He's received fiercer frowns from people younger than you, Wilhelm. It earns him nothing but a tilt of his mask-like face. Michael does grasp some of the sentiment behind it, at least: clearly Wilhelm doesn't want to be coddled. He wants to do this himself. Michael's role here, then, is merely to observe.

(And then to intervene, whenever it looks to him as if things are getting out of control.)

Wilhelm still has the faint glimmer of a soul to his eye as he weaves between the trees, grass flattening beneath his feet and the occasional branch pushed aside by an otherwise unseen force. Nothing else in these woods would notice him and that's what counts. He's good at tracking, he'll give him that. Michael follows along with less subtlety, though he's quiet and light-footed for a creature his size.

The sense of wrongness grows as they move deeper into the woods. Under the shadow of a distant tree, there's the glimmer of something wet; the scent of rotting meat. Michael reaches up and snaps a branch. This is interfering instead of letting Wilhelm do it, isn't it? Whatever. Wilhelm's between him and the monster, so he'll still have the opportunity for the first strike as it rises from its resting place. The amorphous mass of raw flesh shrieks and dives for what looks like just one Summoned-god.