Locke was a twelve-year-old boy living in the slums of Wembuni. He had not yet reached the age to receive the [Grace] and remained at that innocent, childish stage, brimming with boyish fantasies. On this particular day, he was playing a knights’ game with the local children. Several of them clutched wooden sticks and draped themselves in ragged capes, facing off against one another in a rather comical standoff.
In a world so devoid of entertainment, such knight role-playing games were utterly commonplace among children—much like rural kids in the original world pretending to be superheroes battling monsters.
Halfway through their game, Locke heard a neighborhood kid come running up, shouting excitedly, “The Blue Knight is back!!!”
The moment they heard this, the other children dropped their sticks mid-play. They didn’t even bother removing their tattered capes before scampering toward the town center, their little legs pumping furiously.
While the adults scoffed at the Hill Family and dismissed them as a cursed lineage, the children still idolized knights—especially the dashing ones.
The lively, bustling streets of Wembuni near the town center were lined with crowds split into two orderly rows. All eyes were fixed on the solitary, icy blue silhouette astride a black horse in the center.
Who else could it be but Snow Hill?
Locke stared at the female knight in the distance, his wide, innocent eyes brimming with aspiration and awe. He murmured to himself, “That’s the strongest knight of our era… the one they call the Ice Princess and the Blue Knight.”
Whether in the Far North Land or elsewhere across the continent, Snow Hill was a knight renowned the world over, bearing the esteemed titles of “Ice Princess” and “Blue Knight.”
As Locke gazed at Snow Hill atop her black horse with unabashed adoration written across his face, his playmates erupted into heated discussion around him.
One skeptical friend piped up, “Is she really the strongest knight alive? But she’s a girl!”
This was, after all, still a patriarchal society, even in another world. To state the obvious: the Four Great Dukes were all men, and the True Ancestor remained aloof from worldly affairs—most people didn’t even know she was a woman. Take the early days with Sang; he’d once assumed the True Ancestor was male.
Another friend chimed in, “So, is she Platinum rank or Diamond rank?”
Snow Hill’s true strength was something of an enigma. She had never undergone any formal rank assessment, yet every witness to her battles invariably marveled at her overwhelming power.
A third friend grumbled, “My parents say Snow Hill is a bad person. She froze all our family’s crops this year—it’s why folks up north are always going hungry…”
Locke truly idolized Snow Hill, so he felt a surge of indignation at his friends’ chatter.
But before he could muster a rebuttal, he noticed something else: the adults in the crowd were glaring at Snow Hill with unmistakable hatred and malice.
This land lay under the influence of the Hill Family’s power, and Snow Hill was hailed outside as the mightiest member in generations. Even from this distance, everyone could feel the temperature dropping.
Naturally, the people turned their ire on her, viewing her as the root of all their woes.
Folks from other parts of the continent revered the Hill Family as the Northern Monument—a lineage that had guarded against the Ancient Titan and fended off werewolves for generations.
Ironically, the locals refused to acknowledge them and even saw them as a scourge. Detractors mockingly dubbed the Hill Family the Void Guardians, prattling on about how Shivana Peak sealed away an Ancient Titan capable of world-ending destruction, how they protected everything in the Northern Region. But no one had ever laid eyes on this so-called Ancient Titan. Wasn’t it all just made up?
If that wasn’t guarding the void, what was?
Locke was an orphan from the slums. He had once known an older boy from the same neighborhood who, while hunting in the mountains, had run into mortal danger. Snow Hill had saved him—and not only that, she’d recognized his latent knightly talent and exceptionally inducted him into the Hill Family’s Rose Knight Order. That was the direct reason for the boy’s pure, heartfelt admiration toward her.
In that moment, as she rode through the sea of varied gazes, Snow Hill remained mounted on her black horse, her face forward and utterly serene, like the surface of an ancient well without a ripple. Her icy blue eyes were still as placid water, evoking the image of a sacred snow lotus blooming amid the biting winds of winter.
The boy tuned out the odd murmurs around him, lost in rapture at this noble figure. He couldn’t help but marvel: How could such a pure, flawless being exist in this world!?
But then, without warning—
The next instant—
Two figures burst from the crowd, charging at her bare-handed. No, they weren’t human—they were werewolves. The moment they lunged, their bodies underwent a violent transformation. Coarse brown fur sprouted from every pore, their frames ballooned in size, shredding their clothes. Their upper lips and jaws protruded sharply, and razor-like claws emerged from their limbs.
This was Semi-Werewolf Transformation!
“Snow Hill, we’ll avenge our fallen leader!!!”
“Ice Princess, die!”
The scene caught everyone off guard; no one even had time to panic or flee. To sow chaos and distract Snow Hill, they lashed out at innocent bystanders as well.
Snow Hill, however, regarded the two werewolves with perfect calm. She recognized them, in fact. Werewolves were nomadic folk who didn’t form large settlements but scattered into small tribes, each with its own ethos. These two hailed from a particularly ferocious, bloodthirsty tribe.
That tribe, however, had been utterly wiped out by her alone not long ago.
So these were stragglers, back for revenge.
She stared them down as if they were already corpses, her expression betraying no emotion.
“Damn you, don’t get cocky!”
“Begone—become Ice Blossom.”
From start to finish, Snow Hill stayed mounted, without even drawing her sword. She merely murmured those words, and in that instant, the werewolves’ lives ended. Their bodies froze solid mid-air like icicles, plummeting straight down and shattering into fragments upon impact.
Snow Hill abhorred needless slaughter, but when it came to matters of import, she was decisive and ruthless. Those who deserved death would not be spared.
The onlookers gaped in shock at the spectacle. The Ice Princess’s power surpassed even the rumors—she had slain two werewolf warriors in the blink of an eye.
The next second, fresh commotion erupted from the crowd.
Yet another werewolf emerged—this one female. She had seized a human boy as hostage: Locke himself. She must have been accomplices with the two who’d just died. Witnessing their demise had filled her with grief and rage, but she couldn’t match Snow Hill, so she’d grabbed a hostage for leverage.
“Snow Hill, get off that horse, or I’ll kill him!”
Locke was utterly dumbfounded. He had no idea what was happening. The woman beside him had suddenly turned into a werewolf and pinned her claw-like hand against his throat.
Even so—
Driven by sheer survival instinct, he trembled in terror.
Shaking uncontrollably, he gazed pitifully at the icy blue figure nearby, praying she would save him from the werewolf’s grasp.
Tension gripped the street, thick as a drawn blade.
Just as everyone assumed the standoff would drag on, Snow Hill made no move to dismount. She simply watched the werewolf and said calmly, “Release that human and go.”
“You… what did you say!?” The female werewolf was clearly caught off guard.
“They died because they came at me with fangs bared, prepared to meet their end. You’re afraid now, and you haven’t attacked me. There’s still time—leave while you can…”
Her words radiated the arrogance of the supreme warrior and the pride of a true knight.
This was no mercy, merely a final warning.
The Hill Family’s foes in the Far North Land numbered three: first, human groups resisting the Blood Race; second, the werewolf tribes; third, the Ancient Titan sealed deep within the Extreme North Mountain Range.
Aside from the first, the latter two weren’t foes that demanded extermination.
In other words, the Blood Race and werewolves enjoyed a fragile peace. The Blood Race wouldn’t slaughter werewolves unprovoked unless their territory was invaded.
In that moment—
Locke looked at Snow Hill, his eyes widening involuntarily as he fell utterly entranced.
In the end, the female werewolf released Locke. She reverted to human form and slunk away, dejected and lost, vanishing toward the Extreme North Mountain Range.
That day, every human who witnessed the scene was captivated by Snow Hill’s heroic bearing. Cursed lineage or not, chief antagonist or not—this woman was the epitome of nobility and knighthood, her immaculate soul brooking no stain or desecration.
And on that same day, a seed took root deep in young Locke’s heart: he yearned to become her personal knight.
Once the female werewolf had departed, Snow Hill pressed onward.
When she reached a spot where the crowds had thinned, she reined in her black horse and halted. From her bosom, she drew a vibrant flower she had plucked in the [Heavenly Key]—but alas, it had already wilted.
In the next moment, she turned her gaze toward the direction in which the female werewolf had departed, letting out an almost inaudible sigh. In truth, those gallant words she had spoken moments earlier were mere pretexts. Completely exterminating an entire tribe was an act of extreme cruelty. Better to leave a trace of their bloodline behind.
War was a painful thing.
