Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 3

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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 3
The Winter Sword (3)

When Boris returned, two sacred objects lay upon his brother’s disheveled bed. The brothers fell silent for a moment. Boris spoke first.
“Snowguard….”
The silver-white chains of the armor gleamed as if woven from snow crystals. The closer one looked, the more mesmerizing the craftsmanship became.
Boris placed his hand upon it. Cold at first… then warm. It was true. The mysterious power that absorbed heat and then dissipated it was the most widely known characteristic of Snowguard’s magic.
That was why it was called the armor of snow that no flame, however scorching, could melt. It was a treasure that the great-grandfather of Yefnen and Boris had placed into the hands of the Jineman Family.
Yefnen continued.
“And the Winterer.”
True to its name—”the one who endures winter”—a strange metal refined only by cold gleamed like a single ray of light, silent and still. It was a sword. A white blade possessed of an aristocratic chill as elegant as its slender form.
The hilt, set in a plain white scabbard without ornament, was long enough to grip with both hands spread wide. A bastard sword that could be wielded with one hand or two.
Together, Snowguard and Winterer were called the Winterbottom Kit—a pair of arms bearing a history in which countless knights and mercenaries had fought, shedding even unjust blood to claim them. Any who grasped a sword knew of them through rumor and yearned for them—legendary arms of power, renowned throughout the realm.
Boris’s great-grandfather had allegedly slain ninety-nine enemies to obtain Snowguard. The previous owner was said to be a foreign lord, so his military escort would have been no fewer than that number.
Thirty years passed before his son obtained the Winterer in turn. He killed no fewer than his father had.
Once obtained, the matter could not end. The news that the Winterbottom Kit had been completed in a single owner’s hands kindled even more fervent longing. From that time onward, rumors began to spread that whoever possessed the Winterbottom Kit could become stronger than anyone.
Before long, the rumor transformed into the claim that one must possess the Winterbottom Kit to be the greatest swordsman.
In such circumstances, the secret to protecting the treasure they had so painstakingly obtained from persistent challengers was simple: refuse all challenges.
When challengers demanded to face Boris’s grandfather armed with the Winterbottom Kit in fair combat, with the spoils going to the victor, he did not even deign to scoff. The thieves who crept in secretly were all caught by the soldiers lying in wait and had their heads severed.
In those days, the Jineman Family was among the most prominent in Trabaches, confident and assured. Thus, there was no way to seize the Winterbottom Kit save through single combat.
Moreover, in another sense, it was merely a weapon, however fine. The great families, whose bonds were woven like nets through political factions, were not foolish enough to wage a so-called “feud” that would require the annihilation of an entire rival house merely to steal a sword and suit of armor.
As decades passed, the rumors faded.
Boris’s grandfather never once donned the Winterbottom Kit and ventured outside. He had completely forestalled any opportunity for the greedy to kindle their desire. In recent times, the strategy had proven so successful that the prevailing opinion was that it had long since been stolen.
Yet the Winterbottom Kit still existed here, in the Jineman Estate. In the hands of two sons, as tradition dictated.
Boris’s grandfather had not wished his sons to fight over the Winterbottom Kit. Thus, he had divided it between them and instructed them to cooperate.
But Blado had been cast out by his elder brother Yulken, and naturally, ownership had been seized as well. Now, in his heart’s desire to reclaim it, there could be no hesitation whatsoever.
Yulken, too, had fathered two sons. Yet his thoughts differed from those of his deceased father. The Winterbottom Kit wielded greater power when united. What good could come from dividing it? Naturally, he would pass both to his eldest son, who would inherit the family.
Yefnen was eight years Boris’s senior, and at twelve years old, Boris was still young. Yulken believed that such an age difference would prevent his younger son from daring to defy him.
But Yefnen’s thoughts were different still.
“Boris. Let me borrow the sword for a moment.”
The Winterer, the winter sword, was quite light for a blade of its size, perhaps due to its mysterious material. Still, it was too heavy for a twelve-year-old child to wield. Boris gazed up at his brother quietly.
It was early this year, when Yefnen turned twenty, that Yulken had handed over the Winterbottom Kit to him.
That night, Yefnen had summoned Boris to his chamber. He showed him two objects and asked which one looked better. Without much thought, Boris answered that the sword seemed finer than the heavy armor.
Then Yefnen said, “When you’re old enough to wield a sword, I’ll give it to you.” He smiled gently at the startled Boris, as if it were nothing at all.
Boris wondered if he had truly believed those words then. Since then, his brother had said several times, whenever the opportunity arose, “The Winterer is yours.” At some point, Boris had come to believe it too. And on a day like today, his brother spoke those words once more.
Suddenly, Boris realized he had never truly thought of the renowned sword as his own.
Boris was old enough to understand what a feud was. In the Trabaches Republic, it was an unspoken rule that third parties did not hold anyone accountable for what occurred in feuds between families. However many died tonight, there would be no one to mourn them save those present.
He was still a child, not yet at full strength. Thus, it would be better for his brother to wield the sword. His brother, whom he loved most of all.
Boris shook his head.
“It’s yours, brother.”
“No. Once this conflict ends, I will return it to you without fail. I won’t even borrow it if you don’t permit me to.”
“There’s no need to return it. It’s yours now.”
“Boris.”
Yefnen grasped the scabbard of the Winterer and extended the hilt toward Boris. After a moment’s hesitation, as soon as Boris took hold of it, his brother released his grip. I staggered, my arm dropping as the blade struck the floor with a resounding clang.
“Listen.”
I tried to lift it with all my strength, but supporting it with one hand was impossible. Only by gripping it with both hands could I barely point the blade’s tip into the empty air. Yet my forearms trembled violently, and the sword’s point traced unstable, wavering circles.
When I thought I could endure no longer, my brother’s hand came beneath the scabbard’s end to support it. As strength drained from my arms, my shoulders sagged.
“You see? You can hold it.”
“With something like this…”
But Yefnen did not allow his younger brother to continue. He bent at the waist and brought his face close, whispering.
“You will improve. You will accomplish it magnificently. You are a warrior, after all—a warrior in name and in truth.”
The name Boris carried the meaning of “warrior.”
I found my brother’s warm breath comforting… Yet in that moment, an inexplicable unease crept across the nape of my neck again.
I truly would come to possess the Winterer.
In a way I never desired.
An eerie silence hung over the Manor.
Two hundred soldiers under Father’s command stood guard at the front and rear of the estate with rigid vigilance. In its heyday, the Jineman Family had commanded more than a thousand—a prosperity that traced back to Boris’s grandfather, who had brought the Winterer into their possession.
Boris and Yefnen stood on this floor, before the staircase that led directly to the Backyard. They had no need to venture to the forefront of battle. The soldiers’ morale would be determined by Father’s presence alone.
Yet young Boris could not hide away entirely. He too carried the blood of the Jineman Family.
Through the window, soldiers’ backs stood like black stakes at regular intervals across the courtyard. They were the second line. The first had advanced beyond the Manor’s sight.
The structure of Jineman Estate, despite numerous renovations, was ill-suited for defensive conflict. In truth, if enemies breached the Manor, the battle was already lost.
When enemies entered the estate, they destroyed and plundered everything within reach—from household furnishings to precious antiquities. Regardless of the battle’s outcome, the invasion of the Manor was a humiliation difficult to wash away. Even if fortune had not decided the victor, a family whose estate had been violated was as good as defeated.
Such conflicts occurred several times a year. When prominent families were involved, they became matters of gossip; otherwise, they were buried as private affairs between houses. Yet families that lost such conflicts often saw even their children slaughtered without exception. Despite this, families with internal discord persistently chose this method.
It was not uncommon for exiled siblings of a family like the Jnemans to launch such conflicts. Brothers and sisters who left their homes due to differing principles were as common in Trabaches as men and women who fled in the dead of night.
Yefnen’s gaze remained fixed through the window’s gap. Boris turned toward the staircase. No sound reached his ears. Yet below the stairs, a dozen soldiers would be standing guard—at minimum, prepared to die before the two Jineman brothers.
“Boris, look there.”
At his brother’s sudden voice, Boris drew closer to the windowsill. Over the Meadow’s edge, where a reddened sky tangled with violet clouds, a new radiance appeared. Torches.
“It begins.”
A sharp impact struck beneath my ribs. I held my breath for a moment, then clenched my jaw tight.
The sound came first.
Uuuu, waaaa…
Indecipherable, muffled voices. I had thought the darkness obscured everything, yet the entire Manor was now engulfed in the glow of torches.
How many? Five hundred? A thousand?
Yefnen bit his lip, recalling Father’s final words.
“If the situation turns unfavorable, take the Winterbottom Kit and escape the Manor. In the direction I instructed beforehand.”
Father had said nothing of Boris. Did it matter what became of him?
Yet for Yefnen, Boris came first. Alone, he possessed the confidence to pierce the darkness and flee. But the anguish of abandoning Father, and the responsibility of safely delivering his younger brother—these shackled his feet. However, for whatever reason, the Winterbottom Kit could not fall into his uncle’s hands.
Though capable beyond his years, Yefnen was only twenty. Bearing such a burden all at once was overwhelming.
Yet perhaps because he had been raised this way, he did not feel his burden was unjust. He only blamed himself for lacking the strength to bear it.
He thought too of the soldiers whose blood would be spilled in this place. They were the family’s retainers—those he would naturally have been bound to protect had he succeeded Father as the family head.
The private soldiers of each family were not assembled all at once. Most of them had been raised under my father’s care since childhood, growing up while swearing loyalty to the Jineman Family.
Yet the reason for their existence was none other than this conflict. For this very struggle, they had lived comfortably, treated several times better than ordinary peasants in peacetime. Their duty would end today.
The torchlight flickered across my younger brother’s face as well. Yefnen gripped his sword tightly, thinking of how many more of them he could cut down.
My uncle’s figure was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, if I encountered my uncle early and struck him down, the task would become easier. With such thoughts, Yefnen swallowed a bitter smile.
At that moment, Boris was gazing at a portrait hanging beside the window—a woman in a white dress, wearing a sorrowful smile. She was not the brothers’ mother.
The eyes in the painting seemed to be looking directly at him.
As if she wanted to say something.

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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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