Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 438

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————

Episode 208.
The Face of an Angel and
the Blood Flowing Through a Demon’s Heart (17)
Riche looked up toward the upper deck as Maximian, who had said he would rest for a moment, failed to return for quite some time. She caught sight of his back as he sat facing away from her. It appeared he was with someone. After a brief moment, Maximian turned to look back. Riche thought their eyes had met, but it was merely her imagination. Watching him turn his head away, she fell into contemplation. Maximian’s expression remained as impassive as always, yet something about his demeanor had shifted. It was more than mere intuition. Riche herself had sensed something amiss for some time now.
Riche climbed toward the upper deck.
Maximian sat facing a young boy who appeared to be around twelve years old. Several cards lay scattered about nearby, though it didn’t seem they had been playing cards. As Riche approached, the boy lifted his head first. Maximian then turned to look at her. The moment their eyes met, Riche was certain: something had happened.
A question nearly burst from her lips according to her nature, but the experience of traveling with Maximian for some time resurfaced, and she held back her words. Like a proper beautiful assistant, she spoke with deliberate caution, even feigning cheerfulness.
“What are you doing up here? Everyone down below is having a grand time.”
Maximian gestured.
“Come here.”
Riche sat beside the two of them. She spoke first to the boy.
“I’m Riche.”
“I’m Albi.”
Riche nodded. Maximian spoke.
“What are the people like?”
“Interesting folk. They say they’re putting on a play soon. Everyone’s quite drunk, so I’m not sure how well it’ll go.”
“What about Jo?”
“He’d naturally be delighted by a play. He seemed to be talking with the actors.”
“Nothing unusual?”
“Should there be something unusual?”
Maximian answered unexpectedly without hesitation.
“Yes. Did you notice anything odd about those people?”
“Well, if I had to say something, there is one thing.”
Maximian adjusted his posture.
“What is it?”
“Their clothing seems rather strange. As far as I know, those are the kinds of garments people wore hundreds of years ago. Could it be stage costumes? But do they really wear stage costumes all the time?”
Maximian lowered his head, then gestured with his chin toward the boy named Albi.
“I was deliberating whether to believe what this boy said. Hearing your account, it seems I should.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look down there again.”
Riche turned her head to gaze downward. From above, the atmosphere felt distinctly different from when they had mingled with them moments before. It was as though wind-up dolls were moving about. Yet it was difficult to discern what exactly was amiss at first glance.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“Something placed in the corner near the stern.”
Riche’s eyes caught it. A box covered with black cloth—likely a cargo crate, she thought. It was rectangular and quite large. Large enough for a person to sit inside.
“What is that? It’s a box, isn’t it? Does it contain something strange?”
“What do you think might be inside?”
“The way it’s covered doesn’t look like ordinary cargo. Could it be treasure?”
“Would you cover treasure with a mere scrap of cloth and leave it on the deck while inviting guests aboard?”
Riche said nothing more and kept her gaze fixed on the box. The box itself showed no change, yet when one focused on it, a peculiarity became apparent: the movement of the people. As though an invisible force circled the box, pushing everyone away. Even as the intoxicated guests stumbled about, they altered their paths when approaching the box. They veered aside at an angle. Always maintaining a distance of roughly one step, the space beside the box remained perpetually empty. No one touched it.
As Riche covered her nose and mouth with one hand, lost in thought, Albi spoke.
“They won’t touch it. They’re even afraid to go near it. That’s why they couldn’t move it elsewhere. It has to stay right where it is, forever. If that curse were ever broken….”
“A curse?”
Riche asked in surprise. Albi continued without pause.
“They’d flee to somewhere they’d never have to see that box again. But they can’t leave the ship.”
“Why not just enter a harbor?”
“They can’t. They can’t even escape these waters.”
“What are you talking about? I heard yesterday you performed at a harbor. You said you’d taken on fresh provisions.”
Maximian spoke instead of Albi.
“Yesterday? That’s impossible. There’s no harbor within a day’s sail of here. The nearest inhabited island is Periwinkle, which we left four days ago.”
“And the place we’re supposed to arrive at tomorrow….”
“That’s right. Sunset Island is uninhabited.”
Riche blinked in confusion. Then her eyes met Albi’s. His expression was strangely contorted—as if he might rage or burst into tears.
“That’s correct. It wasn’t yesterday. Or rather, it was yesterday, but a very distant yesterday. How long ago it was… I can’t remember.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t remember how many times I’ve been repeating today.”
Albi forced the words out, his cheek twitching. Riche didn’t understand what he meant, but she drew back slightly. Maximian spoke.
“According to this one, they should all have died ages ago. Ancient clothes, an old-fashioned ship, outdated customs. None of it belongs to this era. I can’t even guess how many years it’s been. Of course, this one is the same. But strangely, only he seems aware that time has passed. They don’t.”
“Wait, hold on. They’re all dead? But they look perfectly fine.”
“I didn’t say they were dead. But they couldn’t possibly still be alive. Centuries must have passed since they became like this. Whether they’re living in that state or dead, I couldn’t say.”
Riche shook her head, bewildered. If they were dead… yes, they wouldn’t be corpses, so could they be spirits? Thanks to Joshua, she knew spirits existed, but she’d never seen one directly. At most, she’d only heard voices.
Of course, she hadn’t wanted to see one, nor had she expected to. But if she ever did, she’d imagined they’d be like translucent shadows. She’d never imagined spirits with such vivid forms—ones whose garments brushed against you, who exchanged cups with you, who spoke, who appeared so distinctly real.
Maximian seemed to notice Riche’s thoughts and shook his head.
“Joshua has mistaken spirits for people more than once. It happened before, even at the Mage Juspian’s house. Perhaps spirits aren’t inherently visible or invisible—they simply appear if they’re meant to be seen, and don’t if they’re not.”
“But Joshua? Shouldn’t he have known first, then?”
“He already does know.”
Maximian pointed a finger toward the corner of the deck.
“Look at that man.”
A brief, strange moment passed before Riche recognized who Maximian was indicating. She saw a man standing beside Joshua. He was neither a sailor from the ship they’d arrived on nor from this one. He was thin and lanky, his long hair loosely tied back. His clothing was somewhat peculiar.
The man was watching an actor speaking with Joshua. The actor, who’d been chattering away, then offered his hand to shake with the man as well. The man bowed politely but didn’t accept the handshake.
“Who is that man?”
“You really don’t know? You’ve met him several times.”
“I have? I’ve never seen him before.”
Riche repeated her words quietly a moment later.
“Never… seen him.”
Her voice carried a barely suppressed note of realization. Riche had understood. A person she’d spoken of many times. Someone she’d never actually seen, yet somehow knew.
It was Kelsniti.
8. The Song of the Dead Jester
A jester isn’t someone who makes you laugh.
He’s someone who laughs in your place.
2 AM.
On the Deck, an impromptu performance was in full swing. Since the Traveling Theater Troupe had introduced themselves as such, they possessed the ability to erect a stage anywhere—even atop a barren Wasteland of stones. The swaying of the ship posed no obstacle whatsoever.
No script was necessary. Any resident of Southern Anomarad, from a five-year-old child to a sixty-year-old Grandmother, knew the play “May! May!”—a work passed down through oral tradition. Yet despite its folkloric nature, they boasted that only they could present something truly special about it. Whether this was mere habit or clever salesmanship remained to be seen.
In truth, the play’s content had become something extraordinary. As mentioned before, the influence of alcohol had transformed the narrative beyond recognition. Originally, “May! May!” told this story: twin sisters May and Holly each harbored affection for brothers Yoni and Nilba from a neighboring village, but both brothers loved only May. To disappoint neither, Holly impersonated May, and in doing so, found herself betrothed to both men. Thus, May and Holly conspired earnestly to make one of them fall in love with Holly instead. Yet now, both sisters were pursuing Nilba, while Yoni lay sprawled in a corner of the stage, long since asleep.
But no one minded. The drunken actresses’ lines had devolved into childish utterances bearing no resemblance to the script.
“My beloved Nilba, I shall brush honey upon a roasted apple for you. Do take a bite.”
“Do not refuse a honeyed apple as passionate as my love for you.”
The actor playing Nilba retained enough of his wits to avoid biting into the steaming apple just brought from the Kitchen. As he retreated, he nearly tripped over Yoni’s outstretched leg. He managed to avoid the fake sword piercing through the stage floor by grasping the curtain serving as a backdrop, but in doing so, the temporary pole binding the curtain began to tilt, and the rod functioning as a rafter became half-detached. With three actors—no, four including the sleeping man—on the verge of being crushed beneath the curtain and rafter, the audience rushed forward to embrace the pole, one person pulling the curtain from behind, and throughout this chaos, the performance continued unabated.
Presently, the actress playing May did not forget her cue and began to sing. Yet her throat, parched by alcohol, rendered the song dreadful. It seemed the audience’s ears grew intoxicated more slowly than their throats, for they showed no mercy, hurling jeers.
“Your voice is completely hoarse!”
“Go drink some water and come back!”
As fellow troupe members in the audience chuckled and shouted, May ceased her song and suddenly began dancing—a movement absent from any script. At this point, it was more fitting to call it a village festival without a script, transcending considerations of singing or dancing skill. Fortunately, the Sailors who had come from the Altena possessed sufficient alcohol and food to remain indifferent. Most had actually fallen asleep, but no one harbored complaints, and neither wind nor waves interfered.
That night seemed destined to repeat itself, flowing identically as it had thousands of times before, destined to end in the same manner.
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 content, written consent from both parties is required.

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————