Let me preface this by saying: I didn't mean to flirt.
It was defensive flirtation. Survival flirtation. The kind you deploy when someone's about to slash your face off and you have no sword, no shield, and definitely no idea how combat training in the Echo Monastery works because, and I quote, "Kael, the Spoon will explain it."
The Spoon did not explain it.
The Spoon, my assigned magical mentor, spiritual tormentor, and emotional support kitchenware, said only this before vanishing into a pile of incense smoke: "Embrace the chaos."
Embrace the chaos? CHAOS HAS ABS.
Because the moment I stepped into the monastery's "training ring" (read: reality-fracturing dream field held together by spicy Echo energy and passive-aggressive runes), I found myself face to face with what I thought was a handsome noble.
Tall. Silver hair. Half-mask. Shirt strategically unbuttoned like it had been in a romantic windstorm.
Only problem?
He wasn't real. Or rather, he was a manifestation of my worst instincts.
Which apparently included thirst.
"You have ten seconds to survive this round," said the Monk Referee, whose job seemed to be shouting mildly unhelpful phrases while sipping aggressively from a bamboo mug.
"Wait, WHAT ROUND?"
Too late.
Silver-Haired Trauma Adonis lunged.
And I—because my inner defense mechanism is apparently a mix of self-deprecation and emotionally inconvenient charm—panicked.
"Nice mask," I blurted. "Bet you say that to all the unregistered demigods."
He paused.
Blink.
Monk Ref choked on tea.
"Did you just flirt with your combat hallucination?" yelled Belladonna from the gallery, sipping from a cocktail glass filled with disappointment.
"I PANIC-CHARMED HIM," I shouted.
"Flirted," she said.
"Tactically!"
At which point my opponent vanished into smoke—because apparently, if you flirt hard enough, Echo constructs short-circuit.
So yes. Flirting is not a combat style.
But maybe, just maybe... it's my combat style.
"So," said Spoon later that night, perched atop a pile of monk scrolls it definitely wasn't supposed to be chewing, "you weaponized innuendo against a memory phantom."
"I panicked!"
"And made him question his illusion-based sexuality."
"I panicked with flair."
Spoon swirled in place like it was trying to do a dramatic hair flip but had neither hair nor shame.
"You are the worst candidate the Echo Monastery has ever trained."
"Technically, I'm the only candidate you've trained."
"Exactly. And still the worst."
I flopped backward onto the monk mat, which smelled like lavender, regret, and whatever incense was designed to summon identity crises.
"I don't get it," I muttered. "Why am I not allowed to just talk to the hallucinations? Isn't empathy a valid tool of diplomacy?"
"Because this is not therapy, Kael. This is combat."
"My trauma fought back. I merely seduced it."
Silence.
Then, begrudgingly:
"...effective."
The next day, the monks threw me into another hallucination. This one? A battlefield.
I expected war horns, dramatic speeches, or at least a fog machine.
Instead, I got Seraphina.
Or, well, a distorted memory-hybrid version of her: eyes glowing, wings aflame, judgment pouring off her like divine glitter.
"You abandoned me," she said.
"That is... not historically accurate!"
She drew her sword. I drew absolutely nothing because I still didn't have a weapon, a plan, or functioning fight-or-flight. Only flirt.
So I tried it again.
"Hey, if I say you look hot when you're mad, do I die faster or slower?"
She paused. Flame flickered. Sword trembled.
"Kael."
"Yes?"
"Run."
I did.
I tripped over a monk in the process. Apologized. Flirted with him too. It's a coping mechanism, okay?
At the end of day three, Spoon gave me a report card.
KAEL: ECHO TRAINING PERFORMANCE REVIEW
Combat Adaptability: 4/10
Magical Instincts: 6/10
Emotional Maturity: 2/10
Flirt-to-Fight Ratio: 10/10
"You gave me a ten in something!"
"That was not praise."
"Still counts."
By the end of the week, the monks started whispering.
"Is he the one who seduced the Flame Wraith?"
"He smiled at the pain projection and it vanished."
"My uncle was a hallucination and he blushed."
Great. My legacy in the monastery of Echo soul-ascendants was now: Flirts With His Fears.
Spoon wasn't mad. Spoon was disappointed. Which, as any child of ancient glitch prophecy knows, is worse.
"You are supposed to be mastering inner balance," it said.
"I am. I just use flirting as my grounding mantra."
"That is not a mantra."
"Tell that to your uncle the blushing hallucination."
On day ten, I faced myself.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
Mirror-Kael. Echo-Kael. Whatever you want to call him, he was taller, angrier, and definitely more emotionally constipated than I remembered being.
"You're a joke," he spat.
"You're me."
"Exactly."
He drew a sword.
I drew a smile.
"You know, if you smiled more, maybe you wouldn't be stuck in my trauma plane."
He attacked.
Spoon screamed, "DO NOT FLIRT WITH YOURSELF."
I grinned.
"You can't stop me."
Next Time on Yes, I Was Reborn. No, I Don't Want a Harem. Stop Looking at Me Like That:
Chapter 74: "Your Trauma Wants a Rematch and Brought Backup"
Kael faces all his failed confessions at once. Belladonna shows up with a magical contract. Seraphina draws her sword. Mirielle lights a prayer candle. Spoon files a restraining order. And Fluffernox? Starts shipping Kael with himself.
Send help.