Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 143

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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 143.
Two Swords, Four Names (27)
Isolet’s voice was cold, yet her tone grew increasingly passionate.
“I hear that Kangpir Marquis, who commands His Majesty’s royal guard, has recently earned the King’s deep trust. Of course, he cannot yet compare to Your Grace. But what if the Silverscull tournament produces its first-ever five-time consecutive champion this year? The finest young swordsman in this realm, emerging from a rising knightly house. Surely such a person’s existence would be of no benefit to Your Grace whatsoever, would it?”
Their gazes clashed like lightning. Sparks seemed to fly.
“There is only one way to prevent it, as you can see.”
Chloe opened her mouth.
“Your words ring true. Did not His Majesty say that if Luisan wins again this year, he would grant lands to the Kangpir Marquis’s house?”
Kangpir Marquis came from the ranks of court warriors and thus possessed no family lands. Even his title of Marquis had been bestowed by King Checel in recognition of his loyalty.
For this reason, acquiring lands was something the Marquis had long eagerly anticipated.
The Duke fell into thought. Isolet’s words had struck precisely at what he had been harboring in secret.
Of course, even if Kangpir Marquis acquired lands, he would not become a rival to Duke Fontina, but because he was one who enjoyed the King’s deep favor above all else, he could not be dismissed lightly.
In any case, Duke Fontina was the King’s brother-in-law, and the King’s trust was the greatest source of his power. The appearance of a competitor was entirely unwelcome.
“Very well. Chloe, go and fetch wine and glasses.”
In the study, there were several bottles of wine kept separately for the Duke, who enjoyed such spirits. Chloe’s manner as she brought out the wine and glasses was as composed and natural as that of the manor’s mistress.
The Duke poured two glasses and set them upon the table, then spoke.
“Your demands are certainly excessive, and so I too wish to receive something from you in return. If you will accept, drink this wine. Isolet, daughter of my benefactor, you just now assured me that this young man would win. Then Boris Misterie, you will likely face Luisan in the final—at that moment…”
The Duke’s gaze and Boris’s met. The crimson wine ceased its gentle rippling.
“Sever his right hand so that Luisan never again grasps a sword.”
The voice rang out once more.
“Destroy his future.”
The fourth morning of the Silverscull tournament dawned.
From early dawn, there was bustling activity to expand the spectator stands. An enormous crowd had surged in again the previous night.
The competitors had not even left the castle grounds, yet the fervor had already reached its peak. Heated debates erupted in every corner over predictions of the champion, and they often escalated into fisticuffs.
Soon the five semifinal contestants stepped onto the arena’s earth and stood facing the main dais.
There was no ceremony to pay respects to the organizers. In this place, even a prince or princess of a nation could compete.
The bracket draw was complete. With five semifinal contestants, one would advance by default in the early rounds, and the final three would compete in rotation in a round-robin tournament format, with the one boasting the highest win rate claiming victory.
Boris, surprisingly, drew the bye, and he found it strange that such fortune had come his way.
Duke Fontina rose from the special seating and delivered a brief speech urging fair and honorable competition. The herald unfurled a scroll and announced the names of the first matchup.
“The semifinals shall now commence! Wolfren Siegmund Aus of Sword-la-Chapel from Hyacan versus Charlotte Beatrice de Orleans of Orlanne! Come forward!”
One was a princess of Orlanne, while the other was royalty of Hyacan.
Wolfren was four years older. Just before the match was declared to begin, Charlotte removed the red hat she wore and cast it to the ground. Dressed in a black jacket with golden buttons and form-fitting trousers, gleaming black boots, she drew her sword with grace and retreated a step into her stance.
True to the rumors that Wolfren favored ornate attire, he wore a white fencing uniform with gold and blue trim on both top and bottom. He smiled broadly and waved his blade’s tip toward the girl before him.
That was when it happened.
“Wait, you two must halt the match! The Princess of Orlanne, please come this way!”
As the crowd murmured, Charlotte left the arena with a bewildered expression. Only her red hat remained on the earth.
Wolfren sheathed the blade he had drawn with such momentum, muttering his displeasure.
No one knew what words were exchanged. Charlotte entered the tent where the match officials presided and did not emerge for some time.
Soon several people exited the tent and rushed toward Pontina Castle.
Charlotte appeared only much later. Yet she spoke but a single word to the herald before departing beyond the barriers. From such a distance, there was no way to discern what expression she wore.
By the tent, the master of ceremonies and several others engaged in heated debate. It did not take long. The master of ceremonies, appearing on the platform once more, shouted loudly.
“Charlotte Beatrice de Orleans, forfeits! The Princess of Orlanne has been called back to her homeland due to urgent matters and is confirmed in fifth place in this Silverskull tournament!”
Chaos erupted throughout the spectator stands. Those who had wagered on Charlotte raged in fury, while those who rejoiced at the removal of one of the strongest contenders for the championship joined in, creating utter pandemonium.
Due to those protesting and brawling with one another, part of the palisade was destroyed, and several people even tumbled into the arena itself.
While Wolfren shrugged his shoulders with a look of disappointment, the master of ceremonies, equally excited as the spectators, shouted once more.
“Therefore, I announce the new opponent! Boris Misterie, of unknown origin! Come forth and take the field!”
“Hah… *cough*, *cough*!”
The breath I had been holding transformed instantly into a fit of coughing. The spectators’ voices condemning the pathetic match assailed my ears.
Yet there was nothing to be done. Something unimaginable, something impossible, had just transpired—what did the reactions of others matter in the face of that?
“….”
My opponent, Boris Misterie, wore an expressionless face. Not cold, merely focused on doing one’s utmost, showing no interest whatsoever in the enemy’s emotional state.
Yet Wolfren’s entire body trembled from the aftermath of the clash that had just occurred. It had truly been a half-minute of fierce combat. I could scarcely believe that I had blocked nearly all of his rapid attacks.
But the single blade I had failed to parry had pierced between my abdomen and thigh, leaving me drenched in blood. It was a mortal wound.
The blood-stained blade remained in his hand. He stood without even assuming a stance, as though waiting for me to attack, simply observing my condition.
The name Misterie weighed upon my weakened spirit. It seemed as though I had been chosen as the sacrifice for him to reach the son of Kangpir, and that my fate was merely to yield the path quietly.
I wondered how I might surrender with less shame. Yet I had not even managed a single proper attack, and if I simply collapsed now, what would become of my honor?
In that moment, I saw Boris Misterie’s blade rise swiftly. As before, the sharp, clean sound of it cutting through the air rang in my ears.
“Hyah!”
As though I had forgotten that those words came from my own mouth, I began to flee, dragging my bleeding leg.
Boris waited. Until I had turned half a circle and come toward the right, and then he moved in one fluid motion.
*Screech*… *Clang*!
A blade so swift it was barely perceptible aimed for my right arm. I knew Boris had been targeting my right hand from the beginning, but there was no alternative.
I fell backward heavily. Dust rose in a cloud beside my face, then settled. Just before the blade could rush past my nose, I summoned my last strength and cried out.
“Stop! Stop it! I surrender! Withdraw your blade!”
The match was over. Boris returned and took his seat. Yet the chill I felt the moment I sheathed the blade that had been aimed at Wolfren had not yet subsided.
I had witnessed Wolfren’s match yesterday. Until then, he had not seemed like an opponent I would defeat so easily. At least not with my own strength. But what had just transpired was hardly worthy of being called a match.
I gazed down at the blade hanging quietly at my waist. This was not the Winterer. Yet what flickered at the edge of my vision was none other than a phantom of the Winterer.
The white blade of day that had ceaselessly brought me death and life seemed to burn white-hot within my mind.
I am ensnared. Even without that blade in my hand.
“Second match! Luisan von Kangfir versus Clanthi Alistair!”
With Charlotte the Princess withdrawn, there was no longer a bye, and the finals would be contested by two people, making the round-table tournament unnecessary.
With the number of matches drastically reduced, it was a disappointing situation for those who had come merely seeking entertainment.
Though the first match had been lackluster, it had sufficiently demonstrated one competitor’s prowess, so at least the finals seemed worth watching. The second match, however, was certain to end just as anticlimactically.
Everyone expected Luisan’s overwhelming victory. No one believed that Clanthi Alistair, a country boy whose name and house none had heard of, could possibly win.
Yet one person alone, Boris, did not think so.
Clanthi Alistair was no country boy—he was Hector, the nephew of the Regent, the supreme ruler of Moon Island, and a tenacious warrior who had wielded a blade since childhood.
Even I could not confidently subdue him without the Winterer, so what remarkable skill would Luisan display?
“Young Marquis, please teach this humble one a lesson.”
A confident smile played at Hector’s lips. He seemed to be enjoying this performance.
Luisan, maintaining a stolid expression despite the roar of countless spectators behind him, replied tersely.
“Do your best as well.”
Luisan intended to subdue his opponent swiftly. Having just witnessed Boris Misterie’s overwhelming victory, his urgency only intensified.
Wasting strength here, or worse, sustaining even a minor wound could jeopardize the next match. Swift victory was the only strategy.
Both blades traced semicircles in opposite directions simultaneously. Observing this, Boris realized that Hector had been meticulously studying Luisan’s matches all this while.
Swish!
The two swords parted with microscopic precision, as if choreographed from the start. Both blades sang through the air with a resonant hum. Hector demonstrated remarkable composure, deflecting Luisan’s blade with the flat of his sword in a staggered rhythm.
As a swift thrust came, Hector withdrew his shoulder, yet Luisan did not miss entirely. In an instant, he narrowed his stance and drove his blade between neck and jaw.
Simultaneously, Hector’s right shoulder—twisted violently to evade—collided with Luisan.
An extraordinary sight unfolded. It was rare for longsword fighters to close such distance, let alone have their bodies collide. Both young warriors were resorting to unconventional desperation.
They staggered apart, nearly toppling, their bodies separating in haste.
“Now it’s my turn!”

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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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