Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 144

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

Chapter 144.
Two Swords, Four Names (28)
Hector shifted to the offensive. Whoosh, whoosh—his blade sang through the air, forcing Luisan back two paces. When the same assault came again, Luisan found himself pressed against the palisade behind him.
From beyond the wooden barrier, the spectators’ voices erupted in vivid cacophony—encouragement, cheers, curses exchanged among themselves, all merging into raw, primal noise that assaulted the ears.
“What?! I thought the match would be decided quickly, but he’s actually being pushed back!”
That single remark became the decisive blow. Already plagued by anxiety, Luisan’s mind suddenly blazed with heat and vertigo. Seizing the moment, Hector’s blade grazed Luisan’s earlobe and buried itself deep in the palisade.
Luisan roared and slashed his sword in return. As he whipped his head around, a thin stream of blood from his split ear traced a delicate line through the air.
Hector, remarkably, abandoned his embedded blade and executed an astounding maneuver—spinning a full rotation in the opposite direction before reclaiming his sword. In moments, the blade was extracted from the palisade and circled back toward his opponent.
“Uaaaah!”
“The commoner boy’s got some skill after all!”
Luisan began retreating toward the opposite palisade. Hector’s lips curled upward, convinced he was already half-victorious.
Of course—it was only natural. His true opponent was sitting there waiting, and some greenhorn from the Continent could never stand in his way.
Once he secured this victory and advanced to the finals, once he finished off Daphnen, the position of Priest of the Sword would be as good as his.
What other qualification could possibly supersede being the Silverskull champion? A disciple of Nauplion? Support from the Priesthood? All meaningless.
Moreover, his uncle the Regent would surely aid him—that much was certain.
Overflowing confidence ignited Hector’s aggression. His blade, stripped of even preliminary caution, thrust directly at Luisan’s face. In that instant, something unimaginable occurred. The spectators rose as one and screamed.
“No, no way!”
Luisan, as if diving onto his opponent’s blade, suddenly dropped his stance and thrust his own sword forward. Thus Hector’s blade barely grazed his forehead and crown, shearing away a handful of hair, while Luisan’s blade struck true—piercing clean through the back of Hector’s hand.
To the onlookers’ eyes, two blades crossed horizontally. Those watching from behind would have sworn they were stabbing each other.
“Ohhh… That’s the true technique of Kangpir Marquis!”
“Did you see? Did you see? He feigns offering a vital point while deliberately targeting something small on his opponent! An attack so subtle the enemy can barely anticipate it!”
A drop of blood trickled down from Luisan’s forehead, tracing his nose bridge and creating a strange, striking impression.
Hector barely managed to shift his sword to his left hand. His right hand was completely soaked in blood. Yet, astonishingly, he did not retreat—instead, he resumed his defensive stance.
“A splendid attack, Young Marquis. I compliment you. But fortunately, I can wield my left hand as well as my right.”
Whenever the opportunity arose, he had wanted to learn Tiela from Isolet, so he had practiced using both hands. Now that practice paid dividends. He deliberately hid his bleeding right hand behind his back and attacked first instead.
Yet Luisan had now grasped the rhythm. Anticipating that his opponent, suddenly switching to his left hand, would be unadapted, he swiftly launched an attack from the opposite direction.
As expected, Hector’s left hand, though moving with precision, unconsciously mirrored his right hand’s patterns.
Luisan thrust into the nearly unguarded shoulder and sensed victory. The match had dragged longer than anticipated, but…
“…there is a price to be paid.”
Thud!
Before Luisan could withdraw his blade from the shoulder wound, Hector’s sword came down hard against Luisan’s ribs. The impact was considerable, but the breastplate Luisan wore held firm.
Before the next attack could come, Luisan shoved Hector to the ground and fell atop him, driving the blade in his shoulder deeper still.
“Ugh!”
The two tumbled in what amounted to a grapple. Finally, Luisan wrenched the sword from Hector’s left hand and hurled it away.
But in that same instant, Hector yanked the blade from his own shoulder and threw it aside as well.
The Master of Ceremonies looked bewildered. Both had lost their swords—how could the match possibly continue?
Luisan was not the type to abandon victory for the sake of noble propriety. The moment he straddled Hector, he threw a punch like street boys fighting.
Despite the grievous wound to his shoulder, Hector groaned and tried to seize Luisan’s injured ear with one hand.
Both were tall, powerfully built youths, and what unfolded promised to be a memorable brawl. The Master of Ceremonies glanced up at Duke Fontina and then shouted urgently.
“Stop! Both of you, cease this fighting at once!”
In the end, four men had to rush in to separate the two of them.
Hector bore considerable wounds, yet showed no sign of surrender. Luisan’s face streamed with blood in several places, but the intensity with which he glared at his opponent—as if to say, “Come on, let’s fight more”—was formidable.
The moment the men released their grip, it happened.
Luisan suddenly raised his foot and kicked Hector’s injured arm clean away. He immediately retreated and flicked the fallen sword up with his heel, catching it. By then, Hector had already retrieved his own blade—only to discover their swords had been exchanged.
Yet it mattered not. The two clashed once more.
“Haaah!”
“Tcha!”
They fought with lethal intent. But this time, Luisan—unburdened by grievous wounds—was faster. His blade struck Hector’s sword, sliding it aside, and drove toward the fingers of his left hand.
Hector barely yanked his hand away before his fingers were severed, but Luisan’s blade, deflected only slightly, tore away a chunk of flesh from his shoulder. Then, in one fluid motion, the sword swept toward his neck and stopped. It was a flawless finish, befitting one of impeccable fundamentals.
“Well fought.”
Luisan spoke coldly, appearing to sheathe his blade, then lightly drew it across Hector’s jaw, opening a fresh wound. It was a deliberate display of the vast gulf in their abilities.
The Master of Ceremonies, who had been watching anxiously, cried out.
“Luisan von Kangfir, victorious!”
The moment his voice rang through the arena, Hector’s body seemed to sway and buckle.
Luisan immediately departed the arena. He needed rest as urgently as possible. He could not afford to squander the next match he had anticipated so keenly because his exhausted body failed him.
Before the final match began, there would be a lunch break and two hours of rest.
After receiving emergency treatment with the aid of magical healers, Wolfren, who had been watching the match, offered a remark in a tone that was either mockery or counsel—impossible to discern.
“You fought well, Young Marquis. But the one I faced—he would be more formidable still, and certainly would not be subdued so easily.”
Boris stood speechless, gazing out at the arena. He felt bewildered, unable to comprehend. It was as though he had journeyed far to exact a long-harbored revenge, only to find his enemy already a corpse at the threshold.
Witnessing the one he had always considered his true rival defeated by another’s hand, he now recognized the duplicitous nature of his own thoughts.
Despite his promise to Duke Fontina, he had unconsciously assumed his final opponent would be Hector.
He had been wrong to think only of their relationship, even though this was not a tournament confined to The Island’s people. Now that error was proven before his very eyes.
Hector, walking toward the barrier, lingered long after Luisan had vanished, then turned his gaze to search for someone. Among the crowd, in the section where the waiting combatants sat, he found Boris.
The moment their eyes met, an identical thought flowed through both their minds.
With so many conditions in the world competing and finally bearing fruit, there could be no room left for any sense of inevitability between the two of them.
When the final match was declared open, the crowd, electrified with excitement, gazed with gleaming eyes, anticipating a contest longer and more brutal than the semifinal.
Just as the unexpected rural youth had acquitted himself admirably in the semifinal, providing considerable entertainment, they hoped this last dark horse would press Luisan to his limits and deliver a spectacle.
Yet few truly wished for Luisan’s defeat. Rather, having pieced together the preceding matches, more people had come to accept that Luisan might actually lose.
Duke Fontina entered and took his seat with his family, whereupon the other nobles arranged themselves nearby. The Duke turned his head, spotted someone, and addressed him in a gentle voice.
“Ah, Count Belnoir. I trust you rested well last night? I heard only afterward that cat-burglars had slipped into the Castle and made quite a racket throughout the evening. I am mortified to have subjected such esteemed guests to such an inconvenience.”
Count Belnoir, whose expression had been poor since morning as though he had engaged in some heated exchange, started at the Duke’s words and stammered a reply.
“No, well, that is to say, it was hardly…”
“Well, if it caused no trouble, I am relieved. In any case, if you have no pressing business to attend to after the tournament concludes, might you consider remaining at the Castle for a few more days so that we might have a proper conversation? There are several matters I wish to discuss.”
To receive such an invitation from Duke Fontina was considerable fortune, yet Count Belnoir could not conceal an expression of bewilderment. Since the Duke received no answer, he smiled as though taking silence for assent and turned his gaze away.
As Count Belnoir pondered, attempting to interpret this situation, a girl seated below the special gallery caught his eye—a short-haired blonde girl in white linen, bearing two swords across her back.
“The dignified and merciful King Checel of Anomarad and the magnanimous Duke Fontina ever favor those whose excellent contests are decided by true skill. The silver skull, which the ancient King Taraxippos of Lugran once commissioned, is the symbol of genuine courage and arduous endeavor. Let those who possess it ever keep this meaning as their guiding principle, advancing ever forward.”
The declaration opening the final match began with the recitation of a proclamation that carried the cadence of a blessing.
Though the content might have seemed tedious, the thin excitement that permeated the entire arena before the final match made every word command rapt attention.
“Now two young warriors stand beneath the heavens, and they shall test the skill and fortune graciously bestowed upon them, and render glory to those they serve. Hear, O listeners, and behold! See, O witnesses, and proclaim it widely!”
Dozens of trumpets sounded in unison, their fanfare erupting across the arena. The crowd rose to their feet, their cheers thundering forth. The Master of Ceremonies announced the entrance of the two youths.
“From Anomarad, Captain of the Guard to His Majesty King Checel, the eldest son of Kangpir Marquis, holder of Silverskull four consecutive times, nineteen-year-old Luisan von Kangfir!”
“Origin unknown, fifteen-year-old Boris Misterie!”
As the names were announced, the crowd’s excitement ignited into a roar like a tidal wave of fury.
While the two young men walked toward the center of the arena, the stadium trembled so violently that it seemed to deafen the ears. The moment they faced each other and drew their swords in silence, beads of sweat already glistened on the spectators’ temples.
Treating the crowd’s cheers as distant thunder unrelated to himself, I raised my sword. Gazing at the blade glinting in the sunlight, I felt the question that had tormented my heart since the previous night draw near and demand an answer.
At first I had asked it of myself, but soon it transformed into a question directed at the person who had given me this sword.
I wished he would tell me what I should do, what choice was right. Had he been at my side, I felt certain he would have provided a clear answer.
‘Nauplion Priest, what should I do?’

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