Linh appeared in a wedding robe, no longer joking. “Last trial. Kiss me willingly, or the door opens. One is freedom. The other is me.”
“You really are the one.” He stepped closer, lifting Phong’s chin. “My curse: I must find a soul who willingly binds theirs to mine, not out of fear, but out of… se duyên . True affinity. I’ve eaten ninety-nine greedy cultivators. I’ve scared away ninety-nine brides. But you? You care about brushes.”
“Gladly. But first, another kiss.”
The palace showed Phong his deepest wish: not fame or gold, but a warm hand holding his while reading poetry under a peach tree. The illusion placed Linh beside him, softer, mortal. Phong almost surrendered. Then he noticed—the phantom Linh had no poetry book. “Real Linh would mock my bad verses,” Phong said. “You’re fake.” The illusion shattered.
Phong, exhausted, tear-streaked, grabbed Linh’s collar. “You idiot ghost. You planned this from the start, didn’t you? The ‘trials’ were just to make me fall for you.” ------- Ma Cung di Se Duyen Bl
Legends said the palace was alive. Its corridors shifted at midnight. Its walls bled black incense. And at its heart slept a Ghost King, , bound by a thousand-year curse: he would remain trapped until a mortal with a specific duyên (fated affinity) willingly stepped through the main gate.
“I am terrified,” Phong admitted, clutching his poetry book. “But your calligraphy set is very high quality. May I borrow it after I die?” Linh appeared in a wedding robe, no longer joking
And the red string of se duyên tightened around both their little fingers—fate finally fulfilled, even beyond death.
The candles flickered.