Ethan turned naturally toward the source of the mocking voice. A group of disciples, all dressed impeccably in Sacred Wind Academy uniforms, approached with casual arrogance, making no effort to conceal their disdain. Even to Ethan—no expert in reading social cues—the false friendliness in their faces was obvious, the curled lips and half-lidded eyes betraying all sorts of hidden meanings. The leader, tall and broad-shouldered, wore a smile so slick and shiny it might as well have been polished like the badge at his waist.
'Is this…?' A little thrill of recognition went through Ethan, grounded in the hours he'd spent reading Chinese webnovels.
'Is this one of those arrogant "Young Master" types? The ones who exist just to insult the main character, only to end up getting humbled or even destroyed later?'
He almost wanted to laugh—life here really did imitate those stories in the strangest ways.
Ethan glanced sideways at Jake for a hint, and sure enough, Jake's jaw was tight, his lips pressed into a hard, unhappy line. The look on his face told Ethan everything. Tension, history, and bitter rivalry radiated from him. Ethan could instantly sense that whatever was about to happen, it would not be pleasant for Jake.
"What do you want, Ricky?" Jake asked, a forced courtesy overlying obvious distaste.
The well-dressed young man in front—Ricky, apparently—didn't bother to hide his glee. "Oh, nothing much," he replied with a broad, self-satisfied grin. "I just wanted to see how well you did recruiting, old friend. You see, since I left the academy grounds, I've managed to bring in a tidy sum—around two hundred newcomers! Not bad, right? Among them, let me introduce my own spectacular find—Oliver here."
With an almost theatrical flourish, Ricky gestured toward a boy standing behind him.
Ethan was momentarily struck by the boy's almost ethereal presence. Oliver couldn't be more than eleven years old, but he had sharp, clear eyes and an aura of quiet self-possession that set him apart. His uniform was immaculate, and even the way he stood was subtly superior.
Ricky continued, his proud tone swelling, "Oliver's talent pool is unparalleled. Major Grade Spiritual Roots, Warrior Grade Physique, and Major Grade Spirit! A prodigy among prodigies." The whole group looked on, some clearly envious and others eager to bask in the reflected glory of such a find.
Jake's eyes widened with a mixture of anger and awe. He understood the significance instantly: while Warrior Grade Physique was good, Major Grade Spiritual Roots and Spirit were almost unheard of outside elite sects. A child like Oliver would normally be snapped up by the Royal God Sect itself, not end up languishing at a declining academy like Sacred Wind. Either Ricky had been phenomenally lucky, or there was more at play than met the eye. The contrast with Ethan's own situation could not be more stark.
"The average disciple here has merely Warrior Grade talent, if not less," Jake muttered inwardly, struggling to keep a neutral face as he digested the implications.
"How did this Ricky manage such a catch?" His rivalry with Ricky went back years; they'd been classmates once, equals in talent and ambition, but constant comparisons and competition had soured their relationship over time.
"So, how many have you brought back, Jake?" Ricky asked with syrupy politeness—then, without warning, reached out and snatched the goatskin registration paper from Jake's hands before he could react.
Jake's face went pale, anger beginning to simmer in his eyes, but Ricky merely glanced down and began reading. Within seconds, he burst out laughing—a triumphant, unkind sound that echoed off the tattered walls.
"One? Only one new recruit? Not just that—he's twenty-three years old with Mortal Grade Spiritual Roots, Mortal Grade Physique, and Mortal Grade Spirit! I mean no offense, but this is a new low even for Sacred Wind. What a gem you've found!" Ricky's entourage joined in the laughter, egging on their leader.
Jake snatched the paper back, hands trembling with embarrassment and rage. "Mind your own business, Ricky," he snapped through clenched teeth.
Ricky's eyes flicked dismissively to Ethan for the first time. His smile faltered for a split-second at the sight of Ethan's round, sweaty face and hunched posture, but renewed itself quickly. "So, this is the so-called 'heaven-defying genius' you managed to bring in? I see it now—your choices are as impeccable as ever!" His tone dripped with mockery.
"Talent like this is unmatched—surpassed only by his age and his inspiring sweating skills." The other disciples roared with laughter again, their derision stinging even Ethan's ears.
The boy Oliver simply looked Ethan up and down, his face barely concealing a look of profound disappointment. For a moment, Ethan almost felt like the boy was staring straight through him, silently deciding that Ethan's existence simply did not matter. He recognized that look—the "pathetic loser" gaze he'd endured since childhood, both on earth and here.
Jake put a hand on Ethan's shoulder. "Let's go, little brother. Don't take them to heart. Bullies come and go, but you're here to forge your own path."
"No need to worry. Actually, I agree with them," Ethan replied calmly. "Right now, I'm nothing special. In this world, strength and status matter most. They have both; I have neither. If I want to answer mockery, I need to gain strength first. Until then, I have nothing to prove—or lose—by ignoring them."
Jake blinked in surprise at Ethan's maturity. The others, too, looked back at Ethan as if seeing him in a slightly different light. Few newcomers handled such humiliation with so little visible pain. Jake found new respect for his "little brother," wondering if hidden layers lurked beneath the surface after all.
The truth, of course, was more complicated: Ethan had lived his entire life at the bottom of the pecking order. In every school, job, or club, he was always the odd one out—the butt of jokes, the last to be picked, the one everyone could laugh at for safely. Over the years, he'd learned to make peace with it. Solitude and self-reliance became comforts rather than burdens. Perhaps it was that survival habit, more than any wisdom, that helped him keep mockery at arm's length now.
"Come on. Let's get you to your dormitory," Jake said, quietly grateful things had not escalated, and set off again at a brisk pace.
Ethan followed, breathing a little faster than usual now. His aching legs and pounding heart reminded him how far he had to go physically. Jake led him up a long, winding path cut into the side of a small mountain.
Rocks and weeds made the climb awkward for someone so out of shape. Sweat dripped into his eyes and his breath came in ragged puffs, but he grit his teeth and kept up as best he could.
After nearly collapsing at a plateau, Ethan took in his surroundings. Many of the dormitory huts and buildings were in poor repair, sagging under the weight of years and neglect. He could see overgrown gardens, sparse training grounds, and the occasional flash of color from a medicinal plant patch.
Finally, they stopped before a battered little building with a faded plaque hanging over the door. Number 96. His new home.
Ethan stood quietly, taking in the cracked walls, the battered steps, the empty patch of dirt in front—the sum total of his new world. It wasn't comfortable, impressive, or welcoming, but it was his.
"This is your dormitory, little brother," Jake said, tone firm and somehow hopeful, as if offering Ethan not just a room, but a fragile chance at belonging.
Ethan nodded, taking a deep breath, and stepped forward into the first real chapter of his new life.