Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 152

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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 152.
Two Swords, Four Names (36)
Isolet did not know who Sigonu was, and therefore did not understand why the people were so startled. Yet she could guess.
The name Sigonu was the object of terror—that his fearsome reputation was known not only among the savages but also among civilized peoples, and that this man now stood beside her.
“That voice belongs to Sigonu of Kamzak! I have heard that voice before! It is certainly him!”
“Was there anyone who participated in the Elbe Battle? No one? I saw him, back then… I definitely saw him!”
“No one can defeat Sigonu! Even the Savage Slayer of Lemme could not!”
“We are so many, and he is but one?”
“Whether one or ten, I have no desire to fight the hero of the Original Race! Is he not the pride of the Elbe Battle!”
As fresh turmoil began to spread, Izak—or rather, Sigonu—let out another roar.
“Warriors of the Original Race, sold for a pittance! Have you forgotten your ancient grudges! Those who sell their bodies to outsiders shall have their heads crushed the same, blood or no blood! Your deeds have angered a warrior of true pride!”
The voice, now louder and fiercer, made the very mountains and rivers seem to tremble. I could not fathom how such a sound could emerge from that innocent-looking face.
“Do you wish to pay the price? Do you still hesitate? Those who hesitate shall be slain like dogs! One or a hundred—I shall leave none alive!”
Having spoken, Izak did not wait for them to retreat. He leaped over the rampart and began striding toward the hundred mercenaries alone.
Then something remarkable occurred. As if overwhelmed by the presence of a single man, the mercenaries faltered and began to withdraw.
Moments later, nearly thirty of them broke ranks entirely.
Then Isolet stepped forward and leaped over the rampart as well. Despite the considerable height, she landed lightly, dropping to one knee.
Izak glanced back and spoke.
“You will become a target.”
Isolet drew her twin blades and replied.
“I have no intention of leaving my affairs entirely to another.”
Izak fell silent for a moment, then answered.
“You fight like a true warrior.”
I recalled what had happened on the Island. When Hector had unjustly insulted her, it was Boris who fought in her stead.
Now that those who sought to harm Boris had arrived, it was only natural that she fight in return. No—rather, she wished to do so.
Thus the two of them faced off against some seventy mercenaries, driving them back dozens of paces.
Then the gate in the rampart swung wide open. About twenty villagers, led by Hebetica, rushed out armed and took their stand behind them. One man shouted.
“Here stands the Unbreakable Sigonu of the Kamzak Tribe, and we have more fighters than you! If you wish to fight until death comes for all, then try!”
As if taking that as a signal, Izak charged forward.
The panicked mercenaries scattered in all directions, and despite their superior numbers, the neck of one who had stepped forward snapped with a sickening crack.
In rapid succession, his hands lashed out, breaking another’s neck, shattering an arm, dislocating a shoulder, crushing a nose.
And he himself bore not a single wound. Isolet quickly understood why. The moment enemies raised their weapons, his limbs flicked away at invisible speed, then snapped back like springs.
Because Isolet too wielded swift blades, her eyes were fast enough to perceive it—a martial technique unseen anywhere else, impossible to imitate.
He moved with subtle rhythm through the gaps between thrusting spears and slashing blades. Izak needed no weapon. He needed no armor.
With only riveted gauntlets, he swept across the battlefield like a tiger descending upon a herd of deer, and even his own allies trembled at the sight.
Isolet did not remain idle either. Yet the moment she charged into the enemy ranks, a figure immediately blocked her path. It was Marinov.
“Since strength alone won’t work, where did you coax that monster from, you insolent girl!”
Isolet’s fury did not rise from Marinov’s words, but from the wounds Boris had suffered.
The colder her rage burned, the more her face gleamed like ice. Without hesitation, she laid her left blade flat and thrust with her right, then swept her left blade diagonally upward.
Before Marinov could counterattack, Isolet sprang toward her head and kicked her face with both feet. Landing behind her, she spun and slashed at her waist.
This too was an attack method the villagers and mercenaries had never witnessed. Before throwing herself into battle, Isolet had enhanced herself through the Sacred Chant Tradition, and her jumping power and speed transcended what ordinary eyes could follow.
Had it not been for Boris’s situation, Isolet would never have displayed the power of the Sacred Chant Tradition so openly before the people of the Continent. During months of travel across the Continent, despite facing difficulties several times, she had never once resorted to it.
But this time was different. She was determined to protect the sleeping Young Boy no matter what. She intended to exact retribution like a true daughter of the Priest of the Sword against those who had caused harm.
Marinov was startled by how much faster the blade had become compared to yesterday, and bewildered by movements that were not those of a human.
Realizing the situation was utterly hopeless, she quickly retreated and called for Tonda. She intended to mount a coordinated assault.
“Help me out!”
By this point, many of the mercenaries already overwhelmed by Izak had fled, while others hesitated, secretly hoping that those who had hired them would die by Isolet’s hand.
About a dozen had been killed or wounded by Izak and lay fallen. When the villagers rushed in, even those who should have had the advantage seemed unwilling to fight, and many mercenaries retreated with backward steps.
Including those who had fled at the mere mention of Sigonu’s name, the number of true enemies remaining was barely thirty.
At that moment, Izak turned his body toward Isolet and witnessed her being attacked simultaneously by Marinov and Tonda.
“Are there no honorable men in distant lands?”
His voice rang out like a struck gong, and even the remaining mercenaries lost their will to fight. Izak attempted to approach Tonda, who wielded the rope. Isolet cried out.
“Be careful! That man’s rope is coated with poison!”
Izak watched the ropes moving in dazzling patterns, then leaped over several as though performing a jump-rope acrobatic feat, while grasping others with his gloved hands.
The saw-tooth-like metal fragments embedded in the snare could not pierce through his gloves, whose material remained unknown.
When Izak pulled the rope with all his strength, Tonda’s right hand momentarily lost its balance. Seizing the opportunity, Isolet’s blade severed two of the ropes.
For the first time, anger flickered across Tonda’s expressionless face. Still gripping two remaining ropes in one hand, he drew from his back a spear whose tip split into three prongs.
A duel erupted between the man who had released the ropes and Izak.
The spear was remarkably swift. It was so intricate and varied in its movements that one would not believe it was wielded by someone as large as Tonda.
Normally, spears are slow at close range due to their length, but this one had nearly overcome even that weakness.
However, Izak observed his opponent’s attacks for a moment, then, seeming to have grasped the pattern, extended his hand. It was a feint, and as the thrusting spear came toward him, he evaded it, then suddenly crouched low and rushed in to seize his opponent’s lower body.
What followed was a display of strength beyond imagination.
He grasped the large-framed Tonda’s body and lifted him effortlessly, hurling him over his head. Before the inverted man could rise, Izak spun around and rushed in again, grasped him upside down, and slammed him to the ground.
In the next moment, the enemy did not rise, his neck apparently broken.
Izak turned his attention toward Marinov. Marinov had been wounded several times by Isolet’s blade, her movements slowed, and having lost much blood and grown dizzy, she was now driven purely by venom.
As Izak approached, she swung her axe with desperation and cursed.
“Don’t come near! Stay away! You monster! You murderer!”
A villager beside her shouted.
“Murderer? That’s rich coming from a real murderer!”
Marinov’s axe grazed Izak’s arm. But Izak showed no disturbance, evaded her second attack, and slipped in smoothly.
Just as he was about to wrap his arms around the woman’s waist and break her, Isolet cried out.
“Stop! Spare that woman!”
Izak, obedient as a well-behaved child, stopped and instead gripped Marinov’s throat tightly. Then he asked.
“Do you have anything to say?”
Isolet lowered her blade. The power of the Sacred Chant Tradition was gradually draining from her. Simultaneously, a terrible fatigue washed over her.
Like last summer when she had collapsed after fighting the monster on the Island, her vision swam. She steadied her gaze with effort, sheathed her blade, and spoke.
“There’s something I need to hear from that woman.”

With her hands and feet bound tightly, Marinov knelt before the campfire.
The villagers stood at a distance, whispering among themselves. Izak, standing beside her, yawned widely as if he had lost all interest now that the fight was over.
In truth, the subject of the villagers’ whispers was not Marinov but Izak himself.
Yet with Izak standing right there unscathed, they dared not speak openly and merely exchanged meaningful glances with one another.
Marinov, enduring a humiliation she had never imagined in her entire life, felt her face burning crimson with shame.
It was not so much that she had erred, but that her opponent was simply too formidable. That girl who seemed to have transformed into a different person was one thing, but that terrifying man—he was a monster beyond all comprehension.
Marinov had certainly heard tales of Sigonu of the Kamzak Tribe. She had even heard of the duel he fought against Princess Jinapa of Lemme at the Elbe Battle.
Yet she had assumed much of it was exaggeration, and she was not the sort to cower before strength she had not witnessed firsthand. Thus, even when the barbarous mercenaries stirred in alarm, she had pressed forward without hesitation.
But regardless, the result was this—reduced to a shameful spectacle, now forced to await her fate.
Because Marinov had executed one of the villagers at the outset, their attitude was deeply hostile. Yet they refrained from laying hands on her, wary of Izak’s presence.
More than anything else, the fear that she might be left to the mercy of the villagers was greatest. For someone like her, there was no greater humiliation than death at the hands of these powerless commoners.
But it seemed they wished to hear something from her, so she need not assume death was certain. She chose to cling to that hope.
If she could survive merely a few more days, Ryusno and Yurichi would surely come to rescue her. They were not the sort to miss the scent of such an incident.
Moreover, it was they who had summoned her and Tonda here in the first place—surely they would not be far away?
It was a mistake to act arbitrarily, thinking she could accomplish something with merely two children, but how could she have known such a monster would be standing in her way?
Simultaneously, Marinov was arrogantly assuming that everyone here was less intelligent than herself, and that as rural folk, they would naturally be sympathetic.
Hebetica, whom Marinov had privately nicknamed “the talkative woman,” was approaching from the other side. She came near, glared at Marinov, then instructed the people to form a circle around the campfire.
Shortly after, Isolet and Boris emerged from the house across the way and approached with measured steps.

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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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