As for our protagonist—Sang.
Unfortunately, he had been struck by lightning. Don’t laugh; it really happened. A bolt of thunder had hit him square on.
It wasn’t quite the end of the story.
Sang’s body wasn’t that fragile. The lightning charred his outside and scorched his insides, but it wasn’t lethal. He took some serious injuries, yet in the final moment, he clung tightly to the little flying dragon’s back. Together, they plummeted into the depths of the Extreme North Mountain Range. The tremendous impact, combined with a thinner patch of ice, sent him crashing straight through the surface and deep into the heart of the iceberg.
At that moment.
It was probably a little past four in the afternoon. In the Northern Region, that meant the sun was already dipping low behind the mountains. The cave inside was bitterly cold and pitch dark, so dim you could barely see your hand in front of your face.
Just as the young man was puzzling over his predicament, a familiar “cheep-cheep-cheep” sounded from his chest. In that instant, Sang sensed something. He glanced down and saw a small creature wriggling out from his embrace. No doubt about it—it was Little Chicken Red.
“Ah… when did you tag along?” the young man asked, a twitch developing on his forehead.
Little Chicken seemed to catch his meaning. She cheeped once, then a tiny flame flickered to life atop the red crest on her forehead. Holy cow—it lit up the whole area around them.
Sang clapped right then and there, shouting “Awesome!”
“Who knew you had this trick up your sleeve besides being emergency rations—a lighting chick!”
“Cheep~!”
Pleased by her master’s praise, the lighting chick—no, Little Chicken—immediately puffed out her chest and struck a smug pose. Sang rolled his eyes. Weren’t low-level titans supposed to be mindless beasts? How was this one understanding human speech?
Whatever. Never mind that. Right now, the priority was getting out of there and rushing to the main battlefield. Sure, Sang was a coward—shameless, even—but he wasn’t about to turn deserter. He sure as hell didn’t want to show up after the fight was already over.
However.
The moment Little Chicken’s light flared brighter, Sang finally surveyed his surroundings. What he saw left him dumbfounded.
How was this so familiar!?
This… wasn’t this the exact place he’d glimpsed when crossing the barrier created by the soul weapon during his transmigration?
“No way…?”
The next second, he whipped his head around and looked up. Sure enough, in the modest glow of the firelight, an ice wall loomed behind him. A massive shadow lurked vaguely within it.
“No way… I’ve ended up right at the Ancient Titan…”
This was his first time here in person.
He had seen this Ancient Titan before, through the barrier’s strange sense of familiarity, but being here for real was a whole different level of awe. Even as a blurry shadow, it terrified him. Forget everything else—just its size rivaled a kilometer-high mountain. One step from it would spell disaster.
It was like the eldritch gods and demons from Cthulhu mythos, or the apocalyptic beasts from Revelation. If it awoke, it would overturn mountains and seas, blot out the sky and sun, and rend the earth asunder.
The werewolves were out of their minds to revere this thing as a god. It was clearly a world-ending monster. And that brought another thought to Sang’s mind: in the vision from that unknown slave, the True Ancestor had been slumbering here alongside it. What connection did they share?
The young man racked his brain but came up empty.
The next moment, as he stared at the indistinct colossal shadow sealed in ice, an inexplicable pull tugged at him—like an invisible force drawing him in. As if compelled, he took two steps closer. He reached out and gently touched the thick ice wall. In an instant, unfamiliar memories flooded his mind.
“Damn it! Not again! Whose memories are these!?”
Compared to the unknown slave’s recollections from before, these were far more horrifying—a vision of utter doomsday. The earth crumbled, oceans churned, flames erupted everywhere. Countless meteors rained down as the sky blazed. Humans lay dead in heaps, rivers of blood flowed, and agonized screams filled the air.
Unlike last time, this wasn’t through someone’s eyes. It was a God’s-eye view, as if peering down on the world from hundreds of meters in the sky.
“God’s-eye view?”
“Is this the future? After the Ancient Titan revives!?”
Yeah.
Highly likely. The previous one had been a personal memory; this felt like a prophecy. If the Ancient Titan ever woke, the world would plunge into irrecoverable catastrophe.
No matter what, he had to stop its revival!
…
Meanwhile.
While the young man was lost in the vision, high above in the Extreme North Mountain Range, the knights of the Rose Knight Order fought fiercely against their foes. The order consisted of thirteen teams led by thirteen captains. The First Captain, Mullen, was their sole Diamond-Tier knight—second only to the three from the Hill Family. Captains Two through Seven were all Platinum-Tier knights, while Captains Eight through Thirteen were Gold-Tier.
At that moment, all thirteen captains had gathered to confront Wolf King Gallo.
Don’t underestimate a Diamond-Tier knight. Rumor held that fewer than a hundred such powerhouses existed across the entire continent. Even the Hill Family—one of the Four Great Families, counting Hesos Hill among them—boasted only two.
The Extreme North Mountain Range echoed with battle cries, blood pooling like rivers amid the drifts. Thousands of werewolves clashed with knights dropping from the skies. Blood threatened to stain the entire range crimson. The sheer scale and terror of the scene, amplified by superpowers, rivaled a modern war with firearms.
Wolf King Gallo eyed the thirteen captains before him, his old battle lust surging. He could spot the strongest at a glance. Cracking his knuckles, he flashed a mocking grin. “Very well. Before I fulfill my clan’s ancient vow, I’ll take care of you first!”
In the next instant.
Thunder Arcs crackled across Wolf King Gallo’s body, his flesh bulging with enhanced power. Without pause, he became a streak of lightning and hurtled toward the thirteen captains.
The captains, led by Mullen, weren’t about to back down. They charged to meet him.
Mullen—full name Mullen Piyexi—hailed from the Piyexi Family, an earl house of the Northern Blood Clan that had served the Hill Family for generations. He was a once-in-a-millennium prodigy. He now appeared as a middle-aged man of about fifty, but as a blood clansman, he was over six hundred years old. In his youth, he had been the personal knight to Orcus Hill. Unmarried to this day, he had watched Hesos Hill, Snow Hill, and Thea Hill grow up, treating them as his own.
Hesos Hill held a special place. Mullen had taught him nearly all his swordsmanship. Their bond was complex—mentor and student, yet also superior and subordinate.
When Mullen Piyexi learned Hesos Hill had vanished, despair had gripped him. He feared the worst: that his protégé was dead. Seeing Hesos Hill alive now reignited his hope. He fought with everything he had to rescue him.
Mullen knew the Hill Family was one where even emotions lay frozen, but he cherished his disciple all the same, one-sided or not.
As the battle raged fiercely, Hesos Hill lay in a deep slumber nearby, confined to a prison wagon. All his mana appeared drained, leaving him in a state akin to shock.
Though it was billed as thirteen captains against Wolf King Gallo, in truth only the First through Seventh were in the thick of it. The Gold-Tier captains from Eight to Thirteen could barely contribute—they were just making up the numbers. That included the 11th Team’s Captain Mondo.
