Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 197

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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 197.
Choose the Dawn (9)
When I opened my eyes again, I gazed desperately around, hoping the Ruins had vanished like a dream during those moments of darkness. Of course, it had not.
“I was given an oddly powerful memory as well. Even with a genius mind, it would be impossible to forget the past after spending a thousand years without a single conversation partner. Yet I remember. My life from childhood through the final day of Ganapoli. On that last day, the abilities I possessed seemed to gain eternal life within my body, just as I did. Yes, like me.”
It was an unbelievable story. Boris asked, somewhat bewildered.
“You remember everything from that time?”
“Yes. I still seem to be reliving that single day. What was vague then remains vague now, and what was certain then is still certain. The events that came after are not remembered as easily as before. It cannot be helped. This life is merely a bonus, after all. But is such a memory a welcome gift?”
“….”
Epibiono approached and picked up a stone. The sound of bone striking stone clattered clearly.
“It seems better than forgetting everything, at least.”
“Well, certainly… I cannot even say it would have been better to forget it all. I would not wish to become like those wandering spirits who have lost even themselves and possess nothing but malice. Yet to stand alone for a thousand years, watching these Ruins decay, remembering perfectly the most beautiful day when I believed that great city would prosper infinitely—is that not an indescribable, exquisite torture? If only my memory would fade a little….”
Yet Epibiono’s expression remained impassive as he spoke. It was not a face of sorrow. With such an expression, words far more desolate flowed from his lips.
“Arcadia perished along with the noble princess, never to be revived. The tragedy that tore my heart asunder a thousand years ago has now become a pathetic anecdote, worse still—a song of absence. Who imposed this fate upon me? If I knew, I would seize them by the collar, or rather kneel and demand an explanation, yet even that has been denied to me.”
Epibiono dropped the stone he had been holding and gazed into the void.
“No, the cruelest denial of all is that I am not even permitted to go mad. My mind clings to this corpse of a body like a leech, and no matter how I struggle to release the cord, after a single day passes, I return to myself—the last mage of a ruined kingdom, a useless immortal named Epibiono.”
Neither Boris nor Nayatrey moved, like abandoned statues within the Ruins.
Epibiono’s voice was intense yet low. Though he spoke of suffering almost impossible to imagine, his tone held a strange composure, as if the nerves to rage and despair had long since worn away.
Perhaps after a thousand years of thinking on it without fail, even such questions had become familiar.
“If only I were permitted even a single cup of wine.”
Epibiono possessed a body that could neither eat nor drink.
How terrible must sanity be for a thousand years? As Epibiono had said, it was something one could not know until experienced.
Good memories became suffering because they were good; bad memories did not fade and continued for a thousand years. That was torture indeed. The absence of anyone to explain the reason was the same.
“In truth, over such long ages, even pain has faded and anguish has scattered, so my mind feels diluted like bone—bleached bone. Are these emotions I speak of even real?”
In that moment, a light of anguish appeared for the first time on Epibiono’s youthfully pale face. The anguish of an old man who had lived far too long.
Nayatrey approached and took Epibiono’s skeletal hand. Then she raised her other hand and gently touched his cheek.
“Because there are no words to offer, I say nothing.”
As Nayatrey spoke, Epibiono’s jade-green eyes wavered slightly, and soon after, laughter burst forth.
“Hahaha….”
It was a laughter that seemed contradictory. Watching Epibiono laugh like a young boy, as if he had instantly forgotten what he had just been saying, Boris felt strange.
Was the suffering he had spoken of truly only something he “remembered” and not actually real?
“The Myo Tribe lady is wise. Your future will be very bright. As much as you suffered when young, you will flourish when grown. It is very clear to my eyes.”
Click.
Boris did not hear it. Until then, no one had paid attention.
“I hear the term ‘Myo Tribe’ often. What does it mean exactly? Is it the name of the minority tribe you belong to, Nayatrey?”
Nayatrey answered.
“The Myo Tribe no longer exists.”
Clatter.
Nayatrey suddenly turned her head sharply. Yet nothing moved anywhere.
“No longer exists? Then what are you?”
“For a tribe to exist, it requires many people, not just me.”
Nayatrey released Epibiono’s hand and looked up at him like a younger sister would, her gaze searching. Epibiono continued to smile.
Click.
Suddenly, Epibiono extended his right arm and swept Nayatrey up effortlessly. The instant Boris instinctively stepped back, a strange sound finally reached his ears as well.
Crack.
Boris couldn’t discern what came first and what came after—only shadows descending from above, glinting within fractured stone, a translucent magical barrier that surged two lengths high and deflected the assault, then vanished.
Zing!
The vanished barrier stretched skyward again the moment Epibiono flicked his hand, the response so swift that Boris only recognized the danger when a new attacker collided and fell back. Seizing the moment, Epibiono shouted to Boris.
“This way!”
In the brief span of their movement, the same attack and defense repeated three times over.
Standing beside Epibiono at last, Boris surveyed the enemies encircling the three of them and could not suppress his shock.
They were neither monsters nor spirits. Not assassins, not mercenaries. Nothing his imagination could conjure.
Nearby stood a girl who appeared to be Boris’s age, strikingly beautiful with short hair. She wore a blue dress with an apron over it, unarmed.
The moment her bare hand touched Epibiono’s magical barrier, a pitiful cry echoed out, and the girl was hurled several paces away, crashing onto the stone floor. Dust erupted in a cloud.
Yet moments later, the girl sprang to her feet without hesitation and rushed toward them again.
Epibiono’s expression remained grave as he faced them. When another girl advanced within a few steps, the extended barrier tore through her pale arm.
The girl was flung backward. The blood that had clung to the transparent barrier fell to the ground with a soft patter as the shield dissolved.
Boris cried out.
“What is happening? Are they dangerous adversaries?”
“Dangerous? You wouldn’t care to test that by dying, would you? Even spirits who once lived harbor fear within their hearts, but these—they possess nothing of the sort. In other words, they exist beyond my dominion.”
Boris realized his mistake. His voice trembled with alarm.
“Wait, what are they? I was told everyone in Ganapoli was dead…”
“They are. The people are dead. Can’t you see? These are all dolls.”
“Dolls?”
“Yes, and mad ones at that!”
After repelling all those who drew near, Epibiono lowered a protective barrier instead, enveloping the group.
Yet the range was narrow, and they soon found themselves densely surrounded by dozens of dolls.
Blue, black, green, and brown eyes—dozens of them—watched expressionlessly, like curiosities displayed in a glass vessel.
Boris found it difficult to accept. He had read of such things in books and heard tales, but acknowledging that these were dolls proved nearly impossible.
Rosy cheeks, natural features, fluid movements, and above all, vivid skin—none of it seemed inhuman. Mere imitations crafted by human hands, fashioned after human form?
Yet Boris soon grasped why they were inhuman. Had they been descendants of those who survived Ganapoli’s fall, they could never appear so pristine and beautiful.
Humans cannot survive in such a wasteland without tattered garments, without soiled hands, maintaining rosy complexions and beauty.
“How can a doll go mad?”
Nayatrey’s flat voice restored Boris to reality. Epibiono answered.
“A ‘mad doll’ refers to a doll whose creator has died, leaving its commands forever unchangeable. Mages create dolls, but only the creator can issue or revoke commands. Once an order is given, dolls endlessly repeat that task until they are completely destroyed and their magic dissipates.”
It matched what Boris had read in books. Yet the true meaning surpassed mere imagination.
“Because of such dolls’ danger, those in Ganapoli were bound to destroy all dolls they created before death. Dolls would unhesitatingly destroy even themselves at their creator’s word. Yet they are remarkably resilient, and when the creator dies, forcibly destroying them is not simple. Of course, there was one way to resolve it easily… a method everyone despised.”
The number of dolls surrounding them grew steadily. In this land where life had vanished, dolls created by a dead mage had repeated their task for a thousand years.
“Then these dolls are under orders to eliminate intruders?”
“Likely. Dolls are given a ‘nature’ that manifests only in extreme circumstances where they cannot possibly fulfill their commands—usually one of three: defending the city they belong to, self-preservation, or protecting mages. When I came alone, I never witnessed this. I am of Ganapoli. Their nature reacting to your presence is probably the first. If so…”
Epibiono craned his neck past the dolls and murmured softly.
“Finally, they’ve arrived. I’ll witness something dreadful.”
It was not a matter concerning their own fate. Beyond the swarm of puppets that had descended upon them, a dozen more figures emerged and immediately began attacking the puppets surrounding the group. Since these puppets were not human, they possessed neither compassion nor kinship.
“Those puppets have Mage Protection as their core nature. They came because of me.”
Witnessing this, Boris understood what Epibiono had meant by the “method everyone despises.” A low murmur confirmed that Boris’s intuition was correct.
“Using puppet strength to eliminate puppets is… the simplest way. To destroy a mad puppet, I merely command two other puppets to act. Then all three shatter, and the problem is solved.”
It was a gruesome sight. The puppets reacted violently to physical assault, breaking their encirclement to confront the newcomers.
At first, it appeared to be nothing more than a crude brawl. But moments later, when Boris saw severed limbs hurled beyond the throng, he fell silent.
The shattered puppet was not plaster or clay. The unfocused eyes rolling backward from the twisted, dangling head were not painted glass fragments either.
The severed arm twitched for a moment as though still attached to a human body, then the convulsions ceased.

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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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