“No… too many superfluous movements. Far too many openings…”
The words had barely left his mouth when a glint flashed in Snow Hill’s eyes. In an instant, she drew her sword with effortless grace. A single slash unleashed a Flying Slash Strike that cleaved a bald eagle hundreds of meters away clean in two.
The sword wind’s force even sheared off a lock of hair from Sang’s cheek.
“What… what kind of destructive power and precision is that?” Sang’s eyes went wide.
Snow Hill smoothly sheathed her blade once more. “Even without using your superpowers, swordsmanship alone could take you far. You have a real gift for it—and you’re well-suited to become a knight.”
Why was this woman acting so strangely today?
Normally, she’d dispatch him with a single finger and walk away without a backward glance. Today, though, she’d actually given him some pointers on his swordsmanship.
“Why are you suddenly teaching me swordsmanship?” Sang asked suspiciously.
Snow Hill gazed up at the clear blue sky dotted with white clouds, her expression impassive. “Maybe it’s the nice weather today. I felt like it on a whim.”
“That’s… hard to buy.”
With a soft exhale, she said, “Time to get moving.” She offered no further answer to the boy’s question. Instead, she leaped from the iced-over tree trunk and headed back to the carriage on her own.
As mentioned before, this journey of over a thousand kilometers would take at least thirty-five days. With all the unforeseen delays, it was starting to look like it might stretch to forty.
After that day, Sang’s routine in [Heavenly Key] fell back into place. After lunch or dinner each day, he’d unilaterally challenge Snow Hill to a Knight Duel. She never accepted, but she did offer him a few pointers on swordsmanship.
In this world, there existed a comprehensive system of swordsmanship known as Orthodox Swordsmanship—the very style taught at the Knight Academy City, called the Orthodox Flow.
However.
Snow Hill didn’t use the Orthodox Flow. That wasn’t surprising; she’d never trained at the Knight Academy. Her style was self-taught… and didn’t even have a name.
In a world that prized bloodlines and pedigree above all, any unorthodox or “branch” swordsmanship was derided—or outright scorned.
Yet no one dared belittle Snow Hill’s skills. She proved with her own strength that once you reached a certain level of power, all the rules and conventions became meaningless.
…
Sang had given serious thought to why Snow Hill had suddenly started coaching him.
In this otherworld, he’d always played it safe, staying alive by being cautious. Sudden changes unnerved him—especially ones coming from a Blood Race member.
No helping it. To live a few more years, he’d err on the side of caution. He’d died young once already and had no desire to repeat it. Last life, he hadn’t even had a girlfriend. This time around, he at least wanted to marry, have kids…
First possibility: the long road was boring her, so she needed something to pass the time. Second: he really was a once-in-a-generation talent, and she’d taken a liking to him. Third: he might soon be the savior of her father, so this was advance payment.
With that, Sang managed to convince himself.
Especially the third. Someone as devoted to the Knight’s Way as Snow Hill would likely see it as preemptive gratitude. Even if he couldn’t ultimately save her father, he’d made the trip—four months of effort. No merit? At least there was hardship credit.
Sang was more than happy to accept her swordsmanship lessons. Back in [Heavenly Key], he’d wanted a proper instructor, but the Blood Clan Maids’ skills were merely adequate, and the True Ancestor… well, no need to go there.
Now the world’s strongest knight was personally tutoring him. He couldn’t have been more thrilled.
Perhaps there was something special about this body. Under expert guidance, his swordsmanship improved by leaps and bounds.
His raw strength hadn’t changed much, but his technique had sharpened dramatically. Back when he’d fought the Cyclops, his wild swings had only grazed its hide, never reaching muscle or bone. If they clashed now, though, he was confident he could actually hurt it.
Hurt it, but nothing more.
That was a foe only a Golden-Rank Knight could defeat. Sang knew he was still just a Silver Lad—he couldn’t take one solo.
What’s more, the better his own skills got, the more he grasped just how formidable Snow Hill was. She seemed impossibly distant, no matter what.
Far too remote.
…
Early March.
Spring should have been in full bloom across the human realms, but as the trio pressed northward, the temperatures plunged instead of rising. It grew colder by the day.
Sang’s body handled the chill with ease, but Aisha Hodhua was a different story. The little mix-blood was terribly sensitive to cold. Lately, when she slept in the carriage, she’d unconsciously burrow into his bedding.
As for Snow Hill.
Born with her innate Ice and Snow Power, she constantly emanated a faint chill even when suppressing it. To keep the carriage habitable for the other two, she never came inside. She drove alone from the outside, silently standing guard.
One night.
Sang woke from a deep sleep, urged by the call of nature. He glanced at Aisha Hodhua, who slumbered lightly beside him.
He slipped quietly from the carriage—only to find it had stopped. Snow Hill never halted, even at night. As a high-level Blood Race member, she could go without sleep for extended periods and only grew stronger after dark. A quick scan revealed no sign of her.
Worry gnawed at him. He followed the river downstream about a kilometer and finally spotted Snow Hill.
Werewolf corpses littered the ground, piled into a small hill. Snow Hill stood atop the mound, drenched in blood—even her beautiful ice-blue hair was stained crimson. Yet amid the filthy gore, she bloomed like a proud snow lotus.
She wasn’t intimidating, but she commanded respect without a word.
This was Sang’s first time seeing werewolves, but he had no attention to spare for them. All his focus was drawn to that bloodied snow lotus before him.
“What happened?” Sang asked.
Snow Hill shook her head. “Nothing happened.”
Even without her saying it, Sang could piece it together. While he and Aisha Hodhua rested, the werewolves had attacked—only to be slaughtered to the last by Snow Hill.
The woman never spoke of it. She simply shouldered the burden in silence and guarded them fiercely. Perhaps that was Snow Hill’s way of surviving.
She descended the corpse pile with a light leap, her hair tips shimmering faintly like an ice sprite in the night.
As she passed him, Sang caught the metallic tang of blood and asked tensely, “Are you hurt?”
“No… it’s all werewolf blood. I’m fine.”
“Where are you headed now?”
As she spoke, Sang watched her head upstream along the river. Her armor clinked softly with each step.
“There’s too much blood on me. The water downstream is all contaminated. I’m going upstream to bathe…”
For some reason, those words conjured an image in Sang’s mind of a graceful beauty emerging from the bath. His face flushed red, and he stood frozen, staring at her retreating back.
But then.
Snow Hill’s next words left him utterly dumbfounded. “You… come along too…”
