Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 339

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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 109.
Ninety-Eight Souls (22)
Act 6. Trans
1. The Corner House
A child born virtuous knows no hell in death, yet there exists a hell in life. The world without Mother—that is the child’s hell, and this world echoes with the weeping of children dwelling in that inferno.
The Cazals residence was commonly called the Corner House. It jutted abruptly into a five-way intersection like a crack spreading through glass, with one wall facing Rose Valley Market and the opposite wall facing Shoemaker’s Alley—a peculiar triangular structure. Where the triangle’s apex should have been, the intersection lay, but the building protruded so far into the street that its head became the true center point of the five-way crossing.
The first floor of the Corner House was a tavern. Its exterior, bearing a forty-year-old rose vine mural that had never been erased or repainted, possessed a desolation that bordered on the sinister. Perhaps for this reason, the drinks were cheap. The liquor had earned a poor reputation for being frequently watered down, and the cooking was merely adequate, yet the establishment possessed an inexplicable popularity. The reason lay on the second floor of the Corner House.
Those who frequented the first floor were ordinary drunkards, but anyone who set foot on the second floor was said to be someone incapable of maintaining a peaceful household. The second floor was divided into several rooms, and thieves seeking to conduct unsavory transactions would often rent them. In the Grand Hall positioned at the center of the second floor, high-stakes gambling games unfolded every day, lasting entire nights without pause. It was not uncommon to hear tales of people who vanished for several days, only to stumble out through the Corner House’s door at dawn and immediately hurl themselves into the river.
Cazals was also the name of the proprietress, a woman over seventy years old. In the days when people affectionately called Julia Cazals “Juli,” this place was nothing like it was now. The food had been delicious, and the cider had enjoyed a fine reputation. During those times, the second floor had been a dance hall, and the right hand pushing open the brass handle of the front entrance would appear soft and youthful, while the left hand often held someone else’s tightly. There were occasional stories of couples who had met at Cazals and married, only to have their children squander their fortunes on the second floor.
The old woman had lived an unnaturally long life, yet she had entrusted the business to her children over a decade ago. Whether she was aware of the Corner House’s current notoriety remained unclear. She had been deaf for many years.
Despite undergoing radical transformations, the Corner House had always prospered. Its location was so favorable that any business conducted there could scarcely fail. Whether it operated as a dance hall, a tavern, a gambling house, or even became a library someday, it seemed unlikely to collapse easily. As long as the streets were not demolished and the district redrawn, it would always be called the Corner House, and even if Cazals’s children abandoned it, someone would inevitably arrive to start a new enterprise.
From day laborers jingling a few coins to aristocratic wastrels scattering tens of thousands of Elso in a single night, from villains concealing daggers to elderly women searching for gambling-addicted sons, all manner of people pushed open the Corner House’s smooth, worn brass handle. None of them drew the attention of passersby. Even if a young lady in a parasol entered with two servants and a trailing dress, no one would have been surprised. The secret lay on the second floor. Once someone rented one of the rooms upstairs, a peculiar service took effect: not even a glass of water would be brought until they deliberately knocked to summon someone. This “service,” the inverse of service in the conventional sense, had moved certain hearts.
Had someone torn away the roof and surveyed the second floor’s landscape all at once, it would have been most intriguing. In one room, gangsters plotting a burglary huddled together exchanging rough words, while in the adjacent room, young lovers whispered promises to elope without their parents’ knowledge. Behind the Grand Hall where gamblers stared at dice with bloodshot eyes, those desperate to conceal their meetings negotiated in hushed tones. They shared nothing in common except that the Corner House’s second floor was indispensable to each of them.
On the night of May 27th, three young men pushed open the Corner House’s brass handle and entered. Just before eleven o’clock, in the adjacent room, a legendary gambling game with stakes exceeding a million Elso unfolded, while in the Grand Hall, a young woman cradling a child stood surrounded by gangsters, anxiously awaiting her husband’s arrival.
The young man leading the way possessed a confident build, and beneath a drooping hat brim, his weathered face gave him the appearance of a dock worker. Of the two following him, the shorter one wore a hooded cloak like a monk, concealing his face entirely, while the last wore a bowler hat with a muffler wound high around his neck, revealing only his eyes.
Both of them possessed delicate hands, as if they had frequented this place during its dance hall days. However, one wore gloves and the other had lengthened his sleeves, so this detail went unnoticed.
Upon entering, the acrid stench of tobacco smoke assaulted the nose, causing the hooded young man to furrow his brow. The tavern was packed that evening. Those who had been drinking on the first floor and intended to ascend to the second floor at an opportune moment were lined up at the bar. The first young man, pushing through the inebriated patrons, reached the bar and tapped the table to summon the bartender.
“What will you have?”
“Second floor.”
The bartender shrugged and asked.
“Room 3?”
“That’s right. Is the guest already here?”
“Just arrived.”
The bartender glanced sideways at the two young men standing behind, then withdrew a key from inside his waistband and handed it over.
“Second door on the right of the staircase. The number plate fell off.”
Believing he had said all that needed saying, the bartender turned to customers tapping their glasses on tables. The young men climbed the staircase.
Upon reaching the second floor, the cacophony below diminished by roughly half. The door to Room 3 bore no number plate, just as the bartender had said. Without bothering to knock, the young man inserted the key and turned it. The door, thick as a prison gate, scraped loudly against the threshold.
“Welcome.”
Even as the door was being closed and locked, a greeting came from beyond the table. Turning, they saw a sparse room containing only one table and six chairs. Three men occupied chairs facing the window. The blonde man seated in the middle was clearly their intended contact.
“I hope this proves to be a pleasant meeting.”
The tall young man who had led the way responded with substance and pulled a chair toward himself. As he sat, the other two young men took their seats. The blonde man spoke.
“Shall we introduce ourselves? This is my friend Anistan Bölf. A talented mage. And this is Kanka, my advisor.”
The young man removed his hat, placed it on the table, and looked directly into the other’s eyes as he spoke.
“You may call me Don Crea.”
“As for me, you may call me Moro.”
No further introductions were necessary. Theo, who had identified himself as Moro—Theostid da Moro—folded his arms and smiled faintly, tilting his head to one side.
“But Don Crea, you are younger than I imagined. It seems the Friends of the People select their executives based on ability.”
Though it sounded like praise, it was truly a question: whether someone so young actually possessed genuine authority. At this, one of the other two young men spoke.
“It is the principle of our organization that executives know nothing of one another beyond their assignments, activity records, and contact names. Furthermore, since roles are clearly divided, having met Don Crea, you will have no occasion to meet any other executive.”
It was a statement that, regardless of whether they seemed trustworthy, there existed no alternative. Theo’s gaze shifted to the speaker. If they were not even introduced, they should be a low-ranking member, yet they grasped the crux of the conversation with precision.
Though his face was nearly obscured by the muffler, his sharp gaze alone betrayed a keen and formidable temperament. Beneath the black bowler hat, strands of pale blue hair—a color rarely seen—caught the eye with striking distinction.
“I mean no offense by my words. I consider it an honor to have this audience with Don Crea. Moreover, I’ve heard that you are a master at bringing the Nobility into our fold. How could I not hold great expectations and admiration? Haha…”
As I accepted the gazes of the three young men upon me and smiled naturally, Langier Rosencrantz judged that Theo was a man skilled in deception. By contrast, the mage beside him—Anistan—bore unmistakable signs of tension. Kanka, for his part, seemed to be methodically assessing each of them with a practiced, downward gaze.
It was Langier himself who had devised the strategy of putting forward Hailjer, whose bearing suggested maturity beyond his years, to serve as the executive, while he would play the role of an attendant. Initially, Hailjer had been reluctant to accept his role, citing a lack of confidence in leading negotiations. However, Langier had persuaded him by pointing out that he would handle most of the conversation anyway, and thus the current arrangement had come to be.
Today’s true negotiator was Langier, the district chairman of Keltika District 3. Yet the other party knew neither his real name nor his alias. The Exile Council, the central leadership of the Friends of the People, had determined that Theo and Langier should meet, and Langier had been selected as the negotiating counterpart because his background was deemed suitable for this task.
However, even the leadership figures who had made that decision did not know who Langier was—neither his face nor even his age. Therefore, there was no problem with presenting someone else as the executive as part of the negotiating strategy.
Hailjer—or rather, Don Crea—responded.
“The true master of bringing people into the fold is that friend over there. He’s someone I trust implicitly. His way with words is sharper than mine, too.”
Theo smiled faintly and turned his head toward Langier, asking,
“What should I call you?”
“Call me D.”
With those words, I unwound my muffler. The only light in the room came from an oil lamp placed at the corner of the table, yet my smooth jawline, cool gaze, and elegant nose were rendered in sharp relief. Theo feigned surprise and spoke.
“With a face like that, you can still conduct clandestine operations? It’s a face one could never forget once seen.”
Hailjer spoke.
“As long as Lord Moro keeps the secret, there shouldn’t be any problems. For now, we’re only engaged in public activities.”
Theo understood immediately and replied,
“I appreciate your show of trust. But I too am in a position where my secrets must be kept, so we’re even on that account.”

Children of Rune – Winterer
Author: Jeon Min-hee
Publisher: 14 Months Publishing
The rights to this book belong to the author and 14 Months Publishing.
To reuse all or part of this book’s contents, 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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