Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 30

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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 30
The Winter Sword (30)

Autumn, which had ripened the walnuts of Anomarad, arrived in Trabaches without fail. Blado gazed out at the window, now painted in russet and gold, and spoke.
“Summer has ended.”
Someone approached and lit the three-branched candelabra on the table. Spheres of light bloomed one after another in the darkness.
“So there were results?”
“Yes, my lord.”
The study of Jineman Estate could not compare to the magnificent library housed within Belnoir Castle. And it was terribly dark. Moreover, Belnoir Castle’s study boasted many windows, all of them glass. But this place had only a single window.
Blado had closed it.
And if there was one thing different about this study from last summer, it was myself—a thought that made me chuckle softly.
I picked up the papers on the table and read them by candlelight. After finishing, I set them down and regarded the one who had brought them.
Tulk, the steward of the Jineman Family, stood before me with his head bowed.
“Hmm…”
To the author, it seemed to matter little whether the master of the Jineman Family was an older or younger brother.
Perhaps that was true. Indeed, Tulk might suit me quite well. After all, I too had betrayed my former master and now served Khan Elector, my current lord.
“So the little one went to Anomarad, then.”
“Yes. That nobleman was certainly from Anomarad. However, since he used an alias at the inn, his exact identity remains unclear. I shall inquire further and uncover it soon.”
I had only one reason to find Boris.
“Did Winterbottom Kit go with him?”
Tulk answered with his eyes still downcast.
“That remains unknown. Yefnen’s whereabouts are uncertain. However, we have confirmed that the boy presumed to be Boris carried a sword with a white scabbard.”
“At least the Winterer is there, then.”
Tulk no longer called Reuken’s two sons “young master.”
Blado, who had neither wife nor children, issued no orders to repair the estate or discard Reuken’s belongings. He seemed indifferent to such matters. I used my brother’s study as it was, sat at the desk where my brother had sat, and wrote with the pen my brother had touched. And I slept in the bed my brother had used.
When I brought Tulk on and employed him, I did not replace the household servants. I only slaughtered every soldier my brother had raised.
Most of the servants and maids had fled on the night of the fighting, leaving fewer than half of what had been during Reuken’s time. Even that did not concern me. Those who would clean and maintain the estate were never my concern to begin with.
And so, despite being guarded by hundreds of soldiers, Jineman Estate appeared desolate.
Jonggenal, the mage Khan Elector had lent, returned to the Elector’s Castle, but the roof that Kriegal had destroyed was never repaired. It was only after Jonggenal had poured forth his maximum magical power for several days, performing a powerful purification, that the house became inhabitable.
It was obvious without seeing that when winter came with the roof torn open and rain leaking into parts of this floor, living here would be unbearable.
Yet Blado touched nothing in the estate, as though he gave no thought to comfortable living here—or perhaps as though he anticipated the estate slowly crumbling and vanishing.
The stones once corroded by Kriegal’s venom deteriorated with each passing moment. The estate was truly dangerous to inhabit.
“Good. Track him. And continue investigating Yefnen’s whereabouts. He may possess the other half.”
“Understood, my lord.”
Tulk bowed again and withdrew. Listening to the door close, I slowly rested my chin in my palm.
The candlelight flickered. Though there was nowhere for wind to enter.
The stone was eroding; perhaps a hole had opened somewhere in the wall. Yet as I gazed at the candlelight, my lips slowly curved upward. Higher, higher still, until at last I formed something resembling a smile.
“Brother, are you still bitter about losing this place?”
The candlelight swelled slightly, then suddenly wavered to the left.
Yellow eyes, sunken into a weathered face, fixed unblinking upon the flame. A long shadow rippled behind like wings.
“If you wish, try sitting on me once. You can simply sit upon my body, can’t you? Isn’t that what ghosts are supposed to be?”
Speaking to a specter whose very existence remained uncertain, Vlado’s face bore a peculiar bitterness.
In truth, this should be called the autumn of victory. Vlado had achieved every long-cherished desire he had harbored for so long.
His elder brother Rulken, who had oppressed him, was dead, and his children had scattered to the winds. His sister’s phantom no longer appeared in his dreams. Though he had not killed his brother with his own blade, that treacherous butler had cleanly handled the matter in his stead.
Come to think of it, that butler was a man utterly devoid of loyalty. To stab the master he had served in the back and cast him into the swamp in such circumstances—and he a Trabaches man at that.
Yet in the end, it was thanks to Tulk’s magic that Vlado escaped that place. The man had already known the Red-Eyed Demon would appear.
Had he delayed even slightly longer, it would have been annihilation. That day, even Jonggenal found himself indebted to him.
The only thing that rankled was losing his horse in the chaos and missing his two nephews.
Though still an enigma, keeping Tulk at his side proved convenient. There was also a certain pride in having secured one who had long served his brother. His thirst for vengeance, too, had been satisfied.
Yet his chest remained cold.
Something was lacking. Where fulfillment had not come, a chill blew through like a draft. No new purpose stirred, no ambition kindled. Surely he had won a great victory.
Khan Elector, though surely occupied with preparations for the imminent election, had sent a congratulatory letter in his own hand along with a large gilt mantelpiece clock. Of course, it came with the addendum that he hoped Vlado would recover the Winterbottom Kit with all speed.
In the Jineman Estate that Vlado now occupied, the only change visible upon entering was that clock, placed where one’s eyes fell immediately. The clock’s resplendent golden pillars would have seemed out of place even in the Jineman Estate that Rulken had once managed, but now, used as it was in what amounted to an abandoned house, it was jarringly incongruous.
Worse still was the clock’s chime.
Dong, dong, dong…
The bell’s toll echoed through every corner of the quiet estate. It would ring nine times. Vlado counted silently in his heart.
He could not quite remember whether he had eaten supper, but he remembered clearly that it had rung eight times a moment ago. It felt as though his life flowed only to the rhythm of that clock’s chimes.
Dong…
As the final sound faded, the candlelight twisted once more. One flame suddenly extinguished.
“Do you dislike that clock too, brother?”
Vlado’s voice echoed through the study. There was no answer.

Midnight.
I stirred awake from fitful sleep, seized by an inexplicable chill. I pulled the blanket closer and tried to drift back into slumber, but it eluded me.
That peculiar teacher had sprawled across this bed for a full four hours before Langie finally roused him. Even then, unwashed and disheveled, he’d insisted on rushing to see Rosnis—I’d had to restrain him once more and talk him down.
I wondered if Walnut Teacher, amusing as he was, could actually teach me swordcraft properly. If he didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to defeat the opponent I’d have to face for Rosnis’s sake.
Did I have to win?
It was a murky question. Without the Count’s family’s aid, I would never have known such comfort, never escaped the grasp of pursuers and thieves. For these two things alone, I owed him a considerable debt. I genuinely wanted to repay that kindness.
Yet to be coldly honest, it was merely a transaction. I was not indebted to him.
The Count had said winning would be welcome, but losing was acceptable. Though the terms seemed unusually favorable, I had been given an objective, and doing my utmost within that framework was all I could manage.
It was the Count who decided to bring me along despite my inadequate swordsmanship. Defeating an opponent trained for years after only months of instruction seemed, perhaps, an unreasonable plan.
But should I burden myself with such concerns? I had simply chosen one path to survive. What mattered was living as my brother had instructed.
If the Count intended to punish me for failure, contrary to his promise, I shouldn’t resign myself to accept any punishment—I should flee swiftly instead.
I was not born for the Count’s purposes. I was born for my own life.
But for now, I would try.
Mastering the sword would benefit me as well. And I desperately wanted to gain the skill to properly wield that blade—the Winterer, my brother’s very extension.
It was the only desire I, who lived almost free of longing, had ever harbored. To become strong enough that no one could take anything from me, to live without borrowing anyone’s hand.
I rose from bed and descended to retrieve the sword I’d hidden beneath it. My hand groped inside, but the cloth wrapping the blade wouldn’t come free. I dug deeper, but found nothing.
The bed was too large; my arm couldn’t reach the far side. Had I placed it over there?
As I crawled to the opposite side and felt around, tension gradually seized me. Cold liquid traced down my cheeks and nose. I had never known what it felt like to have cold sweat streaming down my forehead and back.
…
At last my fingers caught the cloth and dragged it out. That was all. I crawled beneath the bed itself, but it was futile.
It was gone. Nowhere to be found.
The Winterer had vanished without a trace!

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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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