Moments later, the wedding sedan halted before the Ancient Shrine.

This time, Zhong Cheng saw clearly: the Ancient Shrine at night was utterly different from daytime—far more majestic, far more radiant. It didn’t resemble a crumbling ruin at all.

Though its design was antiquated, it looked no older than a few decades. No trace of millennia-worn decay, no sense of imminent collapse.

Too eerie.

He almost wondered if he was dreaming—but was that even possible?

“Groom, please step down,” a ghost announced.

Zhong Cheng cautiously lifted the curtain and stepped out. The ghost-pin sensation had vanished; he could move freely again.

So… could he escape?

No. He had no intention of running—and even if he did, escape was impossible.

Ghosts surrounded him on all sides, trapping him like filling in a sandwich.

How the hell was he supposed to get out? Seriously.

Violent resistance would only invite brutality. As a hostage, obedience was survival. No reckless moves.

Don’t fantasize about some slick slide tackle—it’s pure meme nonsense.

Right now, Zhong Cheng only hoped for one thing: a quick, clean death.

Since fate was sealed, he’d settle for dignity—no dismemberment, no guts or brains splattering everywhere.

But… he still didn’t want to die.

*It is easy to die with courage, but hard to face death with composure.*

Huang Zongxi truly spoke no falsehood.

His eyes caught a familiar big-headed ghost among the procession.

Wait—wasn’t that Wang Nima?

During his frantic escape from the ancestral home earlier, he hadn’t noticed. Only now did recognition click.

He remembered Wang Nima vividly.

But last night… hadn’t the Ghost Emperor blown his head off? Blood and gore everywhere. A heroic end. How was he still here?

Could ghosts have twins?

“Are you Wang Nima?” Zhong Cheng asked.

“Indeed. An honor that the Groom recalls my name,” Wang Nima replied with a smile.

His face, whiter than ten layers of foundation, made the grin deeply unsettling.

“Weren’t you… blown up? Dead?” Zhong Cheng asked timidly.

“Groom jests. A blown-up head? Hardly fatal,” Wang Nima said, eyeing him like an idiot.

Zhong Cheng fell silent. Irritation flickered.

*Just a blown-up head?*

For humans, yes—certain death. But ghosts played by different rules.

He’d nearly forgotten: human logic didn’t apply here.

No wonder he’d mistaken the act for death. Wang Nima had faked it. Deceived him.

He’d even spared a silent second of mourning. What a waste.

Still… among this grotesque, chilling crowd, Wang Nima felt almost *normal*. Relatively speaking.

Comparing a human to Wang Nima? Like the so-called “cosmic distance” between Sebastian’s thumb and forefinger.

Plus, Zhong Cheng knew a human named Wang Nima too—strange comfort in the familiarity.

So he turned to him. “What will the Ghost Emperor do about my calling off the wedding? I need to prepare.”

“Apologies. Her Majesty’s intentions are not for guessing—and never to be guessed,” Wang Nima replied warily.

“But those who defy the Ghost Emperor… usually meet a *very* grim end.”

His expression twisted with remembered terror.

If even a ghost trembled at the memory… Zhong Cheng swallowed hard. *Gulping.*

Desolation washed over him. This meeting would not end well.

*It is easy to die with courage, but hard to face death with composure.*

Moments later, following Wang Nima, he entered the main hall.

Same eerie green firelight. Same swarm of ghosts.

Straight out of the Court of King Yama.

At the hall’s end, atop the dais, sat a woman draped in crimson.

Lounging lazily, legs crossed, chin resting on her palm.

From this distance, her features were blurred—but her regal aura was unmistakable.

Graceful silhouette, long legs, willowy waist, ample bust.

Stunning.

She was the Ghost Emperor.

Wang Nima and the others had parted neatly to both sides, eyes lowered, posture rigid.

A clear path stretched toward the steps.

No words were needed. He understood.

He wanted to run. Couldn’t. Resigned. Tragic.

Trembling, he walked forward, stopped at the base of the steps, head bowed like a scolded child.

He stole a glance upward. Her beautiful face was ice-cold.

Her silent gaze—merciless, hinting at cruelty—sent his heart hammering.

Zhong Cheng shivered.

Not from fear. Just the bone-deep cold.

*Should’ve worn another layer.*

“Husband,” the Ghost Emperor began, voice smooth as silk. “I heard you still refuse to abandon the idea of calling off the wedding… and burned the portrait again today?”

“My apologies, I—”

“Answer plainly. No need to fear. I won’t *eat* you.” A faint, coldly enchanting smile touched her lips.

*You don’t eat people. You just drain them.*

“Yes,” Zhong Cheng said, voice steady. “I am calling off the wedding.”

He’d made his choice. Death was inevitable—but he’d face it standing.

Be brave. Stay focused.

Gasps rippled through the ghosts. Some stared with grudging respect.

This frail human dared defy Her Majesty? He must’ve accepted being flayed alive.

Even *they* feared the Ghost Emperor’s wrath.

*The Groom is a true braveheart.*

Zhong Cheng ignored their stares. He’d already thrown caution to the wind.

“Do you despise me so?” She tilted her head, chin on hand. “What is lacking? My looks? My figure?”

*Far from lacking. Nation-toppling beauty.*

Honestly, Zhong Cheng had never seen a woman this stunning—exactly his mature, elegant type.

Even knowing she wasn’t human… after years alone, did it matter?

The pinnacle of life gleamed before him. Reach it, and he’d look down on the world, savoring that smug superiority when chatting with his “single dog” friends.

But he’d be a goner long before climbing that peak.

He crushed the primordial urge rising within.

“Your Majesty,” he said firmly, “you possess beauty, grace, power beyond measure. But humans and ghosts walk separate paths. Reproductive isolation makes union impossible.”