The morning of their 100th wedding anniversary dawned on Mount Cloudspire with the delicate grace of a crane… and the subtlety of a drunken ox. Mist curled around the peaks like a lazy dragon, and cherry blossoms drifted into the courtyard of the Jade Lotus Dojo, where Master Long Jian, the “Divine Blade of the Azure Dawn,” stood shirtless, balancing on one foot atop a bamboo pole. His sword hovered inches from his nose, glinting in the sunlight as he muttered, “Perfection… almost… there…”

Inside the dojo’s kitchen, Lady Mei Ling—the “Iron Phoenix of the Seven Valleys”—slammed a cleaver into a slab of pork with such force the table legs quivered. Her jade hairpin, a relic said to have once skewered a rogue warlord, trembled in her bun as she glared out the window. “LONG JIAN!” she bellowed, her voice echoing like a landslide. “The pork buns are getting cold, and so is my patience!”

Long Jian didn’t hear her. He was busy communing with his sword.

This was the man who had once dueled the Ghost Tiger of the West for three days without blinking, yet couldn’t recall where he’d left his sandals. A legend who’d perfected the Nine Heavenly Strikes but still forgot to close the rice bin, leading to the Great Sparrow Invasion of ’72. His obsession with swordsmanship was unmatched—unless you counted Mei Ling’s obsession with reminding him to do literally anything else.

A Love Forged in Steel (and Spite)

Their marriage had begun as a ballad. A century ago, Long Jian had swept Mei Ling off her feet during the Festival of Lanterns, defeating her in a sparring match by disarming her with a peach blossom. She’d retaliated by disarming him literally, tossing his sword into a koi pond and declaring, “Marry me, or I’ll feed your ego to the carp.” They’d been inseparable ever since—mostly because Mei Ling refused to let him wander off.

But love, like a poorly balanced sword, eventually tilts. Long Jian’s relentless pursuit of “the perfect strike” meant he’d missed their 50th anniversary (trapped in a cave meditating), their 75th (chasing a rumor of a “moonlit sword” in a swamp), and their 99th (he’d accidentally locked himself in a treasure chest). Mei Ling, no delicate flower herself, had countered by “misplacing” his favorite swords, “accidentally” burning his training scrolls, and once replacing his tea with vinegar. “A marriage,” she often said, “is a duel that never ends.”

The Final Straw (or Ladle)

This year, Mei Ling had planned something special: a quiet dinner, a stroll through the peony garden, and no swords allowed. She’d even commissioned a jade hairpin shaped like a phoenix—a symbol of their century together. But as the sun climbed, Long Jian remained atop his bamboo pole, now attempting to slice falling petals with his eyes closed.

“Perhaps he’s planning a surprise,” Mei Ling lied to herself, arranging dumplings into a heart shape. “Maybe he’s written a poem. Or remembered my favorite wine. Or… noticed I exist.”

By noon, the dumplings had congealed into a sad, doughy lump.

By dusk, Long Jian had moved on to practicing the Whirlwind Lotus Parry with a broomstick.

When the moon rose, Mei Ling stormed into the courtyard, her silk robes billowing like a thundercloud. In one hand, she held a platter of fossilized pork buns. In the other, her Golden Soup Ladle of Nine Grievances—a wedding gift she’d once used to KO a bandit mid-robbery.

“Long Jian,” she said, her voice deceptively calm. “Do you know what day it is?”

He paused mid-strike, brow furrowed. “…Tuesday?”

The ladle whistled through the air, smacking the sword from his grip with a CLANG that startled nightingales into flight. “IT’S OUR ANNIVERSARY!” she roared, chasing him across the courtyard. “ONE HUNDRED YEARS! DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY SWORDS I’VE POLISHED? HOW MANY ‘QUIET NIGHTS’ I’VE SPENT LISTENING TO YOU YAMMER ABOUT SWORD VIBRATIONS?!”

Long Jian backflipped onto the roof, clutching his broomstick like a lifeline. “Mei Ling, my lotus blossom, let’s discuss this rationally—”

“RATIONAL?!” She scaled the roof tiles with the agility of a provoked mongoose. “YOU ONCE NAMED A SWORD ‘LING-LING’ BECAUSE YOU ‘FORGOT MY BIRTHDAY’! YOU’RE LUCKY I DON’T SKEWER YOU WITH THIS LADLE AND SERVE YOU AS DIM SUM!”

The Great Escape (and the Greater Chase)

As Mei Ling’s ladle rained blows, Long Jian realized two things:

He’d definitely forgotten the anniversary.

His only hope was to flee to the one place she’d never find him: literally anywhere else.

He leapt from the roof, snatched a passing chicken to use as a makeshift glider (it did not go well), and bolted into the night, Mei Ling’s vows of vengeance trailing him like a curse: “YOU’LL SLEEP IN A RICE PADDY TONIGHT, LONG JIAN! A WET RICE PADDY!”

And so began the greatest chase in martial arts history—not for honor, treasure, or vengeance, but for a man who’d finally realized that even a divine blade is no match for a wife’s wrath.

**The Great Chicken Glider Debacle**

Master Long Jian’s escape began with a *squawk*, a *thud*, and a cloud of feathers. The chicken, regrettably, had not consented to being a glider. It pecked his ear furiously as they crash-landed in a rice paddy, leaving Long Jian face-first in mud and fowl droppings. He spat out a stalk of rice, muttering, “A lesser man would’ve mastered *avian flight* by now.”

The moonlit night offered little mercy. Behind him, the Jade Lotus Dojo glowed like a lantern of doom, Lady Mei Ling’s voice echoing across the valley: *“BRING ME HIS HEAD! …OR AT LEAST HIS LAUNDRY!”*

**The Reluctant Posse**

Mei Ling’s “pursuers” were not the shadowy assassins of legend, but rather a ragtag band of village eccentrics:

- **Old Chen**, the tofu seller, armed with a ladle and a grudge (Long Jian once “borrowed” his cart to practice *Chariot Sword Technique* and returned it as firewood).

- **Little Yue**, a starry-eyed disciple who idolized Long Jian but feared Mei Ling’s dumpling embargo.

- **Auntie Zhu**, the herbalist, wielding a broom and a jar of *Tiger Balm of Eternal Itching*.

“Remember,” Auntie Zhu hissed, “Mei Ling promised free *zongzi* if we catch him. No mercy!”

**The Chase Through Pickle Alley**

Long Jian bolted into the village, his robe flapping like a panicked crane. The posse gave chase, stirring chaos in the night market.

- **Slapstick Moment**: Long Jian vaulted over a noodle cart, accidentally kicking a bowl of hot broth onto Old Chen’s lap. “MY SPOON!” Chen wailed, hopping on one foot.

- **Distracted by Swordsmanship**: Spotting a fishmonger’s cleaver, Long Jian paused to critique the man’s grip. “Your *Downward Salmon Chop* lacks *spiritual intent*!” The fishmonger blinked. “It’s 3 a.m.”

- **Pigsty Hideout**: Long Jian dove into a pigsty, camouflaging himself with straw. The pigs, unimpressed, oinked loudly until Little Yue peered in. “Master… why are you hugging a sow?”

**The Chopstick Duel**

Cornered in a tea shop, Long Jian faced Auntie Zhu across a table littered with leftovers. She brandished her broom; he snatched a pair of chopsticks.

“*The Thousand Noodle Strike*!” he declared, flinging udon like whips.

“*The Sweeping Wind of Disappointment*!” she countered, smacking his wrist with her broom.

A dumpling soared through the air—a peace offering from Little Yue. Long Jian caught it mid-bite, only to spit it out. “Cilantro?! You know I hate—”

*WHACK*. Auntie Zhu’s broom sent him crashing into a shelf of porcelain teacups. “That,” she said, “was for the cilantro.”

**The Unlikely Escape**

As the posse closed in, Long Jian spotted salvation: a river raft loaded with fireworks (destined for the ill-fated Anniversary Apology Display). He leapt aboard, slicing the ropes with a chopstick.

“Farewell, fools!” he cried, striking a dramatic pose. “Tell Mei Ling I… uh… left the stove on!”

The raft sped downstream, propelled by rogue fireworks. The posse watched, slack-jawed, as explosions lit the sky.

Old Chen sighed. “He’s gonna burn down another village, isn’t he?”

In the valley below, a rooster crowed. Somewhere, a chicken plotted revenge.

**The Disguise of Dubious Merit**

Master Long Jian’s idea of a “subtle disguise” was a rice hat the size of a cartwheel, a fake beard made of goat hair, and a robe hastily dyed with beet juice (“*The color of humility!*”). He waddled into the *Jade Serenity Tea House*, hunched like a question mark, and declared to the first waiter he saw: **“I AM A TOTALLY NORMAL TEA MERCHANT. PLEASE IGNORE MY SWORD.**”

The waiter, a teenager named Xiao Li, blinked. “Sir, your beard is… shedding.”

Long Jian glanced down. A clump of goat hair floated into his teacup. **“AHEM. IT’S A NEW FASHION. FROM… TIBET.”**

**The Art of Blending In (Poorly)**

The tea house was a labyrinth of paper screens, bamboo flutes, and elderly patrons napping over their oolong. Long Jian chose a corner table, knocking over a bonsai tree and a tray of dumplings in the process. He snatched a menu, held it upside down, and barked, **“I’LL HAVE THE… *Mystical Dragon Brew*! YES. THAT SOUNDS WARRIOR-LIKE.”**

Xiao Li leaned in. “That’s a children’s drink. It comes with a toy.”

**“PERFECT,”** Long Jian hissed, squinting at the door. **“I COLLECT TOYS. *Cough* NORMAL TEA MERCHANT THINGS.”**

**Enter the Iron Phoenix (and Her Ladle)**

Unbeknownst to Long Jian, Lady Mei Ling had already infiltrated the tea house, disguised as a *“mystical tea reader”* in a veil adorned with tiny bells. She’d swapped her ladle for a “harmless” bamboo tea whisk, which she’d secretly dipped in chili oil.

**“Fortune told, futures sold!”** she trilled, gliding between tables. **“Cross my palm with silver, and I’ll reveal your destiny… *or your imminent demise*.”**

A patron recoiled as she “accidentally” whipped his ear with her veil. **“Destiny says you’ll need ice for that.”**

**The Tea Cup Tango**

Long Jian, now sipping his *Mystical Dragon Brew* (which came with a squeaky rubber dragon), froze as Mei Ling’s bells jingled closer. In a panic, he yanked the rice hat over his face and began loudly reciting Tang poetry: **“*The moon shines bright… like a sword’s edge at midnight…*”**

Mei Ling paused at his table. **“Your aura reeks of guilt,”** she purred, tapping her whisk. **“And… beet juice.”**

**“I’M A BEET FARMER!”** Long Jian blurted, his voice muffled by the hat. **“HERE TO DISCUSS… *ROOT VEGETABLES*.”**

Mei Ling’s veil twitched. **“A beet farmer with a *sword callus* on his right thumb?”**

**“IT’S FOR… *HARVESTING*.”**

**“Of course.”** She slammed her whisk onto the table, splattering chili oil. **“Let me read your leaves.”**

**The Great Tea Leaf Debacle**

Long Jian’s teacup trembled as Mei Ling theatrically swirled the dregs. **“Ahhh,”** she intoned, **“I see a man running from his problems… *and a very angry wife*.”**

**“RIDICULOUS!”** Long Jian’s goat beard slid into his lap. **“I’M A LONELY BEET FARMER WHO… *misses his mother*!”**

**“Your mother,”** Mei Ling snarled, **“would’ve disowned you by now.”**

Across the room, Xiao Li whispered to a cook: **“Should we stop them?”**

The cook shrugged. **“Nah. The old man with the goat beard tipped me to call the town guards. Free entertainment.”**

**The Bamboo Whisk vs. The Rubber Dragon**

When Mei Lung lunged, Long Jian countered with his rubber toy, squeaking it furiously to “distract her chi.” Patrons ducked as chili oil flew, igniting a tray of drunken shrimp.

**“YOUR WHISK LACKS *HARMONIOUS BALANCE*!”** Long Jian shouted, parrying with a teapot lid.

**“YOUR *LIFE* LACKS BALANCE!”** Mei Ling retorted, flipping a table into his shins.

A teapot sailed past Xiao Li’s head. **“That’s a *Ming dynasty antique*!”** the owner wailed, before fainting into a vat of bubble tea.

**The Escape (and the Unpaid Bill)**

Cornered, Long Jian hurled a handful of tea leaves into the air, crying **“*SMOKE BOMB!*”** As Mei Ling swatted at the harmless foliage, he belly-crawled toward the exit, snagging a steamed bun off a startled patron’s plate.

**“STOP THAT BEET FARMER!”** Mei Ling roared, chucking her whisk like a javelin. It pinned Long Jian’s robe to the doorframe.

**“A *true* warrior knows when to retreat!”** he declared, ripping free and leaving half his robe behind.

Mei Ling yanked the whisk from the wall. **“And a *true* wife knows where you sleep!”**

The *Jade Serenity Tea House* banned all beet farmers, rubber dragons, and veiled women. Xiao Li kept the goat beard as a souvenir.

And miles away, Long Jian stumbled into a bamboo forest, clutching his stolen bun and muttering, **“Next time… *I’ll disguise myself as a tree*.”**

A tree, nearby, shuddered.