Old Qiao was somewhat agitated as he scratched his shoulder—a rather human motion, as though it was a habit left over from when he still possessed flesh and bone—and then his gaze fell back onto the golden-haired elf in front of him. Those optical sensors, deeply embedded within protective crystals, flickered with a dangerous light, a surge of anger and uncontrollable destructive impulse coursing through his logic chip.
This fleshy human, an antisocial rat, a runaway from the laboratory, even once riding upon his head—she always seemed to have such great fortune, returning here completely unharmed even after such a terrifying accident—the golden-haired elf's every move seemed like a silent mockery and provocation, and now the fearless calm in her eyes made it all the more unbearable.
