Isabella blinked in confusion at the collective gasp that escaped the crowd. Her eyes flicked from face to face, eyebrows furrowed. Why were they reacting like he'd announced he could breathe underwater?
But then it clicked.
Oh.
Right. This world may have magic, but actual cultivation? Rare. Hard. Most villagers could barely sense it, let alone wield it. If someone could, it meant one of two things—they were either born lucky into a powerful city family or handpicked by a high-ranking master.
But Cyrus? He hadn't arrived like a man of status.
No grand entrance. No powerful aura. Just a quiet man with a calm voice and kind eyes, who came to their tiny village with no home and no family. And more importantly—no stripes.
Not a single one.
