Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 370

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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 140.
May Your Final Performance
Be Your Greatest (15)
Riche flinched as if to bolt from her seat, then caught herself and forced composure into her voice.
“Me? What are you talking about? Someone like me—dull-witted, with nothing to show for it but needlework—jealous of Demonic Joshua? That’s absurd. You really do say the strangest things.”
Maximian’s lips curved into a bitter smile.
“Listen, even a beggar sleeping under a bridge is secretly jealous of the princess who rides above it. Jealousy is like human nature itself. The disparity in ability doesn’t matter when it comes to jealousy—only the intensity and sincerity vary from person to person. It’s natural, really. Demonic Joshua was born with an essence that stirs jealousy in everyone, or rather, hatred. When you’re near such a being, everyone watches their own world warp. Like a powerful magnetic field, the safe world you’ve carefully built gets distorted at its edges. So who could possibly like that? And we’re very close to him. Both you and I.”
“You too?”
Maximian’s smile turned cynical in an instant.
“Even I don’t entirely like that fellow.”
Riche’s eyes widened slightly.
“But I’ve known him since childhood. Like growing accustomed to bitterness, he’s already familiar to me. You, however—even if you didn’t realize it—you must have been quite shocked. Your entire world was shocked. No matter how one’s insides are constructed, one’s own world is precious. If even an edge threatens to tear, you cry out and become defensive, sometimes even striking first.”
Riche sat quietly for a moment, then spoke in an irritated tone.
“I understand what you’re saying. But let’s stop now. What difference does it make anyway? All that comes from confirming it is heartache. I never expected myself to become someone as remarkable as Demonic Joshua. But as you say, being near him makes my world feel shabby, and that bothers me. So why am I making clothes for that person? It’s truly inexplicable. No one asked me to. I’m not getting paid. I didn’t volunteer for unpaid labor out of affection. So why do I do it?”
“Because it’s enjoyable?”
“Huh? Well…”
Riche glanced sideways at the neighboring table, thought for a moment, then answered clearly.
“That’s right! It’s fun. I’ve always enjoyed making clothes, but when I think of them as being for that person, I feel so much more enthusiastic. The thought of seeing them worn fills me with excitement. Though I doubt they’ll actually wear them… Ah! Is that why I’m making them? But why is it more fun than other clothes?”
“Have you fallen in love?”
“Are you insane?”
Both knowing it was a joke, they stuck out their tongues and laughed. Maximian spoke.
“I think it might be something like this. Say you’re a person who makes bowls. But your bowl is destined to hold a dish prepared by the Royal Court’s exclusive cook. Wouldn’t that be more interesting to make?”
“Hmm… I suppose it would be. But is that all there is to it?”
Maximian shook his head.
“It’s far from that simple. If you had no pride in your bowl, hearing that a magnificent dish would be placed in it, that it would be served at a banquet where the king and queen would taste it—you wouldn’t feel joy, you’d feel fear. You’d be ashamed, thinking it wouldn’t match. But if you have confidence, the story changes.”
“So you’re saying that because I have pride in my clothes, I want to dress someone as excellent as Demonic Joshua, and I’m not afraid of that person wearing them on stage? Ah…”
Riche lowered her head and fell into thought. Maximian let her think.
“I’m still young and not as skilled at design as Mirangette.”
After a long silence, Riche spoke, tilting her head slightly as she tapped her fingertips together.
“But I’m certain I’ll keep improving. I’m not Demonic Joshua, but someday I’ll become something too. Yes, if I had no pride, why would I even feel jealousy? It’s a word I hate to admit, but… maybe I’m just desperately trying to escape that jealousy in my own way and prove my worth. I must be mad—I’ve made three outfits in the meantime. Though I’ll discard two of them.”
“You’ve made three already?”
Maximian feigned surprise, then suddenly smacked his lips.
“Seems like I’m the only one lounging around.”
Riche’s face looked considerably better. She seemed to have many thoughts swirling in her mind now. Maximian probed gently.
“But earlier, when you said that at first—you weren’t drunk, were you?”
Riche lifted her chin and answered confidently.
“Is there really someone who gets drunk from just one drink?”
“Tsk, you certainly know how to talk.”
“If you want to hear more, I’m happy to oblige.”
“No, I’ll pass. Listening to you is quite troublesome, actually.”
“Your personality is impossible.”
Though they exchanged such words, neither bore the expression of someone truly offended. Riche seemed to feel considerably better simply from speaking her mind plainly, while Maximian wore the face of someone who had heard a reasonable explanation and harbored no particular grievance. After all, he was a man accustomed to a life of hearing complaints.
Maximian drained the remaining liquor in one gulp, then suddenly raised his hand toward the entrance.
“Hey, over here!”
When Riche turned to look, a tall man entered with a wide stride and seated himself across from them. Maximian straightened his torso, which had been leaning at an angle, and opened his mouth.
“I’m looking to hire a navigator.”
The man appeared to be around thirty, and from what Maximian said, Riche suspected he was a sort of broker—the kind who connected ship captains and merchants seeking competent sailors with the sailors themselves at the Harbor. Of course, he was also the sort who connected people who had been cheated out of money with those who had pocketed it, or arranged meetings between enemies whose paths had diverged.
The man waved his hand to order a beer and folded his arms.
“The Harbor is full of navigators. The problem is finding a decent one. Tell me your conditions.”
“The ship is small, but I need someone capable of commanding a few inexperienced sailors as captain. Under thirty years old—the younger the better. Two months of work would suffice, and an optimistic disposition that accepts things as they come would be ideal. Oh, and I can pay generously.”
“That’s quite a demanding set of conditions. Capable men are older, and young ones are useless.”
The man hesitated, apparently wanting to inflate the value of his information, so Riche silently mouthed a question to Maximian.
‘We can’t rule out the possibility of falling from the sky and wandering lost at sea again, can we?’
‘I absolutely won’t do it twice.’
‘What about money?’
‘Jo will bring in earnings. What’s there to worry about?’
Then the man spoke.
“There is one suitable person. But there’s only one, you see. If that fellow is occupied with other work… it will be difficult to pull him away.”
It was obvious he was asking for a premium. Maximian nodded generously.
“I said payment would be ample. Just bring him.”
“Then I’ll make contact. Have your purse ready. It might take some time.”
“Four days.”
With that, Maximian stood and left, paying for the beer the man had ordered as well. His manner was as unguarded as if he were a native of this district. When they stepped outside, Riche spoke.
“You’re doing what you’re capable of doing. Perhaps what only you can do.”
Maximian did not smile, merely lifting the corners of his mouth slightly.
The path crossing through the Theater District still gleamed with brilliant light. As Maximian stepped onto that street, he murmured.
“Five days left until opening night.”
Riche glanced at Maximian, then gazed at the street herself and murmured.
“I hope nothing happens between now and then.”
Unlike Riche, who had grown sentimental, Maximian was focused on new practical concerns, his eyes scanning the surroundings. He spotted a lit Inn across the street and nodded.
“I’ve had a good idea. Let’s do a quick Inn survey.”
8. The Secret Play of Two Girls
I lay in the Grassland watching the clouds.
When clouds obscured the sun, cool shadow fell
And her braided hair rested among the wildflowers
While butterflies alighted on my tangled hair upon the Hill.
I had exactly one friend
But when the sun came out, she was already gone.
Brushing off my clothes as I watched the cloud shadows
The gravestone already wore the sunset’s glow.
What could you call it but an Attic Room? Like most Theater structures, it was difficult to pinpoint exactly how many stories the building had, yet this space curved like a crescent moon above the Grand Hall. The windows were shaded by awnings, a faint smell of mothballs drifted through the air, and no one peered inside even after half a day had passed. It possessed everything children playing hide-and-seek adored—secrets, labyrinths, and forests all woven together.
A girl who had grown too tall to play hide-and-seek in that forest of hundreds of garments walked through it. With each brush of her fingertips, costumes shimmering with captured light rustled, breaking the silence.
Coral-hued puffed sleeves, demure fox fur, a clown’s hat borrowed from a golden beetle’s coat, a pale blue silk skirt studded with silver flowers, the trembling sound of a Farthingale that quivered as if alive at the slightest touch, spaces overflowing with lace and chiffon and muslin that transformed dancers into fairies—if a child could pass through this place that seemed to enchant everyone without a gasp or sigh, she was surely a seamstress who knew needle and thread. Whispers spread between the garments. A seamstress had arrived—one who understood the voices of clothes not as dreamlike murmurs but in clear language, who selected and extracted them, and when necessary, could cut them into dozens of pieces.
Six rows of rails held the hanging clothes. Walking between them felt like strolling through the pathways of a boxwood-trimmed Garden. As Riche brushed past, one garment caught in her hand. She lifted it from its hanger and examined it, and her brow furrowed immediately. A stain had formed on the white bodice and been left unfinished, and dust had settled thickly in every fold of the ruffles, so the beauty of the dress had become a secondary concern.
Looking more carefully, many others were in similar condition. The fox fur was moth-eaten in patches, the plate-shaped collar had worn cheap bias tape that hung in tatters, the false gold silk was darkening with discoloration, and the mesh was covered in seam marks. On one side, mismatched shoes were bunched together, and recently worn costumes lay in an unorganized heap.
No one was managing them properly. It was a typical Theater costume storage room—the kind where people ordered this dress and that dress as needed, then stacked them away and forgot about them once they were no longer required. Yet the floor was spotless and dust-free, suggesting at least the janitor was diligent.
Children of Rune – Winterer
Author: Jeon Min-hee
Published by: 14 Months Publishing
The copyright to this book belongs to the author and 14 Months Publishing.
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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