Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 189

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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 189.
Choose the Dawn (1)
The Sea of Lemme was as cold as ever.
I had seen this sea months ago. Yet the rough waves resembled the winter when I first entered the Island—as if that winter’s chill had flowed seamlessly into today’s spring.
Parted from my escorts and standing alone, I was no longer Daphnen of the Island. I had become Boris Jineman once more.
As though I had sensed a day like this, my old name had waited like a well-fitting garment, and now it belonged to me again.
The Continent, which had become the foundation of my renewed life; the Lemme dialect, both strange and familiar to my ears; my Homeland, grown closer now that the sea no longer lay between us—among all these changes, I found myself most unfamiliar, how quickly I had grown accustomed to my old name.
Like awakening from a long midday sleep, those I had struggled against and those I had loved seemed to have transformed into shadows within a dream.
No one would ever be able to confirm that the Island had once existed for Boris as life itself, as daily reality. A hidden island beyond the sea, a mirage-like existence that no one had ever visited.
Perhaps that is why I walked so effortlessly.
Along the coast of Elbe Island, I encountered the sailboats of relic hunters several times. I had not known before, but now I understood well whose relics they sought to salvage and why they lay there.
How many rare treasures had been loaded onto the airship that carried the heir to the throne of Ganapoli? How many other vessels lay beside it?
I had no intention of seeking out the people Nauplion had told me to find. Nauplion, concerned about my departure alone, had written me several letters of introduction, but I had not opened a single one.
The letters written in Nauplion’s own hand were more precious to me than to those who would receive them. Regardless of their contents, I planned to open them later, when I truly longed to see him.
I had somewhere else I needed to go.
I deliberately did not land on Elbe Island, fearing information would reach the trackers from Trabaches, and I did not go toward the Nim Peninsula, which had become familiar through my travels with Nauplion.
The point where I asked my escorts to land was the inner coast of the Noamid Peninsula, jutting out along East Tibo Bay, below Elbe Island.
Though nominally Lemme’s territory, the Noamid Peninsula had become a wasteland as the Land of Mortals slowly expanded, making it effectively uncontrolled by any nation.
This place, used only as a rare passage for those crossing between nations, was ideal for landing while avoiding the eyes of others.
My prediction proved correct—in the day since landing, I had encountered only five people, and all of them were too hurried to continue their own journeys to show even minimal interest in a passing traveler.
After walking for a day and a half, I arrived at Noamid, a declining border port. Once prosperous, it had gradually lost visitors due to increasingly severe dust storms, and now it was a desolate place with a population far too small for its size.
I stayed here for a day, gathering information about where I needed to go. I also sold several gold ornaments that Nauplion had given me to cover travel expenses.
The Land of Mortals was known as a vast wasteland, but steep mountain ranges blocked both east and west, limiting the accessible points to only a few.
Of course, most people avoided approaching it altogether, but as Yanika and her group had once said, there were those who made a living through dangerous hunts, circling the edges of the Land of Mortals.
Fearless mercenaries, or those whose life’s goal was to make one great score hunting for treasure—they had two main gathering places, one in the south and one in the north.
The south was Mahazapada, a border city of Recordable where the boundary between the Land of Mortals and its own territory had long since blurred. The north was Yuldruyi, a small village located four days’ journey from Noamid.
I arrived at Yuldruyi exactly five days after reaching the Continent.
The shadow of the sun stretched long like an aging stalker, wavering. The weather vane attached to the roof of the three-story building spun slowly.
As though I had brought the wind with me, I entered the village entrance and soon approached that very house with the weather vane, knocking twice on the iron ring attached to the door.
“Guests only until five o’clock. Understand?”
The small window at the top of the door opened and slammed shut, and the hawk-nosed proprietor opened the door to let me in. He was a man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper blonde hair that stood up as though singed by fire.
Once I entered, the proprietor closed the door again and secured the bolt firmly.
There were quite a few people inside. Eighteen tables were filled, and about a dozen men stood in groups of three or four along the bar, which had been constructed as a partition in front of the kitchen.
At the sound of the door, they stopped talking and turned to look back. It seemed they wanted to confirm who this newcomer was, arriving at a place where visitors’ footsteps ceased around dusk.
A young boy with the sea smell not yet faded stood at the entrance, surveying the interior. A cloak covering my entire body, long hair escaping from beneath the hood, a jaw that looked unusually firm for a boy—all of it carried not merely an illusion but a genuine salt-tinged air.
Originally born and raised inland, Boris had spent two years on the harsh Island and now possessed a height as great as young men of twenty, a balanced frame, and the sharp gaze of seafaring people.
Though I would not appear to anyone’s eyes as someone from Trabaches, I myself had not fully realized this, so I always pulled the hood attached to my cloak deep over my face.
Rather than choosing a corner table, I approached the bar and sat in the chair at the far end, ordering heated wine in a low voice.
This inn, converted from a church of a religion that had flourished in this area decades ago, was the only place in Yuldruyi that operated year-round.
Business was quite good. It thrived thanks to the steady stream of those seeking to make a fortune in the Land of Mortals. The proprietor here was also someone who had once moved about the edges of the Land of Mortals like his customers, earning money, before settling down.
The group commonly called the Wasteland Hunters had been using this inn as their base for more than a decade. Most of the supplies needed for expeditions were sold here as well.
When mercenary work became scarce during certain seasons, they would gradually gather from various parts of the Continent to exchange news from the previous year, so the guests knew each other’s faces well. With nationalities as diverse as they were, the dialect of Lemme was scarcely heard.
New faces were added only a few each year. Whether it was due to the group’s poor memory or not, there was a rumor that the number of newcomers matched exactly with the number of those who had not returned the previous year.
Those sitting beside Boris spoke in low voices. Yes, Obren didn’t come this year, did he? No, that one took on a big job in Hyacan. He won’t be coming until next year.
Then is it Yuldruyi instead? That one has been missing since last year. I heard ghosts took that group.
The One-Eyed Man, the innkeeper’s sworn brother, set down a glass of wine before Boris with a sharp clink and asked.
“Did you come from the Nim Peninsula?”
“No.”
“You smell like it.”
Boris drank half his wine. Since the place was full of mercenaries, he kept his hood up. These were men who would do anything for money—they might well have connections with those seeking to capture him.
Soon darkness fell outside.
This place, situated as it was nearly adjacent to the Land of Mortals, sealed its doors and windows tightly at nightfall to avoid drawing the attention of spirits. From that point on, no more guests were admitted.
Dark shadows often followed fleeing hunters back to the village, causing considerable damage. Boris had heard this story in Noamid as well, which was why he had quickened his pace to arrive before sunset.
But about half an hour had passed when a knock sounded at the door.
The guests sitting at the bar shook their heads with displeased expressions.
“Don’t open it, innkeeper.”
“Knocking after sunset means spirits disguised as travelers.”
“Or someone with a spirit on their heels.”
Another knock came. The innkeeper hesitated, then seemed to decide to ignore it and withdrew into the kitchen.
Silence fell for a moment.
Even as they pretended to forget and chattered on, the Wasteland Hunters kept glancing toward the door.
They had actually seen the spirits drifting in the Land of Mortals and had even driven them off, so they possessed a far more concrete fear than ordinary people’s vague dread. At the same time, they took considerable pride in their ability to endure it.
But Boris, thanks to his own unique experiences, did not greatly fear spirits.
For this reason, ignoring someone who had come seeking shelter at night out of fear of ghosts did not sit well with him. Yet he had no desire to draw attention to himself by stepping forward.
Just as he was thinking the person must have left, two loud knocks echoed through the door.
Startled faces twisted with irritation. The One-Eyed Man, who had been clearing tables, suddenly shouted toward the door.
“Don’t you know that in Yuldruyi we close the doors after five o’clock! Don’t come late and make a racket—find your own fate!”
It was a sight you would rarely see anywhere but here—invoking such a grandiose word as “fate” over something as simple as spending the night outside. But the moment those words left his mouth, something extraordinary happened.
A square hatch in the corner of the ceiling, which everyone had thought was simply part of the first floor’s roof, suddenly creaked open. Simultaneously, dust and fallen leaves that had accumulated for years came pouring down.
Every eye shot upward. Beyond the dangling hatch, what was visible was unmistakably a starlit sky.
The most startled was the innkeeper, who had rushed out from the kitchen mid-meal preparation. He stood with his head tilted back, mouth agape, before muttering.
“I think that might have been a door I made….”
But there was no time to be shocked. A thud sounded from the entrance, and then light footsteps crossed the roof, passing over their heads toward the hatch.
“Everyone, move!”
Those nearby scrambled to their feet in panic, chairs toppling and people shoving one another. Several drew their weapons.
Boris remained seated at the bar, simply looking upward. The footsteps crossing the roof were remarkably light. In any other situation, he would have thought a squirrel or some other creature was passing by.
The footsteps stopped before the hatch. With a whoosh, the figure leaped down.
What flashed into view was a silver object cutting through the air. Without hesitation, those who thrust their blades forward felt a powerful force catch their sword tips, and they lost their grip on their weapons.
Soon two short swords and one curved blade left their owners’ hands and stuck quivering into the floorboards. Someone cried out.
“It’s a girl!”

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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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