Elder Fan Ming's expression twisted into something unrecognizable—his usually smug, composed face now an ugly mix of fear, frustration, and sheer panic.
His breath hitched.
His fingers trembled.
His mind raced, searching desperately for a solution, an excuse, anything that would shift the blame away from himself.
"No—no, this can't be happening—this wasn't supposed to happen—"
His eyes darted back and forth, scanning the horrified faces of the breeder disciples, scanning the stunned expressions of the elders, scanning the writhing, convulsing form of Angola, who was barely clinging to life.
The murmurs began.
Soft at first.
Barely whispers.
But then—
The voices grew.
"Did… Did Elder Fan Ming mess up?"
"No way… He's an expert, right? He wouldn't make a mistake like this…"
"Then why is Angola like that?!"
"Wait, what if the recipe was wrong in the first place? What if Zou Fang messed up?"
