Chapter 5: The Rumor Mill and the Angel in the Alleyway

The village square felt wrong today.

I walked past the bakery with my mental shopping list ready. Lumber for the ceiling, nails for the walls, rice because Taro ate everything again. Normal supplies for my abnormal life. The morning sun warmed the cobblestones. Birds chirped in the marketplace. Everything looked peaceful.

Then I noticed the staring.

Old Mrs. Chen covered her mouth and whispered to the fishmonger. The butcher’s wife actually blushed when I walked past. Three teenagers giggled behind their hands, their eyes following me with this weird knowing look.

What the hell was happening?

“Morning, Grandmaster Zenjiro.”

The baker’s voice came out strained, like he was trying very hard to sound normal. His smile stretched too wide across his face.

I nodded back, keeping my expression neutral.

The whispers intensified the moment I passed. I caught fragments, words that made my stomach drop.

“—three handsome disciples—”

“—all living together in that mountain dojo—”

“—heard them proclaiming their devotion—”

My feet stopped moving.

No.

No no no no no.

This couldn’t be happening. My disciples’ loud declarations of “Master, I will defeat you with my love” and “Master, accept my devotion” had been misinterpreted. The entire village thought I was running some kind of forbidden all-male operation.

I needed that magazine right now.

The bookstand sat in its usual corner, the old shopkeeper reading behind his counter. I’d been buying from him for three years. Same transaction every month, zero judgment, pure professional courtesy.

“Ah, Grandmaster Zenjiro.”

His voice carried this new warmth that made my skin crawl. He smiled with what he probably thought was supportive understanding.

“The usual?”

“Yes, please.”

I kept my voice steady, professional. Just a normal transaction between two adults. Nothing weird about buying reading material.

He ducked behind the counter.

My mind raced through damage control strategies. Maybe I could make a public announcement. Stand in the square and clarify that I exclusively liked women. That seemed desperate though, possibly making things worse.

The shopkeeper emerged holding a magazine.

But the cover showed two oiled men in a very compromising position.

Time stopped.

My brain refused to process what I was seeing. Those muscles, that positioning, the title “Forbidden Mountain Passions” written in flowing script across the top.

“I heard about your new lifestyle.”

The shopkeeper winked, actually winked at me. His expression radiated this congratulatory energy, like he was proud of me for coming out.

“Thought you might enjoy something more aligned with your interests now.”

The magazine sat in his outstretched hand, those oiled men gleaming under the shop lights. My hand moved on pure instinct, taking it before my conscious mind could object.

“This is very progressive of you, embracing your truth at your age.”

I looked down at the magazine.

Then at the shopkeeper’s supportive smile.

Then back at the magazine.

Something inside me shattered.

“I. Like. Women.”

My voice came out flat, dead, carrying the weight of absolute soul-crushing defeat. Each word dropped like a stone into still water.

“Of course, of course.”

He nodded with that same understanding expression, clearly not believing me at all. He thought I was still in denial, probably.

“Your secret is safe with me.”

I threw the magazine.

Not handed it back politely. Threw it like a shuriken, the pages spinning through the air. It hit the back wall with a slap, those oiled men crumpling against ancient scrolls.

“I have been buying your women’s magazines for three years.”

My hand pointed at the regular section, the one with actual female models. Desperation leaked into my voice, I couldn’t help it.

“Three years of the same preference, why would that change?”

“People discover themselves at different times—”

“I LIKE WOMEN.”

The shout echoed across the marketplace. Several people turned to look, their expressions mixing pity and support. They thought I was protesting too much, didn’t they? This was making it worse.

I grabbed a regular magazine from the shelf, slammed coins on the counter, and fled.

The whispers followed me like ghosts.

“—poor man, so confused—”

“—those handsome disciples probably—”

“—mountain training has different meanings—”

My reputation was dead.

Cremated, scattered to the winds, buried under a mountain of misunderstanding. Years of being the respected hermit grandmaster, gone. Now I was the old master with his devoted boy toys.

I wanted to scream into the void.

The market square opened ahead, vendors hawking their goods under colorful awnings. I just needed to grab lumber and escape back to my ruined dojo. Hide in the rubble until this rumor died.

Then I saw them.

My three disciples stood in the square’s center like a catastrophic performance art piece. They’d apparently taken my mission seriously, but in the worst possible way.

Blade had cornered a young woman against a fruit stand.

“YOUR RESOLVE IS WEAK.”

His sword wasn’t drawn, but his entire posture screamed aggressive intensity. The woman’s eyes were wide with terror, her hands clutching a basket of apples.

“TEST YOURSELF AGAINST THE MASTER, PROVE YOUR WORTH.”

She ran.

Literally dropped her apples and sprinted away, her footsteps echoing off the cobblestones. Blade watched her go with genuine confusion, like he couldn’t understand why his motivational shouting hadn’t worked.

Kaoru had attracted a small crowd near the silk merchant.

He stood there in that pink robe, makeup perfect, judging women’s fashion with brutal honesty. Three girls clustered nearby, looking both offended and weirdly attracted.

“That shade of blue washes out your complexion completely.”

His deep voice rumbled with authority, one hand gesturing dismissively at a girl’s dress. She looked ready to cry.

“And your posture suggests zero martial discipline, how disappointing.”

Another girl stormed off, muttering about rude pretty boys. But one stayed, her cheeks flushed, clearly experiencing some kind of confused attraction.

Kaoru smiled behind his fan.

“Perhaps you have potential after all—”

Then I saw Taro’s sign.

The wooden board stood ten feet tall, positioned at the square’s main entrance. Taro had painted the letters with careful precision, each stroke perfectly formed.

The message read: “MASTER ZENJIRO SEEKING YOUNG BODIES FOR INTENSIVE TRAINING. PAYMENT NEGOTIABLE.”

My soul left my body.

Below that, in smaller letters: “WILL ACCEPT FLESH AS PAYMENT IF COIN IS UNAVAILABLE.”

I died inside.

Taro stood beside his creation with that innocent proud expression, like a child showing off their art project. Several mothers had grabbed their daughters and hurried away. A town guard was approaching with a very concerned look.

This was fueling the rumors.

Women running in terror, Kaoru being the obviously better option, and Taro’s sign suggesting I was recruiting for something illegal. The village would have me arrested by sunset.

I turned around and walked in the opposite direction.

Fast, not quite running but close. My feet carried me away from the disaster, away from the whispers, away from my disciples’ catastrophic help.

The side streets grew narrower, less populated. I turned down an alley I’d never noticed before, my only thought being escape and hiding.

The alley dead-ended in a small courtyard.

Old buildings leaned together overhead, creating a pocket of quiet away from the market chaos. Laundry hung between windows, colorful fabrics swaying in the breeze. A few crates sat stacked against weathered walls.

I slumped against the nearest wall and slid down to sit.

My magazine crinkled in my hand, the cover now wrinkled from my death grip. The models smiled up at me, blissfully unaware of my suffering.

“Why is my life like this?”

The question drifted into empty air, rhetorical and exhausted. No dramatic delivery, just tired acceptance of cosmic injustice.

A small sound caught my attention.

Soft, content, almost musical. I looked up, my god-tier senses automatically scanning for the source.

Then I saw her.

She sat on a crate near the courtyard’s far corner, completely absorbed in eating a meat bun. Her hair fell plain and dark around her shoulders, no elaborate style or accessories. Simple brown clothes, nothing fancy or eye-catching.

She took another bite and smiled.

Pure joy radiated from that expression, the kind of happiness only good food could bring. No spiritual energy crackling around her, no dramatic aura, no destiny vibes whatsoever.

She was aggressively normal.

To my eyes, trained to perceive power levels and hidden potential, her complete lack of anything special was the most beautiful thing I’d ever witnessed.

She didn’t notice me watching.

Another bite, another small happy sound. A drop of sauce landed on her sleeve. She wiped it with her finger and licked it clean, totally unselfconscious.

My brain stuttered back to life.

This girl, this wonderfully mundane person eating a meat bun with zero dramatic flair, represented everything I’d been searching for. She wouldn’t destroy my ceiling. Probably didn’t know any God-Killing techniques. Likely understood the concept of normal greetings.

The BL nightmare faded into background static.

I stared at her like a prophet witnessing divine revelation. The afternoon sun backlit her figure, dust motes floating through the light. She remained completely unaware of my existence, focused entirely on her food.

I couldn’t move.

Speaking might shatter this moment, reveal that I was actually a disaster magnet whose disciples had just destroyed his reputation. She’d run like all the others, smart enough to avoid whatever chaos surrounded me.

She finished the bun and pulled out a small coin purse.

Her fingers counted copper pieces one by one, lips moving silently with the numbers. Careful, methodical, the movements of someone who tracked every expense.

I watched her count, frozen in this perfect moment of normalcy.

She was real, she existed, and she looked exactly like someone who wouldn’t try to kill me before breakfast.

The courtyard’s quiet wrapped around us like a bubble, separate from the market chaos and village rumors and disciples’ disasters.

I still hadn’t said anything.