Silas Brooks: Adept cultivator, catastrophic chef.
His pheasants wore gilded charcoal skins over sawdust souls. Not even close to Celia's ambrosial arts.
But in spiritual guidance?
Divine.
My spirit-core blazed under his tutelage—supernovae unfolding daily.
"Adopt me as apprentice?" I teased mid-meditation.
"Delusional." He flicked a pine needle at my third eye. "First, forge limbs strong enough to flee your next betrayal."
His critique sharpened: "Brains beyond salvage? Fine. At least outrun your stupidity."
Venom-tongued bastard.
With a huff, I dissolved human form—flopping into full tiger-pout on the moss.
CULTIVATION CANCELED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
(Stripe-blanketed protest sign: activated)