Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 75

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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 75.
Island of the Survivors (17)
Hector’s blade was swift not merely because he stood taller than Daphnen, but because his arms were longer as well. Their swords were similar in both length and form.
Daphnen found the lighter blade unfamiliar compared to what he normally wielded, and this created a subtle discord—the point where he intended to strike did not align with where the blade actually traveled.
When Daphnen’s sword struck the lower edge, Hector’s blade pressed forward without hesitation, grazing Daphnen’s forehead. To be wounded in the head from the very start seemed impossible, yet his extensive combat experience kept him from panicking.
He retreated and immediately launched a counterattack, pivoting two steps ahead to thrust toward Hector’s left flank.
“Not a chance!”
Hector twisted his arm in an unusual motion, deflecting the incoming blade. Daphnen felt a flicker of surprise. To generate such force from that posture—it was not the kind of strength one saw every day.
Seizing the moment of Daphnen’s hesitation, Hector’s sword found its mark on his upper arm. Fortunately, it was his left arm. Blood seeped through his garment and spread visibly before the watching children’s eyes.
An ordinary boy would have flinched and withdrawn at such a wound. But Daphnen was different.
The instant he sensed danger, he reclaimed the half-beat he had lost and surged forward with a fierce downward slash. A spray of blood erupted as Hector’s right shoulder tore open, hanging ragged.
They had exchanged blows once each, but neither could yet claim to truly understand the other’s skill.
Then it happened.
“My goodness, what is this? Are they evenly matched?”
Though her voice was not loud, Hector’s body reflexively tensed. It was Liriope’s voice.
“Hector, you’re two years older than Daphnen, aren’t you? Surely you’re not having trouble defeating your own junior?”
“….”
Her tone carried a clear intent to provoke. It was obvious to everyone. Liriope brought a finger to her nose and continued with mischievous delight.
“At this rate, in a few years this boy might surpass you.”
In that instant, Hector’s blade thrust forward with reckless abandon, driving deep. It was an attack that sought to overwhelm his opponent in a single motion, disregarding defense entirely.
“!”
Daphnen stepped back and simultaneously twisted his shoulder in a dance-like evasion, pushing Hector’s blade aside while sweeping at his knee. The moment he deflected the sword, he transitioned into a slash.
When opportunity presented itself, the fundamental principle of all real combat was to press the advantage without mercy and dominate the opponent. Daphnen, far more accustomed to actual combat than sparring, acted precisely as instinct demanded.
His blade, merciless and swift, bore down toward Hector’s eyes. Until that moment, he had felt no hesitation whatsoever.
“Stop!”
Had it been any other voice, he would not have responded. But it was Nauplion’s voice.
Daphnen’s blade halted. It was mere inches from Hector’s face.
Nauplion strode forward, seized Daphnen’s arm, and shouted at Jilebo.
“What madness is this, having children who haven’t even graduated engage in real combat? Have you forgotten why Skoli teaches only staff-fighting techniques?”
Coming to his senses, Hector felt sweat streaming down his forehead and back.
Moments before, everything had happened so quickly he’d had no time to comprehend. But when he saw the blade stop mere inches from his face, clarity returned. It was as though the entire world had frozen and then begun turning again.
Daphnen too realized he had nearly killed his opponent, and shock rippled through him. Why had he gone so far? There had been no need to lose control like that.
Moreover, the sword in his hand was not even Winterer—so why had he moved with such practiced ease in killing intent?
“I… don’t interfere in my lessons.”
It appeared Jilebo and Nauplion spoke to each other without formality. Nauplion was seething with rage.
“That child nearly died! And you, a teacher, did nothing to stop it—what were you staring at so blankly?”
“You, you are….”
Jilebo trembled with displeasure. He seemed utterly indifferent to whether Hector might have been injured or whether Daphnen might have committed murder.
“You have no right to lecture me! You are a sinner who deserves to spend a lifetime in repentance. You cannot attend these lessons, you cannot enter Skoli, you have no right to be on this island at all!”
Everyone expected Nauplion to rage at the teacher’s mad accusations. Instead, he pressed his lips firmly together and pulled Daphnen away by the hand.
“Stop this. Don’t take lessons from that man.”
Jilebo trembled like a stroke victim, seized by a fury no one could fathom. The moment he laid eyes on Nauplion, something inside him had detonated.
He continued screaming at the back of the man who had turned away.
“Why did you come back? You should have wandered the Continent like a vagrant and died there! Did you think everyone on the Island would welcome you? What nonsense. I remember clearly! Coward Nauplion! If you had any conscience, you wouldn’t dare face Isolet!”
Nauplion said nothing, merely departing while bearing the gaze of every child upon his back.
Daphnen followed his teacher, then suddenly turned to glimpse Hector’s face.
But it was Liriope who appeared first. Ignoring Hector, who had nearly met with disaster, she simply rolled her eyes in greeting while holding her right palm open.

Throughout their time together, there was one topic Nauplion had never addressed.
When they had reunited in Lemme, Nauplion had once used Lunette, a ceremonial dagger, to show me various places on the Island. It was then that a girl named Isolet had appeared.
The next day, Daphnen had casually asked who the girl was. He had wondered if she might be a younger sister, but her face bore no resemblance whatsoever.
“Well, I’m not sure.”
It was what Nauplion often said when he wished to evade an unwelcome question. For now, the matter had been left at that.
Some time later, an opportunity arose to speak of family. Then, for the first time, Daphnen heard detailed accounts of his homeland and House Jineman.
His mother, who had passed early; the long-tangled affection and resentment between Father and Uncle; Yenichka; and the death of Yefnen.
Then he had asked whether Nauplion too had family.
It turned out Nauplion had no proper family. His mother, who had lost her own parents early, had borne a child whose father she did not know, and died not long after.
Orphaned suddenly, Nauplion had been raised under the care of the Island’s people. Among them, the Priest of the Staff, who had given him his name, had tended to him like a son. At that time, the Priest of the Staff had been the father of the current Priest of the Staff, Despoina.
Then he had asked once more about Isolet, but Nauplion had fallen silent again. He obtained no further information.
When Daphnen actually saw Isolet after arriving on the Island, he experienced a peculiar shock.
Was it her beauty? No—that was too trivial a trait. Isolet possessed something far more extraordinary. It began with the inhuman coldness that emanated from her entire being.
Her quiet, delicate face contrasted sharply with the firm, well-balanced physique of a swordswoman. Yet the same arrogant bearing—as if she needed no one’s aid in living—pervaded both.
Her voice, low for a woman, carried a rich resonance that often felt strange, transformed into a husky timbre.
Since arriving on the Island, every landscape and custom had felt foreign, every person different from him—yet there was no one like her. By her very existence alone, she stood out distinctly, as if she had come from a distant star. Like an untouchable beauty from some eerie legend.
And he came to realize he was not the only one who felt this way.
Following Nauplion’s words, Daphnen resolved to attend Jilebo’s lessons no longer. Even if he persisted, there was little chance of receiving proper instruction, and it would be difficult to change his mind when such hatred was displayed for reasons that were not his own fault.
“So you’re saying you won’t learn staff combat anymore? Hmm….”
Daphnen was once again in the Headmaster’s office with Nauplion. Without borrowing Nauplion’s words, he stated his intention honestly.
The Headmaster, having learned of yesterday’s incident, refrained from reproach, understanding the circumstances.
Yesterday’s incident had had tremendous repercussions. The Island’s people showed great interest in the story of a boy who could match Hector. The tale of the sword from the Continent that Daphnen had not drawn spread rapidly as well, of course accompanied by absurd speculation.
The Headmaster looked at Nauplion. Nauplion simply said he thought the same.
“I understand. Since Daphnen will learn swordcraft from the Priest of the Sword, there should be no great problem with not learning staff combat. But then, what else should he study? You surely know that to graduate from Skoli, one must demonstrate four or more educational accomplishments. Yet in Skoli’s current curriculum, there are no suitable subjects.”
The Headmaster spoke to Nauplion as if regarding him as Daphnen’s guardian. Nauplion nodded. Then, looking down at Daphnen once, he answered.
“Song—that is, sacred chanting. I intend for him to learn sacred chanting.”
The Headmaster blinked in bewilderment.
“Who would teach that?”
“Is there not only one person?”
“Well….”
Daphnen, not understanding the situation, looked between the two men and asked.
“What is sacred chanting? And what does it mean to demonstrate four accomplishments?”
The Headmaster was an optimistic and benevolent man of considerable years, generous not only to Daphnen but to all the children in his care. He did not reproach the boy for his interruption, but began his explanation at a measured pace.
The academic system of Scoli was inherently flexible—only the enrollment and graduation ages were fixed, and students could take breaks of several months if household duties demanded it without serious consequence.
Classes numbered at most four per day, and by two in the afternoon, even the upper students had finished their lessons. It was customary for students to remain at school after classes ended, filling the halls with boisterous chatter and play.
Yet at graduation, one had to demonstrate mastery of four distinct achievements gained at Scoli. Though the standards of proficiency had gradually declined over the years, the number of required subjects remained unchanged—a tradition inherited from the Old Kingdom that could never be diminished.
Currently, Daphnen studied history, elementary magic, and what was called “liberal arts”—though in truth it was a hodgepodge of reading, writing, composition, literature, miscellaneous tales the instructor chose to share, and knowledge of the Pilgrims and the Moon Queen all woven together. That accounted for three subjects.
The other children additionally studied staff mastery, but since Daphnen had chosen not to take that class, selecting a new subject was unavoidable.
“In the old days, you see, there were far more varieties of classes. What we now call liberal arts was originally divided into separate disciplines—philosophy, literature, logic, debate, mathematics, geography, and the like. Magic too was subdivided into distinct levels.”
The Headmaster sighed and gazed briefly toward the ceiling.
“But that was the age of the Old Kingdom. With only hundreds of people arriving on the Island, most branches of learning fell into decline within a few generations. On barren land, survival takes precedence, and scholarship is a delicate thing—even with many geniuses pouring their talents and efforts into it simultaneously, it can scarcely be sustained.”
The Headmaster spoke of truly ancient history. He could not have even been born in those days.
Once the Headmaster finished his explanation, Nauplion spoke to Daphnen.
“Sacred chanting refers to song imbued with magical power. Yet it cannot be explained by mere surface strength alone—think of it as a holy song that purifies the human heart and, moreover, the very soul. An ordinary person can learn and sing a verse or two, but the process of mastering it completely and wielding it freely is intricate, and considerable aptitude is required.”
At the mention of aptitude, Daphnen tilted his head in puzzlement. He had never considered himself particularly skilled at singing.
“There were once many who carried on this tradition, but when plague swept through not long ago, the lineage of sacred chanting—along with many other magical traditions—was severed. Now, only a single person remains who can truly sing sacred chants.”

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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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