Jiang Chen had mastered many things in life.
Strategic avoidance.
Lying still until people left him alone.
The ancient art of pretending to sleep during lectures.
But he had never, not once, been prepared for a girl looking at him the way Umbrella Girl did now—like he personally shaped the moon and spoon-fed her stardust for breakfast.
"Master Jiang," she said softly, eyes wide beneath the shadow of her umbrella, "do you really hate it that much? All of us admiring you?"
"I don't— I mean— It's not that I hate it," he sputtered, adjusting his bamboo hat as if it could shield him from… emotions. "It's just… deeply wrong. I'm not worthy of admiration. I'm barely worthy of navigating stairs."
She giggled. "You say that, but you caught me when I tripped last time."
"That was reflex. I also caught a squirrel once. It doesn't make me a hero."
"But you held me like a prince out of a storybook," she whispered.
"I was just trying not to let you bash your nose on the cobblestones!"
She tilted her head, smiling. "Still… you blushed more than I did."
"I was winded! You weigh more than you look!"
Her smile didn't fade. "So you have thought about my weight."
"I— That's not— I'm leaving!"
But he didn't.
His feet betrayed him. Again.
He watched her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing her cheek, her lips parting just a little. Her umbrella swayed gently in the wind like a third wheel that knew it was overstaying its welcome.
"Do you… want to go for a walk?" she asked.
"A walk?"
"Just around the pond."
"Where everyone can see us?"
"No one comes here in the late afternoon."
"Except, apparently, you. And me. And the local fish."
"Fish don't gossip."
"Debatable. I once saw a koi look at me like it knew my credit score."
She laughed, and something warm fluttered in Jiang Chen's chest—panic, probably. Or maybe indigestion. She took a step forward.
Then another.
Then her sandal caught on a root and—
"Woah—!"
He didn't even think.
He reached.
Grabbed her wrist.
Yanked her forward.
And then momentum did the rest.
She stumbled into his chest, both hands landing flat against his robes. His arms instinctively caught her shoulders. Her cheek was suddenly pressed right over his heart.
And it was thumping.
Loud.
Unreasonably so.
Time hiccuped.
Neither of them spoke.
Neither of them moved.
Except to breathe.
Unfortunately, breathing only made it worse, because now she was very aware of the rise and fall of his chest and he was painfully aware that her forehead was nestled against the part of him that did not, under any circumstances, remain calm during intense social interactions.
Finally—finally—she pulled back slightly and looked up at him.
Her eyes were a storm of something unreadable. Hope. Nervousness. Wonder.
And Jiang Chen, fully aware that one wrong word could ruin this moment forever, opened his mouth and said:
"Do not throw cabbage-scented perfume at me again."
She blinked.
Then laughed so hard she had to lean on him for support.
He considered that a win.
The next morning, Jiang Chen woke up with the creeping sense that something had gone horribly wrong overnight.
The sense was justified.
He stepped out of his modest courtyard to find Yanyan perched on the roof of his tool shed, clutching a bamboo scroll like it was the last dumpling at a family reunion.
"Oh no," he muttered. "What now?"
She didn't answer.
Just slowly unrolled the scroll and held it out like she was unfurling the decree of doom.
It was… a letter.
Written in a distinctly feminine hand.
Laced with dried flower petals.
And, of course—because his life was a comedy skit with too much funding—it reeked of cabbage-scented perfume.
"I can explain," he said automatically.
Yanyan arched a brow. "I haven't said anything yet."
"You're thinking it very loudly."
"I'm just wondering if I need to prepare red wedding robes."
"I caught her! She was falling!"
"She wrote, and I quote, 'His embrace was firmer than destiny's grasp, and his scent like sun-drenched harvests on the verge of bloom.'"
"…That was not the moment we had."
"She compared your fingers to—hold on, let me find it—ah, yes. 'Elegant stalks of refined strength.'"
He squinted. "Is she talking about my hands or scallions?"
Yanyan smirked. "The boundary's thin these days."
"I don't want a boundary. I want a moat. A trench. Preferably filled with lava."
"You've awakened something in her, Senior Brother."
"I awaken disaster wherever I go!"
A blur of movement from the path ahead interrupted the conversation.
The villainess arrived with the grace of a woman ready to shatter illusions and hearts in one swift motion.
She carried something in her hand.
It was… a cabbage.
A very small cabbage.
Tied with a ribbon.
He didn't ask.
She handed it to him.
"I assume you've received the letter."
"I don't want to talk about the letter."
"Good. I didn't come to talk. I came to duel."
"DUEL?!"
"In Go. Obviously."
"Why would you hand me a cabbage for that?!"
"It's customary."
"…Where?!"
But she was already unfurling the board on the stone table beside the magnolia tree.
"Sit," she said. "I want to see if your mysterious charm translates to strategy."
"I don't have mysterious charm!"
"You don't need to lie. Half the Sect is writing ballads about your watering techniques."
He groaned. "I'm going back to bed."
"You say that every day. Yet somehow, every day, you rise again."
Yanyan, still holding the letter, added helpfully, "Like a cabbage reborn from compost."
He pointed at her. "I'm putting you on compost duty."
"You already did. You just didn't realize it."
He stared at them both.
One holding a ribbon-wrapped cabbage like a marriage proposal.
The other reciting love letters with the enthusiasm of a bard on commission.
He, Jiang Chen, former normal person, now living legend, cabbage deity, and unintentional romantic interest, had never wanted to disappear more.
He sat down at the Go board anyway.
Why?
Because somehow, he knew that if he didn't, the villainess would put her ribboned cabbage on the board.
And that was a line even he wasn't ready to cross.