Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 84

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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 84.
Island of the Survivors (26)
“In any case, he loved his daughter deeply, and Isolet held great respect for her father. Because of that bond… the shock of losing him was tremendous. It’s almost remarkable that she didn’t follow him in death.”
“Then Isolet must possess extraordinary knowledge.”
Nauplion chuckled softly.
“Yes, a mundane priest like me cannot compare. Besides, Isolet inherited her father’s brilliance. She likely innovated many new things while organizing what he left behind.”
Nauplion’s gaze drifted from Daphnen into empty space, then returned.
“But… unlike her father in life, she shows no results anymore. Her father’s death made her distrust the islanders. She believes that no matter how much effort she expends for them, nothing returns. Just as no one helped when her father died. Or rather, one might say that excellence itself demands sacrifice.”
Even now, it was no mere rumor that people sought out Isolet when difficult matters arose within the village.
In specialized knowledge where transmission had been severed, none could match her—not even the priests themselves.
“How did Isolet’s father pass away?”
Nauplion rose abruptly and moved to face Daphnen directly. He spread both hands and offered a smile so melancholic that no other word could describe it.
“You truly wish to know everything. Very well. Listen to this tale.”
What followed was far more shocking than imagination could conjure.
On Moon Island, composed of four islands, the islanders had settled on Memory Island, the most habitable of them. There they built two villages—one was the present village, and the other lay to the northwest.
Of the two, the northwestern village was far larger. Half the priests lived there then, and it was also where The Regent made his residence.
This bred a subtle sense of superiority among the northwestern villagers, creating unspoken friction with the lower village, though it never surfaced openly.
In the final year of The Regent’s father’s rule, the first calamity struck—a plague.
The mysterious pestilence rapidly devastated the northwestern village from the following year onward. The Priest of the Circle alone could not manage the countless afflicted.
Thus Ilios, though a Priest of the Sword, also excelled in medicine and joined the effort. At Ilios’s suggestion, communication between the two villages ceased entirely, and people were completely isolated. Half the island’s population perished then.
As the plague subsided, the survivors from the northwestern village gradually abandoned their town, which had become like a ghost settlement, and migrated to the present village.
However, past friction aside, claims that the plague might be brought along sparked disputes throughout.
Angered by the locals’ territorial rejection, the northwestern villagers returned to their own settlement, vowing never to associate with them again.
Converting their seething rage into recklessness, they gathered the corpses within their village in one place and set them ablaze.
The location was the Town Hall’s rear courtyard, which had served as a temporary hospital during the plague and thus held the most bodies.
And the second calamity descended.
Continuous summer rains soaked the firewood, and the cremation continued for three days and nights without completion. The funeral pyre was extinguished and reignited countless times.
The corpses beneath began to rot from moisture and heat. On the fourth day, a creature of unknown origin emerged, piercing through the stench-laden mountain of decay.
Nauplion described the monster’s appearance matter-of-factly, but Daphnen’s entire body erupted in chills.
“Its body undulated like something woven from mist, and four massive membranous wings split and writhed like tentacles. Claws clung to the wing tips like teeth. The head, with two flames burning where eyes should be… well, how should I describe it.”
It was identical to the specter at Emera Lake!
“….”
Nauplion stopped speaking and looked at Daphnen in surprise.
“What’s wrong? The monster hasn’t even appeared yet—why are you trembling like that?”
Though he had spoken of family matters before, he had not described the lake’s specter precisely. Merely recalling that scene revived a terror that made his entire body quake.
Speaking of it aloud was unimaginable. What happened before that creature was Daphnen’s most painful memory.
“Please… continue the story….”
Daphnen barely steadied himself. This is merely an old tale. The specter no longer appears. At least not here.
Nauplion, noticing Daphnen’s reaction, deliberately continued the account in a dry tone.
The creature slaughtered all those who had returned to the northwestern village. Whether fortunate or unfortunate, the account contained no one who survived wounded only to eventually perish from madness.
With no survivors left, the monster claimed the Northwestern Village for itself. Yet it did not descend to the Lower Village.
The tragedy that unfolded in the Northwestern Village became known only later, when the Priest of the Staff used magic to observe what had transpired. An emergency council was convened immediately.
Warriors were dispatched, but they were annihilated in an instant. With so many already dead from the plague, the existence of this monster posed a grave threat—one that could drive the Pilgrims to complete extinction.
Once again, an expedition was organized under the leadership of Ilios. Isolet was twelve years old at the time.
“Ilios had three disciples. The weakest of them—the third disciple—was left behind, and the other two were to act together. But Isolet, upon learning where her father was going, insisted on following him to the death. We had to bind her just to keep her from running after him.”
Nauplion’s voice grew quieter.
“The expedition consisted of twenty members—archers, swordsmen, and mages combined. Half of us went to the Northwestern Village expecting death. Among them was I, still a reckless swordsman in those days.”
I found myself curious. Nauplion had said he wasn’t Ilios’s disciple, so whose disciple had he been?
“Let’s not dwell on the details of the battle. In any case, for a day and night in that foul-smelling place, we fought a desperate struggle amid the ruins of collapsed buildings. In the end, only Ilios, his second disciple, and I remained.”
Clouds suddenly gathered over the Meadow, which had been clear just moments before. A harsh wind began to tear through the clustered grass with audible force.
“Ilios called me to him, gave me certain instructions, and ordered me to return to the village. I had to obey. The monster was ultimately destroyed, but the Priest and his remaining disciple both fell. In other words, I alone survived the expedition. When I returned, I succeeded him as the Priest of the Sword.”
Nauplion looked up at the darkening sky, as if rain were coming, and spoke.
“Now you understand why Isolet despises me, don’t you?”
There were ambiguities in Nauplion’s account. I understood why Isolet hated him, but certain actions—ones the Nauplion I knew would never have taken—remained unexplained and were glossed over.
In that final, desperate moment before the battle with the monster, would Nauplion have abandoned his comrades and fled? For the sake of honor—being called the Priest of the Sword or some such thing?
And why had Ilios sent down Nauplion, who wasn’t even his disciple, instead of keeping his own student?
Moreover, if Nauplion was spared when even a single extra hand was precious, and Ilios proceeded to fight the final battle, it meant he had prepared something for that last moment. So why hadn’t he used it from the beginning?
I rose from where Nauplion had been sitting and glanced around. My voice sounded as though I had forgotten everything we had been discussing.
“Let’s head back down. It looks like rain is coming.”

The house where Jilebo, the teacher of staff-wielding techniques, lived stood apart from the center of the village.
Climbing the Hillside from his house for about half an hour, one would reach what had once been a summer residence built by Ilios, but now served as the solitary home of Isolet.
Despite the late hour, a light still burned in Jilebo’s house. On an island where materials for making candles were scarce and lamp oil even scarcer, such a thing was considered a considerable luxury.
Of course, Jilebo was hardly in a position to indulge in such luxuries. Yet tonight, he was devising a plan of the utmost importance—one for which he could not afford to economize on lamp oil.
Until now, there were two people whom Jilebo found unforgivable. The first was Nauplion, and the other was Hector.
Regarding Hector, the term “unforgivable” might be somewhat excessive. But for Nauplion, no more fitting word could be found.
He despised Nauplion intensely, loathed him, and envied him. The formal beginning was Ilios’s death, but the roots ran far deeper.
Jilebo was two years older than Nauplion. He had grown up in an ordinary, respectable household. Yet in swordsmanship, he was always a step behind Nauplion, who was born of an affair and had no parents.
As time passed, that single step became many steps—a distance that no amount of effort could close.
There was one occasion when Jilebo had achieved victory over Nauplion. It was when he was accepted as a disciple of Ilios.
When he was chosen as an official disciple of Ilios—the teacher and idol of the Pilgrims—he was so deliriously happy that he forgot Ilios already had two other disciples and strutted about as though he had been appointed the next Priest of the Sword.
Yes, he was that third disciple—the one whose skills were insufficient to participate in the expedition and who remained in the village.
Meanwhile, Nauplion, who was far superior to his peers, never became Ilios’s disciple.
There were complex circumstances surrounding that matter, but Jilebo cared little for such details. In his mind, he had won.
Yet when two calamities claimed Ilios and his two senior disciples, the new Priest of the Sword was not himself, but Nauplion.
He, who had learned trivial swordplay from a man of no skill! He, the official disciple of Ilios, was passed over for Nauplion!
Jilebo, who could only become a teacher of staff-wielding techniques at Skoli, thereafter foamed at the mouth whenever Nauplion’s name came up.
When that detestable Nauplion abandoned his position as Priest and departed for the Continent, Jilebo harbored a faint hope once more.
Yet five years passed, and neither the Regent nor any of the other five Priests spoke of appointing a new Priest of the Sword.
And that odious Nauplion, after indulging in idleness and amusement, slipped back when his diversions ran dry and reclaimed his seat as though it were only natural.
Jilebo’s hand trembled slightly as it moved across the parchment. He should have recognized long ago why his name was Jilebo—why it meant “jealousy.”
He was bound by a fate from which he could never escape unless Nauplion ceased to exist.
Yet even Jilebo harbored one glimmer of hope: the rumor that Nauplion suffered from a terrible affliction and would not live long.
Though it was mere rumor with no one to verify its truth, the fact that it persisted for so long suggested it was not entirely without merit.
There were even plausible theories to support it. Some said Nauplion had sustained a mortal wound while battling the monster in the Northwestern Village. Others claimed he had cast away the Rune of Thunder and departed for the Continent precisely to seek medicine for his illness.
Yes, it was good. Jilebo chose to believe it. So many youths of his and Nauplion’s generation had perished when the calamity struck that if Nauplion were to die, there would be no one but himself fit to become the Priest of the Sword.
It was worth the wait, however long it took. Yet another crimson signal appeared before him—Hector.

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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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