To outsiders, having a stunningly beautiful wife with a voracious appetite might seem enviable.

But Zhong Cheng? He’d gladly say: “Take her. I wouldn’t mind wearing the green hat—just keep her satisfied.”

Anything to stop her from craving his body daily, addicted after that first taste, draining him nonstop.

Once a day? Even the burliest man would collapse.

And judging by the Ghost Emperor’s hunger? Several times wouldn’t be enough. Who could endure that?

A wife this insatiable? Truly terrifying.

Too much. Can’t handle it.

They say it’s the ox that wears out, not the field. The ancients weren’t wrong.

But Zhong Cheng’s case was the opposite. If *he* were the one “plowing”? Sure, he’d be thrilled.

But being drained? Zero pleasure. Instant exhaustion.

Can’t relate. Nope.

No perks at all—just becoming someone else’s emergency snack. Misery.

Worse than being a sugar baby for a rich cougar.

At least *that* comes with perks—skip a decade of grinding.

But the Ghost Emperor? Nothing.

Called “husband” on paper. Labeled “emergency ration” in reality.

Overwhelmed by weakness and despair, Zhong Cheng slipped into unconsciousness.

“Too scary… Mama, take me home…”

…

…

.

Zhong Cheng woke to daylight—roused by his grandma.

His eyelids felt leaden, like ten layers of fake lashes glued shut.

He could’ve slept half the day. So drained. Only deep rest would restore him.

“Wait… this is the ancestral home’s room?”

He blinked. Familiar humble walls. The scent of aged wood.

Shock flickered across his face—then pure relief.

He was back. *Really* back.

Not the Ancient Shrine. Not that bridal chamber.

No ghosts. No Ghost Emperor!

He sat up fast, scanning the room. Unmistakably home.

Pinched his cheek—sharp sting. Real.

“Was last night at the Ancient Shrine… just a dream? Felt too real,” he murmured.

Every detail lingered: the Ghost Emperor’s slap, the hollow weakness after his yang was drained.

Not dreamlike at all.

Did *they* send him back? Would they be that kind?

Zhong Cheng felt Zhuangzi’s butterfly-dream confusion—reality blurring, truth and illusion tangled.

But as clarity returned, the modern youth shaped by nine years of schooling shook his head. *Too absurd. Must be a dream.*

Don’t overthink it. Thinking makes it real!

The weakness? Probably psychosomatic.

Psychologists say mental suggestions shape body and behavior.

Exactly. The dream’s “drained” feeling lingered, triggering real fatigue—maybe mild anemia.

Realizing this, the weakness faded.

“So… just a dream? Daytime thoughts breed nighttime dreams,” he muttered, doubt still in his voice.

Yet the realism… Hollywood’s top VFX teams couldn’t fake it.

Not even with Jackie Chan’s *duang-duang* CGI.

“Zhong Cheng! Still asleep? Lunch is ready!”

Grandpa’s voice drifted from the courtyard.

Noon. Grandma had mentioned lunch earlier.

But Zhong Cheng had lain there ten minutes, lost in the dream-or-reality loop.

Gurgle.

Stomach cooed like a pigeon at the thought of food.

*Ah. Just hungry.*

He swung his legs out—then froze.

His slippers faced *inward*.

He *always* placed them outward after bathroom trips. Every villager did.

Folk belief: outward = keep spirits out. Inward = invite them in.

A quiet ritual for peace of mind.

Zhong Cheng wasn’t superstitious, but mountain-village habits stuck.

Who moved them?

A chill crept up his spine.

*Was last night… real?*

Stop it. Thinking makes it real!

Don’t spiral. Don’t reinforce the suggestion.

He slipped on the slippers and stepped out.

Grandpa and Grandma sat by the courtyard table—feast laid out, just like yesterday.

Mmm… smells amazing~

Gurgle.

Stomach cooed again. You’d think a pigeon nested inside him.

“Grandson, stayed up late?” Grandpa asked.

“What’s up?” Zhong Cheng replied.

“Huge dark circles.”

“Must’ve scrolled too long on my phone,” Zhong Cheng mumbled.

He hadn’t seen a mirror yet.

Fingers brushed under his eyes—slightly sunken. Yep, noticeable bags.

He ducked inside, found a mirror—and flinched.

Pale. Wrinkled skin. Sunken sockets. Lifeless, fishy eyes.

Like he’d gamed nonstop in an internet cafe for a week.

Pathetic.

He splashed water on his face, returned to the courtyard, and dove in.

Chopsticks flying. Wolfing down rice, barely chewing, grease smearing his chin. Nearly choked.

Never this hungry. His body screamed for massive energy.

“Slow down, grandson! We won’t steal your food,” Grandpa said, wide-eyed.

“Mmm…” Zhong Cheng kept shoveling.

Ten minutes later, to his grandparents’ stunned silence, he’d cleared the entire table.

Belched. Patted his six-months-pregnant belly. Satisfied.

He could’ve eaten the crispy pot crust too—if not for sparing them food.

Stomach ached from fullness.

But the weakness? Mostly gone.

“I’m heading back to rest.”

No offer to help clear dishes. Exhausted. Drowsy. All he wanted was deep, healing sleep.