They would gather and sit upon the steps leading up to the Town Hall. The courtyard held several stones that served in place of chairs.
Now, eleven of the seventeen monks in the Monastic Order had gathered in that square—a rare occurrence indeed. Even those who were not monks watched their conversation with keen interest.
At the center stood Pelloross, the father of Hector and a monk of the order.
“Now is the best opportunity, for the boy called Daphnen who brought that blade remains asleep and does not wake. Should he awaken and reclaim the blade, none can say what greater calamity might unfold.”
Pelloross clenched both fists and raised his voice.
“Did you not all witness that terrible thing that appeared between those cliffs? It has been spring for a long time now—where could such vast ice have come from? This man’s flesh crawls at the very thought.”
They all harbored the same conviction. They were descendants of the Ancient Kingdom, destroyed when a passage to another world was opened. They could not help but be sensitive to any mention of another world.
The sight they had witnessed with their own eyes only heightened their dread.
If ice so immense could cross over from another world, nothing could be said to be impossible. Just as before, malevolent creatures might burst forth and completely devastate the Island.
Most of them remembered well the incident in the Upper Village, which had begun with plague and ended with the sacrifice of the Ilios Priest. More than half the Island’s population had perished that year.
“Then what do you propose we do?”
“You mean to destroy the blade? But how could we possibly destroy it?”
“If we could destroy it with our own strength, it might not be such a fearsome thing after all…”
“If that fails, we could simply banish him back to the Continent, couldn’t we? We did not accept a continental person so easily before—how did this situation ever come to pass?”
The older monks who remembered the old tragedy readily agreed with Pelloross’s opinion. The younger monks appeared to be thinking carefully.
They recalled that Daphnen was Nauplion’s sole disciple and the most likely candidate to become the next Priest of the Sword. This was not a person to be made an enemy of lightly, save for this matter.
“Are you not exaggerating an unconfirmed threat? There is no evidence whatsoever yet, is there? Daphnen has committed no deliberate wrongdoing…”
As one monk spoke thus, Pelloross raised his voice.
“You speak in ignorance! Once danger stands before us, regret becomes nothing but empty lamentation. Yes, it is not entirely impossible that our concerns are unfounded. But what if, by some chance, they prove true?”
Pelloross fixed his gaze and surveyed the gathered people.
“To speak plainly, what importance has one small child accepted from the Continent? Should we not willingly offer him as a sacrifice for the future of all the Pilgrims? When that catastrophe befell the Upper Village, did not our most excellent Priest choose self-sacrifice? Should we not apply the same standard?”
No one believed Pelloross would apply such a standard to himself.
Yet his words had subtly constructed a logic: if Daphnen, who was being spoken of as if already appointed as the Priest of the Sword, could not make a sacrifice equal to that of Ilios, then was he not lacking in qualification?
Opinion had not yet coalesced. However, public sentiment had begun to follow in the wake of Pelloross’s eloquence.
And Daphnen still had not awakened.

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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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