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.”
A cold breath brushed his ear. Then, a voice—low, teasing, and ancient—whispered: ------- Ma Cung di Se Duyen Bl
“I am terrified,” Phong admitted, clutching his poetry book. “But your calligraphy set is very high quality. May I borrow it after I die?” Phong, exhausted, tear-streaked, grabbed Linh’s collar
The candles flickered.
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. The ‘trials’ were just to make me fall for you