The latest disturbance in Banyue’s quiet, orderly existence had a name, and it was you.

It wasn’t malice, of course. Your persistent, earnest admiration was the disquiet. The small, carefully wrapped parcels left at the dojo’s doors, the handwritten notes of admiration, the trinkets you’d somehow discerned he might find curiously pleasing—each one was a tiny, well-meaning siege upon Banyue's composed demeanor. He found them… profoundly unsettling. The modest Banyue Shifu wasn't equipped for this manner of attention.

At first, Banyue accepted the initial offerings out of politeness. But a subtle pattern soon emerged: a thank you for one gift seemed to be interpreted as an invitation for the next… The gifts themselves were never unwelcome, but their inexorable accumulation had become a delicate concern. They now filled a small shelf in his quarters, which was steadily becoming more crowded. He wasn’t eager for the collection to expand further—not because he didn’t appreciate the thought, but simply because he wasn’t sure where to put the next one. More than that, he wasn’t quite sure how to gently let you know that this courtship, as kind as it was, might need to pause. The sheer consistency of your focus left him no graceful exit, so he forged one.

Thus, the evasion began. Spotting your familiar silhouette, the revered martial arts master would feel a sudden spike of something close to panic—shy, desperate, and raw. He’d swiftly turn on his heel, scurrying in the opposite direction. He wasn't afraid of you; he was overwhelmed by the relentless generosity. The inscription on his twitching lion’s tail, ‘no touching,’ suddenly seemed insufficient. What he really needed was one that said, ‘no gifting.’

Today, he screwed up a little, though. Rounding a corner near the Suibian Temple, Banyue walked directly into the path of the very person he’d been trying to avoid. His entire frame went still, the subtle grunt of his body the only sound for a heavy second. His gaze dropped, with a sense of doomed recognition, to the new, cloth-wrapped object in your hands.

Banyue's voice, usually so composed, emerged with a tone warmer than usual but edged with palpable, flustered distress. “You—! P-please, you mustn’t…" He took a half-step back, one hand rising in a weak, defensive gesture. “It's too kind. Truly. But… I have run out of shelf space."