The Immortal's Guide to Accidental Courtship

The sun had barely managed to peek over the jagged horizon of the Thousand-Cloud Peaks when the first megaphone blast shattered the morning silence.

“And if you look to your left, folks, you’ll see the legendary Grotto of the Slumbering Sage!” a voice boomed, amplified by a cheap wind-manipulation charm. “Local legends say he’s been asleep for five hundred years, meditating on the fundamental truths of the universe. Don't mind the laundry hanging on the rock; that’s just, uh, sacred ceremonial garb!”

Aetherion groaned, pulling a moth-eaten blanket over his head. It didn’t help.

“Hey, look! There’s a guy in there!” a child’s voice shrieked. “Is that the Sage? He looks kind of dusty, Mom.”

“Don’t be silly, Timmy,” a woman replied. “The Sage would be glowing or floating. That’s probably just a squatter. The sect really needs to hire better security for these premium tours.”

Aetherion sat up, his hair a bird’s nest of silver-blue tangles. He blinked at the crowd of tourists huddled behind a velvet rope just ten feet from his sleeping mat.

“A squatter?” Aetherion muttered, his voice gravelly from sleep. “I’ve lived here since the mountain was just a hill. Who are these people?”

A man in a bright yellow tunic with a 'Cloud-Path Tours' logo stepped forward. “Excuse me, sir! You’re obstructing the view of the Ancient Altar of Ascension. Could you perhaps move your… whatever that is? The pot. Move the pot.”

Aetherion looked at his rusted cooking pot. “That’s for my oatmeal. And this isn't an altar, it’s my porch.”

“Look, buddy,” the guide whispered, leaning over the rope. “I’ve got forty people who paid fifty silver credits each to see 'Ancient Splendor.' You looking like a hungover hermit isn't on the brochure. Move it, or I’m calling the Silver Moon Sect’s enforcement squad.”

“The Silver Moon Sect?” Aetherion rubbed his eyes. “Since when do they own this peak?”

“Since they bought the air rights and the ground rights eighty years ago,” the guide said, rolling his eyes. “Where have you been? Under a rock?”

“Literally, yes,” Aetherion sighed. He stood up, his joints popping like dry kindling. “Fine, fine. I’m going. Is there at least somewhere to get a decent breakfast around here? I’m starving.”

“The Silver Moon Banquet is starting down at the pavilion,” a tourist offered, checking a digital scroll. “It says here it’s a 'Grand Celebration of the Sword-Saint’s Return.' Five stars, open buffet for 'esteemed guests.'”

Aetherion perked up. “Open buffet? Now that’s a language I understand.”

“You’re not an esteemed guest, sir,” the guide sneered. “You’re a vagrant.”

“Watch me,” Aetherion said, stretching his arms until his spine cracked. “I’m very good at looking like I belong.”

*

The Silver Moon Pavilion was a sprawling masterpiece of white jade and floating silk banners. It smelled of roasted spiritual pheasant and expensive wine—a scent that acted like a homing beacon for Aetherion’s stomach.

“Halt,” a guard said, crossing a spear over the entrance. “Invitation?”

Aetherion looked the guard up and down. The man was wearing armor that cost more than a small village.

“Oh, the invitation?” Aetherion reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of lint and a dried berry. “I must have left it in my other robes. You know how it is. You wake up, you’re in a hurry to see the Sword-Saint, and boom—wardrobe malfunction.”

The guard frowned. “No invitation, no entry. This is the Silver Moon Banquet. We have the Sword-Saint Zinnia inside. We can’t just let every traveler with a messy haircut walk in.”

“Listen, man,” Aetherion said, leaning in confidentially. “I’m the… uh… the Head Decorator. From the, uh, Floral Arrangement Guild. See this?” He pointed to a small, white flower he’d plucked from a crack in the pavement on his way down. “This is the centerpiece. If I don’t get this to the main table, the Sword-Saint is going to be very, very upset. You want to be the guy who ruined the Saint’s aesthetic?”

The guard looked at the tiny, unremarkable flower. “That looks like a weed.”

“It’s a Minimalist Moon-Daisy,” Aetherion lied effortlessly. “Very trendy in the capital. Very expensive. Very fragile. Move the spear, pal. Time is money.”

The guard hesitated, then sighed, stepping aside. “Fine. But if I see you touching the shrimp cocktail, you’re out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Aetherion said, already halfway through the door.

Inside, the banquet was a sea of shimmering silk and stiff posture. Hundreds of cultivators and nobles were chatting in hushed, reverent tones. Aetherion ignored them all, heading straight for the buffet line.

“Excuse me,” a young disciple asked as Aetherion piled a plate high with glazed pork ribs. “Which sect are you from? I don’t recognize your robes.”

“I’m from the Sect of the Empty Belly,” Aetherion said through a mouthful of meat. “Very exclusive. We practice the Forbidden Art of the Third Helping.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” the disciple said, looking confused. “Is it a Southern school?”

“Deep South,” Aetherion nodded. “Anyway, who’s the lady everyone is staring at? The one with the sword that looks like it’s made of frozen lightning?”

The disciple gasped, dropping his cup. “You don’t know? That’s Zinnia! The Sword-Saint! She just returned from the Void-Rift after slaying the Shadow-Wyrm. She’s literally the strongest woman in the empire right now.”

Aetherion looked toward the head table. A woman sat there, radiating an aura so sharp it felt like the air around her was being sliced into ribbons. she was beautiful, in a way that reminded him of a mountain peak—stunning, but likely to kill you if you weren't careful. She looked bored out of her mind.

“She looks like she needs a drink,” Aetherion remarked.

“She needs respect!” the disciple hissed. “People have been trying to offer her gifts all morning. Sect leaders, princes, masters… she’s rejected them all. They say her standards are so high that no one in this world is worthy of even speaking to her.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Aetherion said. He finished his ribs and wiped his hands on his tunic. He looked at the white flower he was still holding. “I should probably give her this. I used it as my ticket in, after all. It’d be dishonest to keep it.”

“You’re going to give the Sword-Saint a common daisy?” the disciple laughed. “She’ll probably turn you into actual dust. Men have offered her Spirit-Vein Diamonds and Phoenix Feathers, and she didn't even blink.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Aetherion said, starting to walk toward the head table.

“Hey! Wait! I was joking! Don't actually do it!”

Aetherion ignored him. He wove through the crowd of nervous nobles until he stood directly in front of the Sword-Saint’s table. The chatter in the room died down instantly. A heavy, oppressive silence fell over the hall.

Zinnia raised her gaze. Her eyes were a piercing, metallic silver. “Another one?” she asked, her voice like the chime of a cold bell. “If you’re here to offer me a legendary blade or a mountain of gold, save your breath. I have no interest in your bribes.”

“Bribes? Nah,” Aetherion said, holding out the white flower. “I just thought the table looked a bit bare. And you look like you’re about five minutes away from stabbing the next person who talks to you. Here. It’s a gift. No strings attached.”

Zinnia froze. Her eyes dropped to the flower. Her pupils dilated, and for the first time that day, her icy composure cracked.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Found it in a crack in the road,” Aetherion said casually. “Nice, right? It’s got a bit of a glow to it if you squint.”

A collective gasp rippled through the room. A high-ranking elder in the front row stood up, his face pale. “Is that… is that the Soul-Binding Lily? The flower that only grows in the Heart of the Primordial Forest? The one used for… for…”

“For an Eternal Union Vow,” a woman nearby finished, her voice a terrified squeak. “He just handed a Soul-Binding Lily to the Sword-Saint. In front of everyone.”

Aetherion blinked. “A Soul-Binding what? I thought it was just a daisy.”

Zinnia stood up slowly. The sheer pressure of her presence made the wine glasses on the nearby tables shatter. She stared at the flower in her hand, then at Aetherion, who was currently picking a piece of pork out of his teeth.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” Zinnia asked, her voice low and dangerous.

“Uh… shared some greenery?” Aetherion guessed. “Look, if you don’t like it, you can just give it back. No big deal.”

“No big deal?” Zinnia’s hand flew to the hilt of her sword. The blade hissed as it left the scabbard, glowing with a terrifying, heavenly light. The tip of the sword came to rest exactly one inch from Aetherion’s throat.

“Who sent you?” she demanded. “Which Ancient Sect do you represent? No commoner could walk through my aura, hand me a Soul-Binding Lily with a straight face, and then tell me to 'give it back.'”

Aetherion looked at the glowing blade, then back at the very angry, very beautiful woman holding it.

“Look, lady,” he said, raising his hands. “I’m just a guy who wanted some free ribs. Can we talk about this after dessert?”

“Speak!” Zinnia roared, the floor beneath them cracking from the force of her voice. “Who are you, and why have you chosen this moment to claim my hand?”

Aetherion sighed, looking at his empty plate. “Man, I knew I should’ve stayed in bed.”