Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 51

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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 51.
Breaking Through the Trap, Into the Storm (21)
Tears suddenly poured down.
Not for the dead. Nor for myself. My chest felt hollow and suffocating. I couldn’t find the words to describe it. It was neither sorrow, nor pain, nor relief.
I had committed something terrible, yet no one embraced me and said it would be all right.
I could not mourn the man’s death. I could grieve for a bird fallen from its nest after the storm passed, but I could not mourn him. Because it was a life I had erased with my own hands.
Nothing in this world can truly be undone, yet this alone felt so terrifying and distant, as if it were irreversible.
At the same time, I was terrified of myself. These hands that had killed someone—it felt as though I could kill anyone now.
“Brother….”
My lips unconsciously called out for my brother. In that moment, I remembered what he had said while looking into my eyes.
It’s something I can do too. Not just Father—I can kill someone as well.
You’re the same.
My brother was right. Now I too had become someone who had killed. When such a moment comes, can anyone do it?
I had done something I had never done before, but it did not feel like growth. It felt like stepping onto a path from which there was no return.
The world around me grew brighter, yet my heart darkened as if stained with blood. Above the head of the bloodied boy who had committed his first murder, the white sun finally rose.

“We let him slip away!”
Count Belnoir’s face hardened with fury as reports continued to pour in.
By the following morning, he had unleashed some seventy trackers across the Belcruze and Arajon regions, yet not a single soul had caught even a glimpse of the boy’s shadow. His frustration had turned to seething rage.
Every one of the trackers knew Boris’s face, and more than half had begun their search before lunch the previous day—yet this was the result.
When exactly did that wretch escape? Why did no one see him?
He had rushed back to Belnoir Castle and torn apart Boris’s room throughout the night searching, but of course the Winterer did not appear.
He thought he had kept a careful eye on the boy since bringing him here, sending him out far for the first time, yet he could not fathom how the creature had been hidden and smuggled away.
Rosnis, bewildered by the situation, came rushing to him the moment she awoke that morning, demanding to know her brother’s whereabouts, but the Count was in no mood to answer his daughter’s questions.
“Did Brother lose? Is that why Father drove him away? Is that it? Please, tell me!”
“Be quiet and go to your room!”
The Count rarely spoke to his daughter in such a manner, so Rosnis’s eyes immediately glistened with tears.
Yet being as spoiled as she was, her stubbornness was equally formidable.
“I hate you, Father! Brother was kind… How could you not even bring him home, no matter if he lost? I just wanted to say goodbye to him… I never thought you’d do something like this!”
Despite her outburst, when the Count did not even respond, Rosnis’s heart was deeply wounded, and she ran out of the room.
Yet the Count’s mind was already occupied with other matters.
“Bring Langier here!”
Langier appeared before the Count, half-dragged, his expression one of great surprise, yet his demeanor remained composed as he regarded the nobleman.
The Count opened his mouth in a threatening tone.
“When was the last time you saw Boris during that hunt?”
“Pardon?”
In the Count’s eyes, Langier appeared flustered by the sudden question, uncertain of its intent. After a moment of hesitation, he opened his mouth, his expression one of struggling to recall.
“Well… when three wild boars suddenly appeared and everyone was greatly startled… Since I had never seen a boar before, I was so frightened that I quickly turned my horse around and fled. At that moment, the young master also seemed equally startled… but as I was riding, I’m not certain which direction he went….”
His words sounded plausible. The Count narrowed one eye slightly and questioned him again sharply.
“I clearly saw you two were in the same direction. You are Boris’s attendant—do you truly think it makes sense that you became separated?”
Langier suddenly dropped to his knees, bowing his head deeply.
“I beg your pardon, my lord. If I have failed in my duties, I shall accept any punishment you see fit. If young master Boris has come to harm because of my negligence, I will do whatever it takes to——”
Throughout his plea, Langier continued to act as though Boris had merely gone missing.
The Count clicked his tongue in exasperation. Did this fool not even understand the reason for his anger? Was it worth wasting time interrogating such a creature?
In Count Belnoir’s mind, it was impossible for a servant to secretly plan something over a long period and finally execute it. To him, servants were beings who knew nothing but immediate profit and fear, unable to foresee even four days ahead.
Yet despite this conviction, the Count raised his voice once more, as if to reaffirm his resolve.
“You wouldn’t dare lie to me, would you? If it comes to light that you saw him leave but pretended otherwise, know that you will not survive what comes after!”
Langier replied with an unchanged expression of bewilderment.
“How could such a thing be! I am prepared to accept any punishment for not knowing young master’s whereabouts, though I should have been closest to him. But why do you believe young master has left? Could he not simply have lost his way in the forest?”
The Count no longer listened to Langier’s words. He turned to his secretary Hugh and issued his command.
“Continue the search, and conduct a thorough body search of all those who return empty-handed. Tell them that if anyone is found to have seen him and lied about it, they will forfeit their lives!”
“Yes, my lord!”
While the Count continued issuing several more orders, Langier remained prostrate before rising slowly and withdrawing from the room.
As his footsteps along the corridor came to an abrupt halt, Langier found himself gazing at that particular chamber on this floor of Moonshine Tower. He had arrived here without even realizing it.
But he would never enter that place again.
Langier offered a bitter smile and turned his gaze toward the sky beyond the window. A small bird, separated from its flock, crossed the Meadow with powerful wingbeats.
Langier Rosencrantz stood for a long time watching it, his hand raised to shield his eyes from the sunlight.

The Blacksmith Dwarit was attempting to conclude his day at last.
The Blacksmith’s Shop stood some distance from the Unnamed Village, backed against the Granite Quarry. Yet his reputation for skill was known throughout the region, so he managed to earn his living without difficulty.
That day, however, he had received no particular visitors. Two farmers from nearby villages had come to repair their agricultural tools, and a single girl had brought her father’s rusted iron sword for repair—that was all.
Still, he had accumulated much work from the previous days, so Dwarit labored until evening as always.
Though aged and never having married, he had no children, so his working hours were entirely at his discretion.
With no thought of supper, he considered venturing into the village tonight for a beer.
As he was putting away the bellows and rags, removing his leather apron and hanging it on a hook, a human silhouette appeared faintly from the direction of the Meadow.
With the farming season approaching, it was rare to see people wandering about idly, so he wondered if this was a traveler from afar.
The shadow drew gradually closer. The wind swept across the Meadow like long wings.
Dark blue hair was fluttering in the breeze. The figure was mounted on a horse and dressed as a traveler, yet seemed remarkably small in stature for an adult.
As the Blacksmith removed his gloves and set them on the shelf, turning around, the shadow was already but a few steps away.
As expected, it was a youth whose cheeks still held the softness of boyhood. Yet his entire body was drenched as though he had just emerged from water.
In such a state, the boy was naturally shivering. Though spring had advanced, the evening air remained cold. The boy leaped from his horse and approached, leading it by the reins.
“Have you finished your work for the day?”
His voice was low, as though hoarse.
The boy carried little luggage for a traveler. A pouch resembling a lunch sack hung from the saddle, and he held a single sword in his hand.
Yet that sword was peculiar. Even for one as seasoned as the Blacksmith, it bore a scabbard of a material he had never before witnessed.
“What brings you here?”
“I wish to obtain a new scabbard for this sword.”
The Blacksmith found himself responding in a voice tinged with surprise.
“For that?”
To the Blacksmith’s eye, the scabbard appeared to have no defects whatsoever. Far from being worn, it bore not a single blemish—its pristine white surface fit perfectly with the blade it held.
I couldn’t fathom why he would want to change such a scabbard.
The boy seemed to have noticed the Blacksmith’s expression and understood what he was thinking.
Despite his youth, his face was dark and his eyes were deeply shadowed—the eyes of one who had witnessed things no child should see. The Blacksmith suddenly furrowed his brow at the memory.
“I would prefer a new scabbard that is simple and unremarkable. Of course, I’ll pay for it. But since I have no time to wait… would you be willing to give me a scabbard from another sword instead? It doesn’t need to fit perfectly.”
The Blacksmith studied the boy’s face for a moment.
His dead nephew had possessed the same sharp jawline. That child had vowed to kill the one who murdered his father. And in the end, he had surrendered even his own life to his enemy, concluding his brief existence.
Dwarit had failed to stop his brother, failed to stop his nephew, and alone survived.
It was around the time he was stealing away his nephew’s corpse hanging from a pole in the dead of night to bury it that he resolved never to have children.
“Come inside.”
The Blacksmith Dwarit pulled out all the bastard swords he had crafted from the depths of his shop and showed them to the boy, gesturing for him to take what he wanted.
Among them were magnificent pieces intended as tributes to lords and wealthy merchants nearby—some with raw gemstones inlaid in bronze, others carved with intricate patterns.
Yet the boy chose a scabbard broad and heavy enough to suit a two-handed sword, its crude appearance reinforced at the tip with a rounded piece of metal to prevent wear.
Then the boy drew his sword.
Ah, the Blacksmith gasped in wonder. After spending forty years as a smith, he had never seen such a blade—he felt as though he had wasted his life.
The brilliance, the keen edge, the perfect lines and decisive joints made his eyes sting to behold.
The boy discarded the white scabbard and sheathed his blade in the crude one, obscuring its radiance. It was enough to break the Blacksmith’s heart.
To separate such a perfect union. To mar a divine artifact with something so utterly mismatched.
“I’ll take this one. How much do I owe you?”
“Must you do this? That scabbard doesn’t suit your magnificent blade at all…”
The Blacksmith spoke not from greed, but from genuine reverence for the nature of the sword itself.
Yet the boy shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll be discarding this scabbard anyway, so if you wish, you may have it.”
The Blacksmith shook his head, then after a moment nodded. He picked up the white scabbard the boy had set down and examined it with enchanted eyes before shaking his head again.
“You need not pay. In fact, I should be the one paying you for this scabbard.”
Before the boy could even refuse, the Blacksmith rummaged through a corner of his shop and produced a belt of yellowed leather.
The belt, made of two leather straps woven together and extending to the shoulder, was designed to carry a heavy sword slung across the back. The leather and buckle work were of exceptional craftsmanship.
The boy started to decline but stopped himself, offering brief thanks instead. He fastened the belt and hung the sword he had been carrying from it.
The two exchanged no lengthy farewells. The boy mounted his horse and rode away into the distance.

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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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