How a Sword Saint Became a Fugitive in His Own Home

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.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***