Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 238

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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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Episode 5.
Not Every Child Is an Angel (8)
“Quite impressive.”
Meterman offered the praise with all the enthusiasm of reciting a grocery list. No matter what Joshua accomplished, the man had never once shown genuine delight. Like nearly every instructor at the academy. Was it strange? Not at all. There existed a threshold to the intelligence teachers desired.
“Then Rick Hamit, shall we have you recite another poem as an example?”
Rick glanced sideways at Joshua and stammered through some memorized verses, but his words soon faltered. Meterman, with deliberate malice, called upon Joshua once more.
“Why don’t you recite the part where Rick went wrong?”
Joshua rose to his feet, but first he swept his gaze across the assembled eyes fixed upon him before speaking.
“I’m afraid I don’t recall it either, sir.”
Meterman’s and Joshua’s eyes met. The lecture hall fell silent. The instructor’s face flushed as though he had been gravely insulted.
“You don’t recall it?”
Joshua inclined his head slightly, his expression composed.
“No, sir. My apologies.”
The student had merely claimed ignorance—and it wasn’t even a passage required for memorization—yet as the silence stretched, Meterman’s face grew rigid, trembling with barely contained fury.
The other students hunched their shoulders, reading the room carefully. At last, Meterman drummed his fingers against the desk and spoke.
“Everyone will compose one poem in the five-beat Lugran style by next class. Rick, you will compose two. Joshua, you will compose three. Prepare to recite them all from memory. Class is dismissed.”
As Meterman seized his books and swept from the room in a gust of indignation, sighs and complaints erupted throughout. Compose poetry? Not merely memorize it?
Rick shot to his feet and shouted.
“Hey! You all know whose fault this is, don’t you? Joshua, you’re going to write mine too? Huh? Are you listening?”
When Joshua did not respond, another student cried out.
“Hey, someone compose a five-beat Lugran poem. Title: ‘The Unlucky von Arnim.'”
Then one boy sprang up and began to recite.
“If you’re told to memorize, then memorize—why all the needless chatter? Does pretending to know when you don’t feel good? Is composing poetry fine but memorizing it not? How troublesome, pleasing everyone’s tastes is difficult indeed.”
The poem bore no resemblance whatsoever to proper five-beat meter, yet it succeeded perfectly in amusing his friends. The only disappointment was that no matter how they mocked him, the nine-year-old’s eyes never reddened, not even a single eyebrow twitching in response.
In any case, after their bout of laughter, the students linked arms with Rick and filed out, giggling. Their voices faded down the corridor.
“Next is music, right? I wonder who Grundt will have sing today before he dabs away their tears with a handkerchief?”
“Who knows? I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Then who will he ask to play the piano instead while counting time?”
“Oh, that’s a terribly difficult question…”
After all the students had departed the lecture hall, Joshua slowly gathered his books and made his way out. No one waited for him. He had expected as much, walking alone down the empty corridor at an unhurried pace.
The thin arms cradling two thick volumes were painfully slender. The backs of his hands, barely visible beneath the loose sleeves of his black tunic, bore prominent blue veins. Buried within the long tunic that fell past his legs, Joshua appeared no larger than a doll. Yet within that child’s mind, a universe constructed from hundreds of millions of interlocking gears turned ceaselessly.
Those who first beheld Joshua—with his gracefully arched eyebrows, eyes that gleamed like starlight, and lips soft as peonies—invariably felt drawn to him. *I want to befriend him. I want to help him.* But such feelings rarely endured.
People marveled at genius, yet they did not love it. And if one concealed one’s abilities to suit their preferences, they grew angry instead. Perhaps it was easier to preserve one’s pride by pretending not to notice the former, whereas the latter felt like outright mockery?
Those who had been deceived, even briefly, when Joshua spoke with an innocent, candid face saying “I don’t understand, sir”—they grew most indignant once the truth emerged. Yet Joshua showed no sign of abandoning this habit. Had Stilton, Hispanie’s secretary, witnessed such behavior, he might have remarked, “So young demonic entities are characterized by such insufferable conduct?” before delivering another blow to the back of his head.
Upon reaching the Music Room, Joshua paused before entering, tilting his ear toward the door. Within, a cacophony of sound poured forth—the chatter of students who had arrived early, their laughter, the clatter of piano keys, the thundering of feet, the opening and closing of windows.
Joshua’s hearing was acute. Not merely to beautiful sounds, but to noise and discord as well. The chaotic din gradually resolved into several distinct threads, becoming part of the gears turning within his mind. It transformed into a strange orchestral dissonance possessed of its own causality.
Joshua closed his eyes for a moment. Within his mind, he conjured the scene of the Music Room. He envisioned the movement patterns of the forty-odd students who would be there. Some would already be seated, others would open their books. Some would tap at the piano and dance, others would mount the stage and joke about playfully. Gradually, they would all settle into their seats one by one…
The scene Joshua painted in his mind differed from the actual situation unfolding in the Music Room only in the smallest details—it was nearly identical. Even the identities of each individual largely matched. The mundane scenes he had witnessed repeatedly in previous lessons had already become data stored within his mind.
Yet Joshua made no effort to verify his predictions. He merely visualized them. And he placed himself within that vision—when and where he would appear, how he would walk, whose vicinity he would pass, where he would sit. In this manner, meaninglessly, he squandered his extraordinary information-processing capacity. And he thought:
I don’t want to enter that discord.
Just as the noise vividly sketched the presence of people, Joshua himself wished to paint in one more figure. This new self would sit quietly in a world of his own, indifferent to any gaze or word from them. Because he would not be imperfect like Joshua. His very existence would create a complete world, and he would dwell within it at ease.
Then, instead of entering that place, he could turn his body and leave forever. Whenever, wherever.
But that alone lay beyond the ability of Demonic Joshua. He could only imperfectly overlap the imagined self with his current self. Mimicking him. Acting as though he were that.
Soon Joshua slipped into the Music Room. Along the least conspicuous path, making only the minimum sound as though he did not exist.
2. Not Every Child Is an Angel
The beautiful, the innocent, the strong, the wise, the beloved—
None of these can send us to heaven.
Evnoa Ailchenbriss von Arnim was the happiest girl in the world.
First, she was beautiful. Her golden hair, which any peer would envy, cascaded in waves over her shoulders, and her eyes shone like black stars. She possessed rosy, full cheeks and a smooth neck that seemed to gleam. Light danced at the edges of her small lips.
Fairy-like and slender, Evnoa danced beautifully. Whether in the ballroom or on the lawn of the Garden, whenever the mood struck her, she would dance with such grace and precision that people would lose themselves watching. Sometimes she danced barefoot. But she did not care.
Evnoa’s parents were wealthy. People spoke of them as a Family Clan worthy of respect. Yet Evnoa scarcely knew such things—or rather, she failed to understand them. She only knew that people cherished her. Pretty dresses, hats, and shoes were always in abundance for Evnoa.
A chef prepared Evnoa’s meals and snacks, and a maid followed behind to pick up the things Evnoa scattered about. There was a doctor for Evnoa alone, and a nurse as well.
Her Father and Mother loved Evnoa dearly. Father would set aside visiting guests and listen first to Evnoa’s stories. Mother often lay in bed claiming fatigue, but at any matter concerning Evnoa, she would rise without delay. Neither of them troubled Evnoa with studies of one sort or another. So Evnoa played joyfully every day.
That Evnoa was happy was beyond doubt. She possessed everything she liked, and knew nothing she disliked. Like a princess who had never left the palace in her life, she knew nothing of poverty, suffering, death, nor the frustration of failure, jealousy toward someone superior to herself, betrayal by someone she loved, obsession with what she could not have, fear of the future—none of it.
She lacked the capacity to feel such things.
A beautiful glass palace so lovely that she had no desire to leave it, nor any wish to know what lay beyond. That was the world in which Evnoa Ailchenbriss von Arnim lived.
In Evnoa’s world, there were two important men. She did not know which she preferred, but it was certain that she loved them both dearly.
One of them was her betrothed. Evnoa had been betrothed at six years old. Her betrothed’s name was Theostid da Moro, but because his father was also named Theostid, everyone had called him Theo since childhood.
“Evnoa, give me your hand.”
Evnoa smiled brightly. With Theo, as always, she had no doubt he would give her something amusing and wonderful. When Evnoa extended her left hand, Theo pressed a small paper bundle into it.
“What is it?”
As Evnoa tried to unfold her hand to look, Theo laughed and shook his head, then gestured toward her pocket as if to say she should look later. When Evnoa placed the paper bundle in her pocket, applause rang out. The performance was about to begin. Evnoa clapped along, looking at Theo like a puppy seeking praise. A faint smile appeared at the corners of Theo’s mouth.
Evnoa and Theo sat in the audience of the second-largest theater in Keltika. Today, students from Mona Sid School were scheduled to perform choral singing and instrumental music.
Mona Sid’s regular concert was a venerable performance that had even been attended by the king during the time when Anomarad was a kingdom. As the curtain rose, boys in white gowns draped with deep blue capes stood in formation like birds with spread wings.
Evnoa clapped and said,
“He’ll be there, among them!”
Theo smiled ambiguously and raised a finger in a signal for quiet. Evnoa fell silent, but it did not last long. As the boys began to sing, she cried out again.
“So magnificent!”
Theo looked around with an embarrassed expression, seeking understanding from those nearby, though it seemed a familiar occurrence. Evnoa quieted at Theo’s reproachful gaze, but within minutes she gasped again, pointed at people and laughed, tapped her knees, or spoke loudly. Eventually, people gave up turning around to warn her. Only Theo patiently restrained such an Evnoa. He did not tire of it, nor did he grow angry.
Children of Rune – Winterer
Author: Jeon Min-hee
Publisher: 14 Month Books
The copyright to this book belongs to the author and 14 Month Books.
To reuse all or part of the contents of this book, written consent from both parties is required.

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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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