------- Ma Cung Di Se Duyen Bl (2026)

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

“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.

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.” ------- Ma Cung di Se Duyen Bl

Linh’s lips quirked. “Is it working?”

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.”

“I am terrified,” Phong admitted, clutching his poetry book. “But your calligraphy set is very high quality. May I borrow it after I die?” “Your line ‘moon like a cold dumpling’ is

“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.

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.

Slam. The doors locked themselves.

Phong kissed him. Deep. Desperate. Willing. The curse broke. The labyrinth did not vanish—it became a home. Villagers later whispered that Ma Cung now glowed with warm lanterns, and from within came two voices arguing over poetry:

“Then you write a better one, ghost king.”

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 ?!” Phong almost surrendered