Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 136

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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 136.
Two Blades, Four Names (20)
After the third round of the main tournament concluded, the names of the five semifinalists were announced. They were called in order of their origin—their territory or birthplace, followed by their name.
“Anomarad, Keltika, Luisan von Kangfir!”
“Hyacan, Sword-la-Chapel, Wolfren Siegmund aus Sword-la-Chapel!”
“Orlanne, Orli, Charlotte Beatrice de Orleans!”
“Anomarad, Clanthi Alistair!”
“And finally, origin unknown, Boris Misterie!”
Boris glanced sideways at Hector standing beside him. He still believed that Hector remained his greatest rival in this tournament—the one opponent he absolutely had to defeat.
The herald, narrowing his eyes as he waited for the crowd’s roar to subside, proceeded to announce the following new matter.
“The magnanimous Duke Fontina has graciously decided to provide comfortable lodgings within Knight’s Joy for the safety of the five competitors who will participate in tomorrow’s finals. The five contestants are to gather before the castle gates with their attendants. The Asghind Butler here will guide you to your quarters. Furthermore, all competitors are hereby invited to a banquet at the castle this evening.”
This was considerable favor. It was an especially welcome proposal for those of common birth who risked being obstructed by the nobility.
At the mention of the banquet, sighs of envy rippled through those eliminated in the preliminaries. Duke Fontina, brother-in-law to the King himself, was unquestionably one of Anomarad’s two great dukes, and his banquets were renowned as the finest of their kind.
For Boris too, it was a welcome proposal. He had sensed that Isolet had not slept the previous night, having kept watch over their tent.
There was little to pack. Soon, as Boris and Isolet entered the castle together, he noticed several familiar faces standing near Hector. Naturally, they made no acknowledgment of one another.
The rooms provided to the nobles Luisan, Charlotte, and Wolfren differed markedly from those given to Boris and Hector, but he gave it no thought. The room they were shown was clean and austere.
The ceiling was high, and suspended from its peak hung a brass chandelier bearing seven ornate candelabra.
It appeared the hearth had been lit several hours prior, likely to dispel the stale chill that lingered from the room’s long vacancy.
On one side sat washing water for two. From within the brass basin, its surface embossed with vines and ornamental script, wafted the delicate fragrance of lavender.
“I’ve heard that once tomorrow’s champion is decided, anyone who advanced to the third round of the main tournament is obligated to attend the party the duke hosts. Rumor has it that Duke Fontina intends to select several attendant knights from among them.”
Isolet spoke after finishing her ablutions, setting down the towel she had used to dry her hands. Boris, seated on the bed, gazed expressionlessly at the ceiling before responding.
“A clever arrangement. Benevolence and practical benefit combined.”
“He’s a shrewd man. It’s not a bad opportunity for boys of common birth, either.”
“Do you suppose such a request might come to me as well?”
“Why not prepare a refusal in advance?”
The pillow was remarkably soft. I could not even remember the last time I had rested upon genuine down pillows and quilts. Removing my boots and lying upon the bed, my body grew languid.
“Isolet…. You were cruel to me.”
I murmured this, then burst into quiet laughter. Isolet approached and leaned against a chair, asking.
“What did I do?”
“Making me use the surname Misterie.”
I had not realized that the story of Isolet’s father, the Ilios Priest, would be remembered by so many people.
Once the semifinalists were announced, people began to chatter. The legendary champion Camin Misterie’s son had returned once more to defeat the son of Kangpir Marquis, they said.
His son?
It was absurd. Wanting to avoid becoming a subject of gossip while in Isolet’s company, I had posed as her brother—yet somehow the rumor had spread in an entirely unexpected direction.
Several elderly nobles, upon seeing Isolet, were startled as they recalled the Ilios Priest in his youth.
The short golden hair, the pair of swords bound across her back, her nimble movements, her noble and proud bearing, even her striking beauty—all were identical to his.
Not all champions were remembered in such detail, but the Ilios Priest had undoubtedly been a most impressive victor in his time.
Those who had wagered on Luisan could be heard expressing subtle regret.
They had placed their bets thinking the odds were low but the outcome certain, yet if a dark horse with higher odds were to win, they would lose not only their money but their dignity as well.
Thanks to this, the name Lucian Kaltz circulated in whispers throughout the crowd. Foresight, some said. Or perhaps information had leaked. They were friends to begin with, others claimed. There must be some underhanded dealing involved….
“Staying inconspicuous is no longer an option. The children of The Island will have heard the rumors by now, and I’m curious what they’ll say when I return. I never imagined your father’s name would carry such weight.”
Yet an unexpected answer came.
“I was already considering it.”
“You knew, yet still had me use that name?”
“What’s strange about it? If I win anyway, I’ll stand out.”
“But winning is….”
Now I couldn’t afford to lose carelessly. A defeat would inevitably tarnish even the Ilios Priest’s name.
Yet Isolet smiled after a moment.
“You said it was heavy, didn’t you? But you’re already carrying so many names, aren’t you? The house that gave you birth, the lost brother, the name The Island gave you, Isildor San’s name…. You’re not someone who can set names aside and walk away. A person cannot have their way of life forced upon them by another.”
As Isolet spoke, each aspect of myself came vividly to mind. She was observing me with such meticulous care.
“I think these names actually grant you strength beyond what you were born with. Old names are gradually replaced by new ones. I merely lent you a name to use for now. That name’s meaning is ‘honor,’ and you will seize it through direct confrontation.”
“It may be something I cannot possess.”
Isolet smiled faintly and replied.
“Shall I tell you something harsher? Don’t forget there’s someone who wagered money on your name.”
Boris lowered his head for a moment, then raised it.
“That boy called Lucian—I’ve met him before.”
Isolet’s eyes widened slightly.
“You know him? Before coming to The Island?”
“We merely passed each other. He never heard my name, so it’s no wonder he doesn’t remember me. Given his nature, he wouldn’t pretend not to know if he did. In any case, I have no idea why he wagered on me.”
Isolet did not mention the conversation she’d had with Lucian on the eve of the preliminaries, when the gambling fever had reached its peak. Instead, she said this:
“It’s remarkable that you’re so certain about someone’s true nature.”
“It’s not certainty.”
“Just the character of someone you passed by, yet his image left an impression on you.”
“Perhaps. It may be so.”
Boris’s expression as he recalled meeting Lucian was not particularly bright.
I had envied that boy’s uninhibited cheerfulness, and meeting him again like this didn’t sit well with me. So I had no desire to reveal myself to Lucian.
“I watched you fight for two days straight. Watched others too. You have sufficient odds of winning. But during the matches, I noticed you seemed flustered at times. Because of that, you often missed the right moment. What’s the reason?”
Boris shook his head and thought.
“How should I explain it? It feels like skills that aren’t mine have entered my body. Things I don’t remember learning manifest and then vanish. It’s like something helps me in moments of crisis, then hides its tail. What could that possibly be?”
Isolet fell into thought. Her elegant profile tilted slightly.
“I suspect you may have crossed a certain threshold of Tigris.”
“Tigris? But I’ve never learned it?”
“Well, I’m not entirely certain, but I’ve heard that Tigris has a line in its early stages that cannot be crossed through practice alone, and until you cross that line, you don’t fully understand what you’re doing.”
While Boris looked down at his own hands in confusion, Isolet rose and adjusted the heat of the fireplace. Even for a room long unused, it was July now.
Soon she found a kettle filled with water, shook it, and hung it on the hook above the fireplace.
“The truth would require asking Isildor San, but our two unique blade techniques were passed down from the Ancient Kingdom, and they have many strange characteristics compared to other swordsmanship. For example, Tiela…. It’s only possible at very high levels, but Tiela has a peculiar technique where you kill yourself while simultaneously killing your opponent.”
“You mean exposing your weakness to the enemy while simultaneously striking their vital point?”
“No, it’s not like that.”
Isolet shook her head.
“It’s literally a method of connecting your own vital force with your opponent’s and exhausting both simultaneously. This may sound contradictory, but whoever has even one final drop of strength remaining wins, and as a result, both die. They say that once you expend more than roughly a third of your vital force with this technique, no one can survive regardless of the outcome. It’s truly a technique of death.”
As Isolet finished speaking, her expression grew contemplative.
Boris abandoned his attempt to comprehend Tiela’s words and turned his thoughts inward, examining his own transformation.
My movements had grown lighter since leaving The Island, but this phenomenon—where my body reflexively counterattacked in moments I hadn’t anticipated—emerged afterward. These techniques that surfaced with each crisis, as though I were recovering lost memories, where on earth had they come from?
“Tigris is a swordsmanship where body and blade become one naturally, like a tiger acting on pure instinct. Isildor San recognizes you as his sole disciple. What else could he possibly teach you?”
At last, Boris acquiesced. No—he had no choice but to.
“I’ll ask him when we return, but for now I can only follow his lead. Truth is, I’ve been worried this might be the Winterer’s influence.”
“The Winterer’s influence? Explain specifically.”
“I’ve sensed it before. The Winterer craves swift victories and bloodshed. Because of that, even against my will, it constantly drives me toward savage attacks. The blade extends further than I intend, sometimes dealing fatal wounds to opponents I merely meant to threaten. Today as well… I nearly pierced my opponent’s throat before barely stopping myself. It was a duel that should have ended with a blade pointed at them, yet restraining my hand from going further proved extraordinarily difficult.”
“Haven’t you drawn the Winterer even once since leaving The Island?”
“Whether I draw it or not makes no difference. I’ve carried a blade for a long time, always anticipating something might occur. Who knows—perhaps this is that something.”
“And if that proves true, what then?”
Isolet, who had been pouring the fragrant-less tea brought from The Island into two cups, paused. Her eyes met Boris’s, who lay half-reclined upon the bed.
“It’s your blade, your possession. It’s only natural you face it. So what of it? If it attempts to lead you down a path you don’t wish to walk, seize it with all your strength and hurl it in the opposite direction. If it refuses to obey, trample it beneath your feet and make its blood answer for yours.”
Her lucid tone left a fresh, powerful imprint. Isolet always spoke thus—not offering novel or exceptional opinions, but rather expressing how she herself had lived. Without surrender, without forgiveness, without reconciliation, there remained only confrontation.

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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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