Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 193

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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 193.
Choose the Dawn (5)
Sweat trickled down Boris’s temple. He asked urgently.
“Have you ever faced a ghost before?”
“No, but—”
Nayatrey stepped backward twice, pressing her back against Boris’s once more.
“I know that even a dead Ghoul will rise again if you strike it a second time.”
“A Ghoul? What is that?”
But there was no time for further exchange. Both drew their blades again with metallic rings, each consumed with defending their own body rather than observing the other’s movements.
The sound of Lama’s hoofbeats had long since faded. The night was cold, yet they sweated profusely, slashing and tearing at the invisible opponent’s incomprehensible form.
Yet it seemed they were accomplishing nothing—the same futile sequence repeating endlessly. Not a single drop of blood, not the slightest sign of injury appeared.
Unable to bear it any longer, Boris cried out to Nayatrey behind him.
“Can’t you use that flute from before?”
A cold voice answered.
“As I said, once a Ghoul has been struck twice, it cannot be driven away or killed.”
It was absurd. Setting aside the question of what a Ghoul even was, what were the two of them doing right now?
“So we’re doing something completely useless? Then why do we keep going even knowing that?”
“We simply cannot die.”
The answer was so straightforward that it left no room for rebuttal.
Nayatrey was not joking. If they simply could not die, then they would continue this meaningless struggle until exhaustion claimed them.
Whether this Ghoul was a type of spirit or something else, the notion that it could not be killed after the second strike was the most absurd thing Boris had ever heard. If something could be cut by a blade, surely it could be killed as well?
Of course, such a creature could equally kill them.
He felt something like a long-nailed hand suddenly seize his shoulder. In an instant, his left arm went numb, the paralysis spreading to his elbow. As the balance his left arm had maintained vanished, his right hand wavered and his movements became imprecise.
Immediately after, the same hand seized his right wrist. Before he could even register what was happening, his blade clattered to the ground. Boris was left empty-handed.
Committing an impossible mistake, Boris reflexively reached behind his back and drew the Winterer. By the time the white blade flashed through the air, he realized what he had done, but it was already too late to stop.
「…!」
An incomprehensible cry pierced the night, and dark liquid sprayed in all directions. Several similar cries followed from different places—not the howl of a beast, but something shrieking in a language Boris did not know.
Boris tried to wrench the Winterer free from whatever it had pierced, but it would not budge. Thick, black liquid flowed down the blade to its edge.
When the liquid touched his sleeve, it burned with a pale blue flame and disintegrated. Boris hastily lowered the blade’s tip.
Nayatrey spoke from behind him.
“It’s dead.”
Moments later, even in the darkness, he saw the black silhouette crumble and collapse. The liquid that had been flowing was drawn back into that dissolving form.
And then it vanished entirely.
Boris lowered the Winterer. As clarity returned, he noticed sweat soaking his brow and the nape of his neck. Yet before Nayatrey’s unnaturally composed presence, he did not wish to show his alarm.
Nayatrey sheathed her dagger as well. Without turning to face each other, both slowly sank to the ground. They might have leaned back against one another, but neither attempted to do so.
“You said just now that it couldn’t be killed.”
“No—you struck the Ghoul only once.”
“We’ve been fighting them continuously since before. I must have struck it several times already.”
“Your new blade. You killed it with a single thrust of that. What was it?”
Nayatrey turned to look at the Winterer Boris held in his hands.
Boris sheathed his sword with an instinct he didn’t fully understand. It was a blade that had never brought good fortune when shown to others. Thus, Nayatrey saw only the white cloth wrapped tightly around the handle of the Winterer.
After a moment, Boris spoke.
“The llamas have disappeared.”
“They’ll return by morning.”
How deep into the night had we ventured? The sudden combat had blurred my sense of time. To recover the llamas, I couldn’t leave this spot—I had no choice but to remain seated and wait.
Just as Nayatrey didn’t ask further about the Winterer, Boris refrained from questioning what else she might know.
Yet silence alone could not sustain us through a night so long.
The constellations glimmered brilliantly, like freshly polished glass ornaments. A bluish haze clung to the dark sky. With no campfire, no distant light, nothing but emptiness in all directions, my only companion was a silent girl.
The Land of Mortals I had seen on maps covered a quarter of the Continent, yet such vast territory belonged to no one and answered to no human order.
Kings and nobility, rulers—they governed their subjects through the order they had established and sought to impose it upon other lands. Yet even if they claimed the entire Continent as their domain, the Land of Mortals would endure, mocking human history as it always had.
The Magic Kingdom no longer existed, but didn’t the very land where they once dwelt seem to whisper, “Behold—there are things in this world that are impossible”?
Perhaps that is why the kings of many nations do not dream so ardently of unifying the Continent…
“Listen carefully.”
Nayatrey’s voice pulled Boris from his reverie. Perhaps because it came so rarely, he only now noticed that her voice was as clear as the sound of dew falling upon the Sacred Spring.
Yet he could not discern the sound she spoke of.
“Has the llama returned?”
“No.”
Conscious of her voice, Boris suddenly recalled Isolet. Her slightly husky tone had transformed into a celestial sound beyond comparison when she sang chants. By contrast, Nayatrey’s voice was delicate, yet carried a childlike quality.
“I hear nothing.”
“Footsteps.”
I strained to listen, but still heard nothing.
Suddenly, Nayatrey spoke.
“Is there someone who hates you?”
It was as abrupt a question as when she had asked if I had ever visited Anomarad. I wondered if I needed to grow accustomed to conversations of this nature to travel with this child.
“Many.”
“Whose hatred is the strongest among them?”
Boris furrowed his brow, but since he had no desire to fight, he racked his mind for a casual answer. Yet no suitable person came readily to mind.
The assassins who pursued him harbored no personal grudge against Boris, and he could not hastily broach the matter of Count Belnoir. Among the people of The Island, it was difficult to choose. Professor Jilebo was dead, and Hector had changed somewhat from before. Then perhaps Ekion?
“Some fellow who thought I was an obstacle to his Elder Brother. Now that I’ve left that place, he probably doesn’t care much.”
“He would still be alive, wouldn’t he?”
Suddenly, Boris understood.
“Yes. He’s alive. Not a ghost.”
Ghosts are drawn to the living. They linger about the living, listening intently to the mundane affairs of those who breathe. They record. They imitate.
Now I grasped why Nayatrey had spoken so little throughout our journey, and why she posed such questions only in moments of crisis.
Conversation summons ghosts. Now that one had already appeared, the spirits lurking beyond striking distance would yield to the impulse to hear the trivial talk of humans and draw closer within reach of the blade.
As if sensing the ghosts drawing near, Nayatrey rose and withdrew a flute from her garment, playing it softly. It was not quite a performance, yet it was not unpleasant to the ear.
But soon she ceased playing and extended her finger toward the darkness.
“You are already dead.”
I had heard that ghosts sometimes act without knowing they are dead. Boris still sensed nothing, yet based on his recent experience, he could only conclude that Nayatrey possessed an uncanny ability to perceive unseen presences.
Boris rose to his feet, deciding not to use the Winterer this time, and grasped the sword he had dropped earlier. Just as he was about to sheathe the Winterer, something suddenly crashed into him and sent him sprawling.
Nothing was visible, and I couldn’t even feel its weight. Yet the force pressing down upon my shoulders and chest was unmistakably real.
I struggled, but I couldn’t push back against this weightless enemy. Force was being applied, yet my hands grasped at nothing.
Above my head, I saw Nayatrey’s short blade swing down. The absurd thought flickered through my mind—so the girl was trying to help me after all.
But this time, even Nayatrey’s attack proved useless. I felt invisible hands rummaging through my belongings, searching for something specific.
All I carried was a single travel dagger in a leather sheath. Or so I thought.
Something clattered to the ground and rolled away.
A brilliant flash!
In the blink of an eye, everything changed. A radius of several paces blazed with daylight, and a circular stone well materialized—directly above me. It was an illusion.
Blue petals and white stamens bloomed around the well. Though illusory, it was rendered with such vivid realism that it seemed to draw from an actual place. The memory struck me instantly—what had happened on The Island.
Drawing a distant forest altar through magic, and even placing Silverskull atop it.
A bestial shriek tore through the air!
The strange force that had pinned me vanished in an instant. I lurched upright, sword drawn to defend. But no further attack came.
Yet the illusion lingered. All around us remained a sunlit garden awash in blue flowers, with the well at its center. But the effect was limited—beyond its edges, darkness still prevailed.
Trapped within this alien illusion, we both tensed, our eyes scanning the surroundings.
A creaking sound.
It came from within the well.
Without hesitation, we both rushed toward the well and thrust our weapons downward nearly in unison.
The well’s interior was pitch black. Something was crawling up from within. An illusion appearing without warning, a blinding light—and now a creature emerging from the depths. Even we, who rarely startled easily, felt our spines chill.
Clattering, hissing, scraping sounds.
As the noise drew closer, approaching right before us, the mysterious adversary still refused to reveal itself.
Suddenly, the sound ceased. And then, most unexpectedly, a voice spoke.
“Well, well.”
“Oh, now this is a fine treasure.”
The ivory die slipped instantly into the creature’s grasp.
“A shame there’s only one. Do you happen to have more? It’s been a thousand years since I’ve played dice. Do you know ‘the Chaser’? It’s my favorite dice game.”

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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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