His gaze lingered on Zhao Yan longer than before, not with disdain this time, but with quiet curiosity.
Soon after, Patrick mounted his sword again, his easy smile returning as he waved to the group of recruits.
"Alright, that's enough for today. Let's go."
The massive sword rose smoothly into the air, carrying the six recruits toward the horizon until they vanished into the morning mist.
Elder Gao remained behind, his eyes still thoughtful.
After a moment, he exhaled softly, as if coming to a decision.
With a flick of his sleeve, a streak of light shot out and unfolded mid-air, shaping itself into a massive, gleaming sword.
He turned his cold gaze toward Zhao Yan and said, "Hop in."
His tone was still commanding—but this time, there was no contempt behind it.
As Zhao Yan leapt onto the sword, it shot upward like a streak of light, slicing through the morning mist.
The wind howled past his ears, tugging at his robes, and before long, a shimmering barrier loomed above—the same one that enclosed the courtyard and the skies beyond.
The moment they pierced through it, his breath caught in his throat.
Below him stretched not a city, but an endless world suspended in the clouds.
It was an island—vast and boundless—its edges lost in a sea of shimmering blue that stretched beyond the horizon.
The sight was so immense, Zhao Yan couldn't even see where it ended.
His heart pounded as he realized just how small he truly was.
The courtyard he had lived in—a mere speck. Around it, thousands more courtyards spread like stars in a constellation, forming concentric rings across the island's outer region.
Each one pulsed faintly with barriers, and Zhao Yan's mind reeled as he grasped the scale.
There weren't just thousands… there were millions.
Millions of courtyards. Tens—perhaps hundreds—of millions of cultivators.
The realization struck like lightning.
Florence City barely held five thousand people… and here, even the outskirts have millions.
So this is what he meant by 'desolate land.'
As they soared deeper toward the island's heart, the courtyards below began to shift in formation—circles tightening around a colossal central structure that seemed to pierce the heavens.
Then, another translucent barrier appeared ahead, wrapping around the vast outer ring like a dome.
Elder Gao's sword didn't slow. They plunged through, light rippling around them like waves on a pond.
Then another barrier. And another.
Each one thicker, denser, until Zhao Yan could feel the spiritual energy in the air grow heavier, almost suffocating in its purity.
After the fifth barrier, the sword finally slowed.
Elder Gao guided the sword downward, his expression calm and unreadable.
This is… Zhao Yan's breath hitched as the sword came to a halt.
His eyes widened at the sight that sprawled before him—a sea of graves stretching endlessly across the mist-shrouded valley.
Each mound bore a sword thrust into the earth, its blade pointing silently toward the heavens.
Beneath every hilt, names were carved into the stone, etched in bold letters.
The air here was still—too still.
Everywhere Zhao Yan looked, the swords glimmered faintly under the pale sunlight, thousands upon thousands of them.
Elder Gao's voice broke the silence. "This," he said gravely, "is where you'll be working."
He stepped forward, his tone softening as he approached a small thatched hut nestled between the graves.
The structure looked ancient, almost out of place amid the endless field of blades.
Stopping before it, Elder Gao bowed low and called out, his voice echoing across the valley.
"Senior! I have brought a new menial disciple to serve here. I seek your guidance!"
Zhao Yan, unsure of what awaited, followed Elder Gao's lead and bowed deeply, his forehead nearly brushing the damp earth.
Moments passed before the old wooden door creaked open.
From the shadows emerged an elderly man, his form frail yet imposing. He leaned heavily on a wooden cane, his back hunched, his gray robes resembling those of a mourner.
The sparse hair on his head gleamed under the dim light, and his eyes—clouded yet sharp—swept over the two visitors.
A dry chuckle escaped his lips. "Gao Ming," he rasped, his tone laced with quiet mockery.
"Don't tell me this one is your grandson as well."
His gaze flicked toward Zhao Yan before returning to Elder Gao.
"I allowed Patrick to stay here because of the favor you once did for me." His expression hardened.
"But don't you think we've already settled our debts?"
Gao Ming lowered his head deeply, his tone respectful yet uneasy.
"Senior, I didn't recommend this boy," he said carefully.
"It was Patrick. He mentioned something about cause and effect—words I can't begin to grasp. That's why I came here to seek your guidance."
The old man gave no immediate reply. He simply tapped his cane against the ground, the sound echoing softly among the graves.
With a step that seemed slow yet strangely silent, he drifted forward.
Before Zhao Yan realized it, the old man was already beside him. A gnarled hand, thin as dried bark, reached out and pressed gently against his forehead.
Zhao Yan froze, feeling a cold current of energy flow through him—probing his entire body.
Moments passed. Then the hand withdrew.
The old man shook his head, his voice rough and unfeeling. "No spirit roots."
His eyes shifted toward Gao Ming.
"There are only two kinds who end up here," he said, his words like wind scraping stone.
"Those with no future in cultivation… and those bound by fate to one of the swords buried in this ground."
He gave Zhao Yan one last glance, his tone final. "This one's clearly the former."
With a flick of his hand, he gestured for Gao Ming to leave. But as Gao Ming turned to obey, the old man's expression changed.
His cloudy eyes flickered faintly, and he muttered under his breath, almost as if speaking to the swords itself.
"Patrick… that boy's heart is too soft. He wouldn't send someone here to die. So why this child?"
The old man watched as Gao Ming vanished into the clouds, leaving the boy alone amid the quiet graves.
Zhao Yan stood stiffly, his gaze darting between the endless rows of swords jutting from the earth and the old man's hunched figure.
Every instinct in him screamed caution.
The elder's cloudy eyes glowed faintly as he murmured a spell under his breath. A thin red thread of light stretched from Zhao Yan's heart, glimmering faintly in the air.
The old man followed its trail — a single strand weaving through hundreds of buried blades — until it stopped at a grave deep within the rows.
When his eyes fell upon the sword it connected to, his pupils narrowed in surprise.
The faintest trace of amusement crossed his lips before he dismissed the technique, the glowing thread vanishing like mist.
"Interesting…" he murmured, almost to himself.
With slow, measured steps, he approached Zhao Yan again.
This time, there was no harshness in his gaze — only quiet intrigue. The corners of his mouth lifted into a faint, knowing smile.
The old man's tone was calm when he finally spoke. "What's your name?"