Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 66

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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 66.
Island of the Survivors (8)
Beyond the highland, three snow-capped peaks rose into view, their slopes as treacherous as any mountain range on the Continent. The island was far larger than I had imagined.
The party soon encountered a stone wall that encircled the southern edge of the highland. It towered well above the height of seven men standing shoulder to shoulder.
Yet it bore no resemblance to a defensive fortress. It was merely tall, devoid of any structure that would grant advantage in defense from above. There were no protruding towers, no crenellated battlements—not even a foothold for a person to climb.
Where the path met the stone wall stood an arched entrance wide enough for two carts to pass side by side.
But there was no door to seal it.
The party halted at the entrance. One of the men in the black muffler waited, then grasped something in his hand, traced a great cross, and thrust it forward.
At that moment, a thin veil that had been invisible until then shimmered like foam and parted left and right.
They stepped inside.
Magic, perhaps? Boris wondered as he crossed the threshold. Magic rendered mundane through habit.
But the instant he passed through, Boris froze in astonishment.
“This place….”
Before my eyes lay ruins—endless rubble scattered across the ground. Could such a place truly be called a village where people lived?
Between the heaps of stone stood massive columns, each as thick as two men’s spans, their heads severed, standing in bewildered silence. They formed two rows of intersecting lines that receded into the distance.
The ground was strewn with marble paving stones that had once been laid smooth, now cracked at their seams and sunken in countless places. Between every crevice writhed thick, black vines—like the grasping fingers of demons.
Those vines alone showed signs of life. Yet that was not what made it terrible.
Boris heard it clearly—footsteps.
Many people were walking about, treading upon the paving stones. Yet not a single person was visible.
In broad daylight, not under cover of night, invisible beings moved with light, nimble steps.
Tap, tap-tap-tap, tap….
Tap-tap-tap-tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
“….”
Without thinking, I seized Isildor San’s—no, Nauplion’s arm tightly. My throat constricted, and my eyes trembled uncontrollably.
Sensing the anxiety in the grip of the captured arm, Nauplion grasped Boris’s hand in return.
“What is it? What do you see?”
For a long moment, I could not answer, could not even blink. Only after a considerable pause did words finally emerge.
“I… I… Don’t you hear the sound? On those broken stones, the… the footsteps running across them….”
Nauplion drew Boris close, embracing his shoulders, then asked again.
“What do you see? Tell me in detail.”
“Rubble and columns… black vines….”
“…!”
The man in the black muffler also showed signs of alarm upon hearing this.
One of them approached and tried to place something into Boris’s hand from his pocket. But Nauplion waved him off, blocking the gesture.
“Wait.”
Nauplion turned Boris around and covered the boy’s eyes with one hand, while drawing him close with his other arm.
“It’s alright. Speak slowly. Tell me what you just saw. Describe it as your eyes perceived it. Explain it as though we could see nothing at all.”
As darkness fell across my vision, the footsteps that had so terrified me vanished.
Simultaneously, my head grew cold and my heart sank. Doubt seized me at once. Had what I just witnessed been real? Not a hallucination or a trick of perception?
Yet if I did not speak now, the memory would fade like a dream upon waking.
Boris opened his mouth.
“There were two rows of pillars without a roof, stretching into the distance. Like a colonnade. Other pillars crossed those at right angles, extending left and right. Between the pillars lay scattered rubble—as if smashed by a great hammer—that seemed to have once been buildings or roofs. The ground was paved with square stones, though nearly all were shattered. Black vines grew through the cracks. There was no one there, but… I heard footsteps. I don’t hear them now, but I did before. Light footsteps, like children playing tag… dozens of them, as if they were all playing tag together at once.”
Nauplion slowly lowered the hand that had covered Boris’s eyes.
Boris looked up at Nauplion. He knelt on one knee, his expression unreadable—whether joy, bewilderment, or concern, I could not discern.
“Give it here.”
Nauplion then extended his hand over Boris’s shoulder and received something. He placed it in Boris’s palm.
It was a small silver medal. Smooth on both sides with no markings whatsoever. There was a hole for threading a cord, but no cord was attached.
Nauplion exhaled an anxious breath and turned Boris around again.
“Ah…”
The second shock struck.
The landscape I had just witnessed vanished without a trace.
Instead, there stood bare-branched winter trees and low stone cottages with smoke rising from them.
Living people moved about indifferently. The ground was nothing but earth, not paved stones. There were no pillars to be seen, let alone black vines.
“…”
While Boris stood speechless, Nauplion placed a hand on his shoulder from behind.
“Remember well what you just saw.”
Boris, stunned by his experience, failed to notice the men in black scarves regarding him with markedly altered expressions.

The village was quiet.
I recalled a landscape I had once glimpsed through a Runette at some unnamed lake. But now, as the season approached winter, the mountainside stretching behind the village bore a gray hue of melting snow.
As we reached the village center, a distinctive square building rose prominently into view. Boris blinked his eyes several times, suspicious.
The pillars surrounding the building bore striking resemblance to those in the vision—or hallucination—I had just witnessed. Only their scale was half as grand.
The walls inside the pillars were densely covered with ornate reliefs. So elaborate they dizzied the eye. It was the first true decoration I had encountered on the island.
Yet that decoration clashed entirely with the serene atmosphere pervading the island.
In any case, our party entered the building. Beyond the entrance lay a spacious hall. An empty expanse devoid of tables or chairs.
Seven circles were drawn on the floor. Seven circles filled with geometric patterns—blue triangles, red ellipses, and the like—formed a larger circle overall.
Two people sat on cushions within two of the circles and looked up.
“Rest that rightfully returns to the Pilgrims!”
One cried out and rose from his seat. The other slowly lifted himself and spoke.
“Even the mayfly has a leaf to which it must return and perish. We celebrate your return, Priest of the Sword.”
The person called the Priest of the Sword was none other than Nauplion.
Nauplion strode forward and exchanged three embraces with each of the welcoming figures. Boris waited near the entrance with the others.
The man who had risen first was gaunt, appearing to be in his forties. His completely hairless, gleaming scalp and thick lips were striking.
Around his neck hung a glittering gold medal, larger and heavier-looking than a palm.
The second person was a woman. She appeared considerably older than the first man.
A great staff lay where she had been sitting. A crystal-like transparent stone, carved into a crescent moon shape, adorned the staff’s head. It was as large as three fists combined.
“It brings me joy to return and meet you both.”
“Sincerely? Surely not?”
The woman with the staff spoke with surprising liveliness for her age and laughed. To her half-joking, half-serious remark, Nauplion merely bowed his head in silence.
The man with the medal spoke with displeasure.
“Don’t speak of such things. I have no desire to dwell on leaving again. Welcome, Priest of the Sword.”
“The Priest of the Medal appears to be in good health as well.”
As Nauplion turned, the eyes of all three fixed upon Boris simultaneously. The woman holding the staff spoke first.
“Is that the child? Come here, boy.”
Boris approached them alone, bowing as he spoke.
“I am Boris Jineman.”
“Hmph!”
The man holding the medal let out a displeased grunt. The woman with the staff continued.
“Child, we shall need to give you a new name. That one carries far too much of the Continent’s stench.”
Boris did not know what “the Continent’s stench” meant, yet he felt unmistakably that they despised it.
“I heard from Enios that you have already undergone the apprentice initiation rite. Soon you shall undergo the formal ceremony.”
The woman nodded, her voice growing warmer as she continued.
“My name is Despoina. Everyone calls me Desi, and you shall do the same.”
With that, Despoina turned to regard the man holding the medal. He reluctantly opened his mouth.
“I am Thesmopolos. As one of the Guardians of the Seven Circles and the Priest of the Medal, I shall henceforth observe your conduct with meticulous care.”
Despoina smiled faintly and added.
“You may call him Priest Thesmo. If you were to use such a lengthy name constantly, you would exhaust yourself before your life was through.”
Boris nearly laughed despite himself, but stopped short. Thesmopolos had turned away with visible displeasure.
Despoina was the Priest of the Staff, Thesmopolos the Priest of the Medal, and the man Boris had long known as Isildor San was the Priest of the Sword, Nauplion.
From the atmosphere alone, I could sense they were persons of considerable authority who determined the Island’s most important matters.
I found myself studying Nauplion anew, his long hair bound high. Outwardly nothing had changed, yet somehow a distance had opened between us.
Despoina regarded me again, as though seized by sudden resolve.
“Very well. I shall bestow upon you a new name, child. Until you receive it, introduce yourself to no one. Your former name no longer belongs to you. Do not forget this. You are now ‘the one who knows not himself.'”

That night, a burning manor appeared in Boris’s dream. It had been a long time since such a vision.
On the night of the uprising, the Jineman Estate had been corroded by Kriegal’s venom, yet it had not burned.
Yet in Boris’s dreams, it often appeared thus—the manor engulfed in crimson flames, its doorframes, window casings, and walls all charred black, on the verge of collapse.
There was no one around.
Boris stood alone, gripped by primal terror. Whether he grieved for the manor’s disappearance, feared his solitude, or lamented the loss of something precious whose nature he could not recall—it remained unclear.
Only the emotion was thick and dark, like melted chocolate.
Suddenly, a voice rang out from within or without his mind, striking his ears or his chest with dull force.

I shall follow you, no matter how far you flee.
To the ends of the earth, for all eternity.

From the manor, a shadow stretched forth in the shape of a colossal hand. The flames vanished in an instant, and shadow consumed all directions.
Boris stood motionless before the manor, now reduced to a crimson point, unable even to flee.
Uncertain whether what pursued him was duty, guilt, affection, or hatred.
And yet, waiting for it still.

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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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