------- Ma Cung Di Se Duyen Bl -

A cold breath brushed his ear. Then, a voice—low, teasing, and ancient—whispered:

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.

Linh’s lips quirked. “Is it working?”

Linh stared. Then, for the first time in a thousand years, he laughed. ------- Ma Cung di Se Duyen Bl

“Gladly. But first, another kiss.”

“Ah… a haunted house. Wonderful,” Phong whispered, teeth chattering.

The candles flickered.

Phong saw the ghost of a young soldier he’d once failed to save in a past life. The soldier pointed at Linh. “He was that soldier. You left him to die on a battlefield.” Phong wept, but knelt before Linh’s mirror reflection and said, “Then let me pay this life instead.” The mirror cracked.

And the red string of se duyên tightened around both their little fingers—fate finally fulfilled, even beyond death.

The palace hummed. Lanterns lit themselves one by one, revealing a long, red-carpeted hall. But instead of ghosts jumping out, a brush and inkstone floated toward him. A silken scroll unrolled, with elegant, chilling words: “Ngươi có duyên với chủ nhân nơi này. Hãy viết lời thề kết tóc. Nếu không, vĩnh viễn không được ra.” (You share a fate with the master of this place. Write a wedding vow. If not, you shall never leave.) Phong blinked. “I… I’m a broke scholar. I don’t even have a wife. Or a husband, not that I’d mind, but—wait, master ?!” A cold breath brushed his ear

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.

“Your line ‘moon like a cold dumpling’ is terrible, husband.”

“Then write a vow for me.” From the shadows materialized Ma Thiên Linh . He was terrifyingly beautiful: long black hair like spilled ink, skin pale as jade, eyes crimson as blood-soaked peonies. A crown of bone and thorns rested on his head. Phong almost surrendered