Elder Gao remained bowed, his voice steady yet filled with emotion.
"I am already in my seventies and still stuck at the sixth layer of Qi Condensation," he said quietly.
"But you… you reached the ninth layer in just thirteen years. At only twenty-three, your achievements already eclipse mine."
His tone shifted from pride to solemnity.
"If you can break through to the tenth layer within the next decade, you'll undoubtedly rise to the rank of Outer Disciple." A brief pause followed, then his eyes hardened with resolve.
"But if I, as your grandfather, fail to show you the respect you deserve, others far older than me will use their seniority to take advantage of your talent."
"They'll try to leech off your potential. You must carry yourself as a Senior, not as my grandson."
The young man clicked his tongue, half in irritation, half in helpless affection.
"Tch… Grandpa, don't start that again." He floated down and gently helped the old man straighten up.
"You don't need to bow every single time."
Elder Gao's wrinkled face softened with a faint smile.
"Still…" he began, but before he could finish, his grandson waved him off with a weary sigh.
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," the young man muttered, exasperated yet fond, as if he'd had this argument a hundred times before.
Elder Gao fell silent, allowing the young man to take the lead.
The young man turned to the new recruits, his expression bright and welcoming as he raised a hand in greeting.
"Hello, everyone," he said with an easy smile. "I'm Patrick Rivera—" he gestured toward the elder beside him, "—and this here is my grandfather, Gao Deming."
The disciples exchanged uncertain glances. Their eyes flicked toward Elder Gao, whose cold gaze swept over them like a winter wind.
Instinctively, they bowed in unison. "Greetings, Senior Brother!" they chorused, though a few stumbled awkwardly over his foreign name.
Patrick chuckled under his breath and cast his grandfather a teasing look.
"You must have scared them half to death, Grandpa."
Elder Gao remained impassive, saying nothing.
Patrick sighed good-naturedly and turned back to the recruits.
"You're probably wondering about my name, aren't you?"
Elder Gao gave a small shake of his head but stayed silent, letting the boy speak.
Patrick folded his arms, his tone turning conversational yet calm.
"Most of you come from the Desolate Lands, far out on the world's edge—where demon beasts roam free and life is built on fear."
"Out there, people raised cities with arrays and talismans just to keep the monsters at bay." His smile faded slightly.
"But that's not something you need to trouble yourselves with, at least for now."
Patrick's voice carried across the courtyard, calm but firm.
"All you need to understand," he said, "is that the place you came from—the Desolate Land—is nothing more than the edge of the world."
"This," he gestured around, "is the center of the Western Continent."
"This is where real people live, in the 'Real World'."
He smiled faintly and continued, "My grandfather married a native here."
"My mother was born in this sect, and later she married my father."
"That's how I ended up with this name." His tone softened, but his words carried a warning edge.
"There are others in the sect with names like mine. Show them respect."
"They might not be as patient with your ignorance as I am."
With a flick of his wrist, Patrick drew his sword.
The blade shimmered, growing and unfolding until it became a massive vessel glinting under the sun.
He stepped onto it gracefully and called out, "Hop in!"
The new recruits exchanged glances before leaping aboard, one after another.
From a distance, Zhao Yan stood alone, watching it all unfold. He could only stare at the flying sword, at Patrick's confident figure, and at the disciples gathering around him.
His chest tightened.
Patrick's words lingered in his mind—the vastness of this world, the reality that he had barely glimpsed the surface of it.
For the first time, Zhao Yan felt just how small he was.
As the sword began to rise, Patrick suddenly turned his head. His gaze found Zhao Yan standing apart.
"Why aren't you getting on?" he called.
Zhao Yan blinked, caught off guard. "Me?" he asked, his voice uncertain.
Patrick nodded once, smiling faintly as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Zhao Yan hesitated, glancing toward Elder Gao for direction.
The old man's expression was icy, his tone even colder. "This one's hopeless," he muttered, eyes narrowing at Zhao Yan.
"He's too dumb to handle work at the Crimson Forge."
Patrick's gaze drifted toward Zhao Yan, his sharp eyes catching the faint red handprints still burning across the boy's cheek. A quiet smile tugged at his lips.
"Then send him to the Sword Grave," he said casually.
The words struck like thunder. Elder Gao's eyes widened.
"The Sword Grave? That's—"
Patrick cut him off with a calm shake of his head.
"Grandpa," he said softly, but there was weight behind his tone.
"How many times must I remind you? Observe cause and effect."
"That's what keeps you from progressing further." His eyes glimmered with amusement as he added, "As for the boy you just slapped… I'd wager he'll surpass you someday."
Elder Gao's jaw tightened. The mischievous wink Patrick threw his way didn't help his mood, but even he couldn't entirely dismiss his grandson's words.
After a brief silence, he let out a low grunt and turned toward Zhao Yan.
"Since Senior Patrick has assigned you personally…" Elder Gao's voice suddenly boomed, sharp as a whip. "What are you standing there for, looking lost? Thank him!"
Startled, Zhao Yan flinched and hurriedly bowed low, his voice trembling.
"Thank you, Senior Patrick!"
Both Elder Gao and Patrick froze for a moment, their eyes locking on Zhao Yan with faint surprise. Patrick let out a soft click of his tongue, a grin tugging at his lips.
"See, Grandpa? What did I tell you?" he said, half amused, half impressed.
"He actually got my name right on the first try!"
Elder Gao blinked, his stern expression faltering for a second. Even he, with his decades of experience, had stumbled when first trying to pronounce the foreign-sounding names of natives.
For someone like Zhao Yan—a backwater recruit from the desolate lands—to get it right immediately, it wasn't something to overlook.