Old Master Yan was younger than Tang Rao had imagined. He wore a brown robe embroidered with gold thread, boots similarly adorned, and his hair was half white. Perhaps because it was such a joyous occasion—his birthday—his smile never faded.
"Who is the old man next to him, who looks quite like Old Master Yan? His brother?"
Shu Yi stood right beside Tang Rao, naturally becoming Tang Rao's translator.
"This man is none other than Old Master Yan's son, Young Master Yan."
The only difference between Old Master Yan and Young Master Yan was one word, marking the generational gap.
"I see, but since they're father and son, they actually look like brothers. Young Master Yan looks rather old for his age, doesn't he?"
Tang Rao ensured that he didn't mean to utter these hurtful words, but in the Divine Realm, calling someone old was tantamount to disrespecting them, an insult to a cultivator.
