The elder observed the white mist that enveloped the entire group, his eyes half-narrowed in an expression that wavered between reluctant surprise and poorly concealed irritation.
The visible relief among the cultivators, deep sighs, shoulders relaxing, breathing becoming calmer, only increased his discontent.
"Tsc."
The low sound escaped his mouth, almost a grunt of disapproval. He said nothing more, but the disdain was as clear as crystal water. He did not want to admit, perhaps not even to himself, that Kyrian's help was being extremely useful to the entire group.
Kyrian noticed the hostility.
It was not open anger. There was no killing intent or desire for conflict. It was something smaller, more petty. The kind of antipathy born from wounded pride. The elder did not like being outdone, especially not by someone younger and of seemingly inferior cultivation.
Without changing his cold expression, Kyrian adjusted his intent.
