Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 94

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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 94.
Blood That Does Not Fade (7)
Yurichi was the type who relied on speed and surprise rather than raw strength, so whenever I encountered a warrior of direct combat, I found myself instinctively shrinking back.
“Tch, what an unpleasant fellow.”
The “unpleasant fellow” had devoured several round loaves of bread that came before the main course in the blink of an eye and was now humming some incomprehensible tune. His demeanor showed no regard for the eyes of others—or rather, he seemed entirely oblivious to them.
Those who had been staring quickly averted their gaze and pretended ignorance when a Sansruria Priesthood member entered behind him, sweeping the room with an intimidating glare.
Yet Yurichi soon began glancing back, his mind churning with various thoughts.
Beneath short sleeves, muscular arms extended, their exposed skin marked with countless scars both large and small. For a moment, I thought the figure resembled Tonda, who bore the mark of the Third Circle, and then it occurred to me that Tonda was from Recordable.
Even if this man wasn’t from Recordable, he certainly didn’t appear to be from Sansruria. Yet how could the proud Sansruria Priesthood members treat a foreigner with such lavish courtesy?
In Sansruria, where theocracy and governance were unified, a member of the Sansruria Priesthood held a status that surpassed even the nobility of other nations.
Moreover, priests bowed only to higher priests and submitted to no one else. And at the apex of the priestly hierarchy stood their Queen.
The Queen was the Priestess of Priestesses and was regarded as one of the many incarnations of the Sansruria God. Every word she spoke was sacred and absolute.
Only the highest priests and priestesses—numbering merely seven—could challenge the Queen’s decisions, and even then only in the most indirect manner. Ordinary people typically never even realized how the Queen’s decisions had been altered.
Given such circumstances, there had never been a single instance of popular rebellion in recorded history.
Sansruria, which had once not even batted an eye at trade envoys who spent long years in foreign lands, underwent a complete transformation the moment the current Queen Merjebed ascended to the throne, even establishing a free trade city. This demonstrated that the scope of what the Queen could change was limitless.
Considering such things, it was a nation where any change could occur within a short span of time.
Yet even so, I could not imagine a change where members of the Sansruria Priesthood would bow their heads to a foreigner. Just who was this man?
It was at that moment of contemplation that a lamentable event befell the pretentious Yurichi.
“Special golden scorpion….”
Even without catching the rest of the words, I could not fail to recognize that the dish I had been eagerly awaiting had arrived. Yet the plate took a peculiar turn in direction and went to that man who had just arrived instead.
“Hey, wait a minute….”
Just as I was about to lodge a protest, Ryusno’s finger came near and tapped my wrist. When I looked, he shook his head. I swallowed hard.
“Hmph, so we’ve offended the priesthood, have we?”
Yurichi was no fool who couldn’t read the situation. To cause trouble with a member of the Sansruria Priesthood in Sansruria meant turning every visible person into an enemy.
“Damn it, I’ve really lost my nerve.”
At that moment, rather than soothing the pouting Yurichi, Ryusno was observing how the “distinguished personage” ate.
Based on appearance alone, one would not expect particularly refined behavior, but the reality was far worse.
The man wielded a single knife with practiced skill, tearing the large scorpion to shreds, then began picking at the meat fragments that burst through the cracks in the hard shell using all ten fingers.
I doubted even street children at the marketplace ate with less grace than this.
Yet the skill with which he wielded the knife was anything but simple. It was fast, and in the way he gripped it and thrust it, there was none of the fumbling one might expect from an ordinary person. Not a single wasted motion.
Yet it was neither the technique of a swordsman nor an assassin. How to describe it—it was like the skill of one who had butchered many cattle and pigs.
Or perhaps the skill of one who had butchered many humans.
“Hmm….”
Ryusno turned his head. A plan began to form in his mind, gradually taking concrete shape.
Yurichi’s dish arrived only around the time the man at that table had consumed roughly half his meal.
Suppressing my frustration for now and vowing to settle the score when the opportunity arose, I composed myself and turned my gaze to the dish. A flat plate with a round lid placed over it only heightened my curiosity.
A server extended his hand and removed the lid. As Ryusno gazed inside without thinking, a soft moan escaped his lips.
“Ohhhhh….”
Yurichi also peered at the plate with keen interest. Then, glancing at Ryusno’s face, I suddenly broke into a wide grin, lifting the corners of my lips like a fool.
“Doesn’t it look delicious, Elder Brother?”
A scorpion the size of a forearm displayed its golden carapace and massive pincers with ostentatious pride. Surrounding it were smaller black scorpions, no larger than shrimp, crammed into a vessel and thoroughly marinated in some indescribable sauce.
The aroma of seawater mingled with a nutty fragrance and an indefinable fishy scent—a dish whose flavor was utterly impossible to discern.
Ryusno’s expression was remarkable. He pushed his chair back, covered his face, and exhaled a heavy sigh before speaking.
“Enjoy your meal.”

The woman’s name was Yanika Gos. She possessed a masculine build with only a delicate face, bearing an arrogant smile that created an unpleasant impression. Even her seated posture was utterly disrespectful.
The men standing beside her all shared equally disagreeable appearances. Their faces were not particularly unusual, yet they emanated an unmistakable sense of untrustworthiness.
“That’s a fine proposal. I, Yanika of the Black Gloves, am confident I can be of service to you, sir.”
Count Belnoir’s suspicion of these people may have stemmed from the friction that had marked their very first meeting.
Months had passed since he’d contacted the Mercenary Organization to arrange this meeting, and now they appeared, shuffling in as if they had all the time in the world. Beyond the affront, their intentions seemed deeply questionable.
It was worth considering whether they were simply thoughtless and lazy, or whether this was some ploy to negotiate higher pay.
“Should you succeed, I will provide compensation beyond what was promised, along with a handsome bonus. However, if you fail, you will receive nothing. Yet you still step forward—does this mean you are that confident?”
“Well, isn’t that something we’ll discover in due time? I may seem presumptuous, but I’m not the type to take on losing propositions. Mercenary work, as you know, is rather grueling.”
They were nothing more than bait or hunting dogs in any case. Starting them on the task and disposing of them should they cause trouble would be simple enough.
“Very well. I’ll provide an advance. As I mentioned, you’ll be traveling with my subordinates. Should you attempt any deception, I will show no mercy.”
“My goodness, how could humble mercenaries like us dare offend a man of such means? We have no interest in some whimpering young fool, so rest assured.”
“….”
It was impossible to distinguish whether she was flattering or mocking. The Count placed the purse containing the advance payment on the table.
“This amount I will not reclaim, even if you fail. However, should you succeed, I will give you this.”
The Count pulled forward a box that had been resting beside the table and opened its lid. Upon red velvet lay a golden dagger. The craftsmanship of the scabbard alone was worth enough to purchase a modest country estate.
“My, how exquisite! I shall have to work all the harder. May I examine it more closely?”
Yanika seized the dagger with theatrical enthusiasm. She unsheathed it, turning it this way and that, then passed it to a colleague standing behind her—a man bearing a small crossbow. He tested the blade’s edge and nodded approvingly.
The dagger was returned to its box, and the secretary Huga closed the lid.
“I expect regular reports. That will be all.”
As the Count rose, Huga took up the dagger box and followed him out. Once the two had departed, only the three mercenaries and five knights assigned to oversee them remained in the chamber.
Opening the purse of advance payment, Yanika chattered away to the knights like a foolish young lady, as if to ensure they heard.
“This is truly wonderful! A mercenary of my caliber should handle tasks of this magnitude. One can see at a glance that distinguished gentlemen spend their coin differently!”
In truth, since the money was essentially free, Yanika’s spirits soared all the higher. The task was simple: locate that young man again, the one who traveled with a younger sibling, and bring him back. Should he be dead, she need only discover where he was buried.
She could guess well enough what this was about. They wanted that sword he carried, did they not?
Regardless of the reason, with the backing of a Mercenary Organization that operated across all of Southern Trabaches, capturing one such youth was merely a matter of time.
Moreover, she harbored a personal grudge against that young man.
‘Before I hand him over to my employer, I’ll teach him a lesson. I can’t take the sword, of course. Or can I? What else is off-limits?’
Yet the Count, having issued his instructions with subtle precision, already knew what the mercenaries did not: the young man they were to pursue had long since been lying beneath the cold earth of the Wasteland.
Clad in white armor that so many sought in vain.
The captive soul dreamed a long dream. The corpse, rigid as an ice sculpture, had not decayed.
It lay three paces ahead.
Morpheus fell silent, and Despoina gently waved her staff, conjuring a faint mist. Though it was nearly dawn, someone might pass by.
Nauplion stood towering above the young boy, gazing down at him.
His face, pale as a broken flower stem fallen upon the earth, bore the expression of one whom the fairies had briefly spirited away and then gently returned—curled in sleep, wearing sorrow.
….
Nauplion knelt without a word and wrapped his arms around the young boy’s body. He brushed away the disheveled black hair from his cheek, then lifted him up and turned to leave.
Behind him stood Isolet, her face bearing not a trace of emotion—as if she were void itself.
A faint smile.
Nauplion smiled. Then he walked slowly toward home. Those who remained stood watching his retreating figure.
“This cannot continue in such a manner. You understand, yes?”
With roughly an hour remaining until dawn, two priests faced each other in the Town Hall, illuminated only by a few candles.
In the hands of Despoina, Priest of the Staff, lay a white blade wrapped in thick cloth. Standing opposite her, Morpheus, Priest of the Circle, held a leather-bound book.
“I understand. I shall entrust the research on the blade to Desi Priest. I will withdraw my hand from it. However, please be certain of this: Nauplion respects Daphnen’s will, but I am more concerned with that child’s safety, and the safety of the Island as a whole. You understand my meaning, yes?”
“If such a simple object contained the power to alter the Island’s fate….”
Despoina gazed upon the surface of the Winterer, which was nothing but a blade.
It was translucent. Upon the milky-white edge, a transparent membrane seemed to wrap around it in a single layer.
“That too would be one path we must accept. The Old Kingdom’s fate was likewise determined by great sorcerers who refused to break their course. I do not believe a single blade can alter the destiny of us, a people of magic.”
The Priest of the Staff was the Island’s most accomplished sorcerer. In matters of magic, none could dispute her authority.
“However, should my thoughts prove wrong and irreversible consequences arrive, they would not be the fault of a mere blade’s power alone. Countless actions would have accumulated and moved, rushing toward such a result. Perhaps I am the one holding a spark above kindling. For that reason, I intend to be cautious. Yet destiny, though it may be altered, cannot be erased. Since this blade has come to us, there must surely be a calling befitting it, and a reason. That much I am certain of.”
Morpheus looked at Despoina’s face and gazed down at the Winterer’s blade. Then he exhaled a sigh.
“I cannot think in such grand and expansive ways as you, Priest of the Staff. I am the Priest of the Circle, who oversees technique, and I see things narrowly and in detail accordingly. I understand. For now, I shall trust that you will make an excellent judgment.”
“Very well.”
Morpheus turned to leave but paused, looking down at the leather-bound book he held.
Despoina noticed it as well.
“What is that?”
Morpheus opened the book. The parchment bound in leather was filled with handwriting of considerable skill. He opened to one page and held it before Despoina’s eyes as he spoke.
“You remember this handwriting, do you not?”

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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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