Even amidst the awe-inspiring presence of the immortal, there was no hesitation in Riley's tone, no trace of fear.

The old man's gaze lingered on him, as if weighing his very soul.

Then, with a nod of approval, he spoke again, his voice imbued with wonder.

"Heroic, noble, and wise… now I understand why you have been able to build such a sovereign domain, even without formal knowledge or guidance. Truly, your mind and spirit are extraordinary."

He paused, letting his words settle like a stone thrown into still water.

Then his eyes glittered with an almost mischievous light.

"Tell me, Riley Rice… do you wish to live forever?"

The air seemed to freeze.

A thousand voices were caught in throats, and the people who had been bowing and trembling now gasped audibly, a mixture of shock, disbelief, and excitement.

Whispers spread like wildfire: Live forever? Could it be possible?

The implications of immortality made their hearts race and their imaginations run wild.

Even the soldiers and guards, trained to withstand anything, felt the weight of the question.

Some knelt lower instinctively, some held their weapons tighter, and all of them watched Riley, waiting for a reaction that could change the course of history.

Riley, however, did not flinch.

His eyes, calm and sharp, met the old man's with unwavering clarity.

He did not respond immediately, his silence speaking volumes—calculated, measured, and charged with the quiet intensity of a man who had faced far greater challenges than the awe of a heavenly immortal.

"To live forever, huh? At what cost?" Riley's voice was calm, but his eyes narrowed like sharpened blades.

He stood tall, unwavering, his gaze locked on the old man who had descended from the heavens.

His tone carried no fear, only a quiet weight of authority.

The old man's lips curled into a wide grin, his long beard swaying as he chuckled.

"Hahaha! Sharp. Very sharp! Already you ask the right question, boy. Not 'how,' not 'when,' but what cost. You are not dazzled by the promise. You measure, you test." His laughter rolled like thunder, shaking the air with its strange vitality.

"I now see why fate has chosen you. Many mortals, upon hearing the word immortality, would already kneel, already beg, already crawl at my feet. But you… you wait, you guard your heart. Hah! I like that."

Then, almost playfully, he lifted a brow. "But patience must be rewarded. Feed me first, young sovereign, and I'll tell you the rest later. Let me taste the strength of your land's hospitality."

The corners of Riley's mouth curved into a faint, knowing smile.

He inclined his head just slightly, his tone smooth but commanding. "Prepare a feast for our guest."

"Yes, my lord!" The servants bowed deeply, their voices steady despite the fear in their eyes.

Then they scattered, moving swiftly like a tide of ants, every step purposeful.

None dared to delay—every order of Riley was law, and now more than ever, the weight of his command carried their very survival.

The grounds of the clan came alive.

Fires roared to life in massive stone pits, spits turned as slabs of meat were skewered and roasted, juices dripping onto the flames with sharp sizzles.

Cauldrons bubbled with thick stews rich with herbs and wild roots, the scent of garlic and spice drifting into the air.

Platters were piled with fruits that glistened like jewels, harvested from orchards that flourished under Riley's reign.

Barrels of golden wine were rolled out, tapped, and poured into jars that gleamed under the lantern light.

Soon the entire estate was filled with the fragrance of cooking—tender meats seared with honey, broths infused with wild mountain spices, bread fresh from clay ovens still steaming as they were set on the tables.

The aroma drifted beyond the courtyards, down the streets of the city, making even the common folk stop in wonder.

Whispers filled the alleys.

"What is happening in the Masters Hall?"

"Is it true? Has a god descended?"

"Look at the smoke, the smell… it must be a feast for the heavens themselves."

But within the clan, unease still gripped the hearts of many.

They had seen the figure appear from the clouds, white-haired, robes glowing faintly as though woven from light itself.

For them, this was no man but a being closer to myth than flesh. Fear coiled in their chests.

Yet their fear began to soften into awe—because of Riley.

Their lord did not tremble. He did not kneel.

He stood proud and firm, his back straight as steel.

His composure before the celestial being became a shield for all of them.

If Riley was not afraid, if he could treat the godlike visitor as a guest rather than a master, then perhaps all was well.

Perhaps their faith was not misplaced.

"Look at him…" one elder whispered, voice shaking with emotion. "Our master does not bend. He faces even the heavens as an equal."

"Truly, he was born to rule," another murmured, bowing his head in reverence—not to the old man, but to Riley.

By the time the feast was ready, the tables stretched long and heavy, sagging under the weight of abundance.

Meat glistened with glaze, soups sent up fragrant steam, wines sparkled like liquid sunlight.

The entire courtyard radiated with warmth, as though the prosperity Riley had cultivated in these lands had gathered here in physical form.

The old man floated down gently, his robe brushing the air, and took his seat at the head of the feast.

Yet his eyes never left Riley.

Even as platters were laid before him, even as the servants bowed low, the old man's gaze held a mixture of curiosity, admiration, and something sharper.

When at last he spoke, his voice carried through the courtyard.

"Good food. Strong wine. A prosperous land. All signs of a ruler who has done well." He stroked his beard, eyes glinting. "But let us see, young man… how you dine, how you speak, how you carry yourself when sitting across from one who has touched eternity."

The crowd grew silent, hearts pounding. To them, this was more than a feast. It was a test.

And Riley, calm as ever, reached for his cup of wine, raising it slightly in silent acknowledgment. His hand did not tremble. His eyes did not flinch.

The feast had begun.

After that, the talks flowed naturally, like wine poured between old friends.

The old man spoke freely, and Riley listened with sharp, deliberate silence, only asking questions when the moment was right.

"So, Senior Adam…" Riley finally broke the rhythm, his tone casual though his eyes gleamed with interest.

"You're telling me there exists a people so mighty that they can dry seas and topple mountains with nothing but a wave of their hand? Fascinating. But words are wind. I'd like to see a demonstration."

The old man's lips curled into a faint smile, his white beard swaying. "Fair enough. Watch closely, boy."

With a slow, almost careless movement, Senior Adam rose to his feet.

His robe fluttered though no wind stirred. Then, with nothing but a flick of his wrist—

Boom!

A thunderous sound cracked across the heavens.

The ground trembled as if the earth itself had gasped in fear.

Far in the distance, a towering mountain that had stood for countless ages suddenly split apart.

In a single instant, the entire peak was carved cleanly into millions of perfect, square blocks—like pieces of a child's toy neatly stacked.

The precision was unnatural, divine. The mountain did not crumble—it was reshaped.

Gasps filled the courtyard.

"Senior Adam is a god!" one voice screamed, and the words rippled through the crowd like fire on dry grass.

People fell to their knees, trembling, their foreheads pressing against the ground.

Mothers clutched their children, elders shook with awe, and even the most hardened warriors lowered their gazes.

None dared look directly at the immortal figure who had, with the smallest gesture, proven that life and death, destruction and creation, were but playthings in his hands.

Riley, however, did not kneel. His expression showed interest—deep, genuine interest—but not fear.

His eyes followed the distant mountain as the dust settled, then drifted back to Adam with the faint trace of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Well done," Riley said calmly, his voice steady even as the crowd's hearts still pounded with terror.

"You've really convinced me this time, Senior Adam. But since you wish for me to become your disciple…" His smile sharpened, eyes narrowing like a wolf's. "…then I believe I should make a few requests before I agree."

The look Riley gave the old man was one of pure calculation, as though he intended to bleed him dry with demands until there was nothing left.

Senior Adam's brows rose in amusement.

For centuries, he had been approached by countless mortals begging for his guidance, willing to give up everything at the first offer of power.

Yet here stood Riley, smiling as if he were the one in control, as if the immortal himself were a merchant at his table to be bargained with.

The old man chuckled, a low rumble like distant thunder. "Oh? Then let me hear them, boy."