It was obvious the Ghost Emperor was a country bumpkin ghost—her first time stepping out of the boonies.

And honestly, with a terrifying entity like her roaming cities regularly? Human society would’ve collapsed long ago.

Sunlight softened her usual pale, sickly complexion, lending her a surprisingly healthy glow.

Jet-black hair, glossy and flowing, reached her hips. She wore a loose knit sweater and slim jeans—tall, mature frame, flawless face. Even a top plastic surgeon would find zero flaws.

A breeze stirred, lifting strands of her hair slightly.

Graceful posture, serene composure, impeccable aura.

Watching her under the sun—this stunning modern woman—Zhong Cheng froze, expression flickering with disbelief.

If he didn’t know better, who’d believe she was a ghost?

Passersby gawked. Mistaking her for an influencer, some whipped out phones and snapped pics without asking.

The Ghost Emperor noticed. A faint frown pinched her delicate brows. Offended. Then—a cold, sharp chuckle.

“My phone’s on fire!”

“Mine too!”

“Damn it! My brand-new iPhone in flashy blue—battery defect for sure! Suing for ten times the price! All my precious photos… gone!”

Every phone aimed at her burst into flames—fast, fierce, impossible to save.

People hurled them down to avoid burns.

Staring at their charred devices, faces twisted in despair.

Others pulled out *new* phones, filming the chaos. “Laser weapon attack!” “Foreign sabotage!” Chattering wildly, ready to sell footage to news outlets.

To outsiders? Totally plausible.

But Zhong Cheng knew. *She* did it. He silently mourned the victims—*one second of peace for you*.

Burning phones? Ruthless. Only a devil would do that.

…And the culprit *was* a devil.

Zhong Cheng’s gaze drifted downward—to her feet.

What legs. Perfectly proportioned, slender, elegant. Solid 95 out of 100. (Withheld full marks to keep her humble.)

In a skirt? Those fair, bare legs would be devastating.

But he wasn’t *actually* ogling her legs. Just… noting.

His real focus: the shadow beneath her feet.

Ghosts don’t cast shadows. Everyone knows that.

Walking in sunlight was already wild—but a shadow too?

Damn it!

A clear, undeniable shadow. Real as rain.

Another myth busted.

Zhong Cheng felt qualified to host a debunking show: *“Ghosts? They sunbathe AND have shadows!”*

…Though online commenters would roast him alive. “Show proof!” “Seeing is believing!”

He wondered: Was the Ghost Emperor even a ghost? Breaking every rule—modern clothes, sunlight strolls, shadows, memes, smartphone fluency, soft skin, stunning beauty…

If she could *have kids*, his brain would short-circuit.

Total worldview collapse.

Was this the gap between “competent” ghosts and… not?

“Husband stares at this wife so intently… is something wrong?” the Ghost Emperor asked, catching his gaze.

“N-nothing… Just… you’re unlike any ghost I’ve met. You even have a shadow,” Zhong Cheng admitted.

“The shadow is fake.”

“Fake?”

“Without one, moving through human society draws attention. Unnecessary trouble, don’t you think?”

…Huh. Valid point. He had no comeback.

Curious, Zhong Cheng tentatively stepped onto her shadow. *Will it break? Probably not.*

Expected solid ground. Instead—softness. Like stepping on cloth.

What?! Ground was bare. That sudden squishy feel? Gross.

Then—a vicious face surged from the shadow. Two eerie eyes locked onto him.

Zhong Cheng *jumped*. Literally leaped back a full step. Safe distance: achieved.

At the busy bus terminal entrance, onlookers blinked. *Performance art?*

“…Is this shadow… alive?” Zhong Cheng stammered.

“Yes. Formed by a ghost,” the Ghost Emperor said calmly.

*Oh.* Could’ve led with that! Scared me half to death.

So mean.

…Wait. This Shadow Wraith—wasn’t it the one clinging to *his* shadow yesterday? Familiar ghost, huh.

“Hehe~ Husband’s frightened face is *adorable*,” the Ghost Emperor teased, a mischievous smirk playing on her lips—somehow radiating coquettish charm.

Ghost? Or fox spirit?

Wait a minute!

That flirty look—trying to seduce your husband? Let me tell you: *nope*.

Think that smirk tricks my heart? Please.

You won’t put out anyway. Freeloader. Get lost.

*Gurgle…*

Zhong Cheng patted his flat stomach. So hungry—Hu Bai was growling again.

Right. Since last night, the Ghost Emperor had drained his yang energy *countless* times. Hollow. Empty. Desperate for fuel.

Eat now, or pass out.

He headed toward the station restaurant.

The Ghost Emperor followed silently.

…

Minutes later.

Human and ghost sat at a table.

Zhong Cheng scanned the menu, then confidently ordered seven, eight dishes when the waitress arrived.

She blinked. *That many?* Then glanced at the Ghost Emperor—*ah*. Another show-off trying to impress a girl. Fantasizing she’d swoon over his “wealth.” Cringe.

She’d never fall for it. Look at *her*—clearly a high-maintenance beauty. Monthly skincare, cosmetics, spa? Thousands.

His outfit? All no-name brands. Pathetic.

Toad dreaming of swan meat? Dream on.

(If Zhong Cheng knew her thoughts, he’d puff his chest: *“She’s already my wife. No chasing needed.”*)

Ten minutes later.

Eight dishes crammed the small table—minimalist café style, meant for two. Tight as rush-hour traffic.

Zhong Cheng shoveled food, chopsticks flying.

The Ghost Emperor watched, amused. Elbows on table, chin in hands, savoring the show.

Stared at like *that*? Even starving, he couldn’t ignore it.

*Admiring my looks? Craving my yang?*

He’d never say it aloud… but yeah.

“Because once husband is full and restored… I can savor his delicious yang energy again,” the Ghost Emperor said sweetly.

“…” *My cultivation is sincere!*

Even if I’m your emergency snack—must you say it *so* bluntly? “People struggle enough—don’t rub salt in wounds,” hello?

You, a resentful ghost… probably wouldn’t get it. Whatever. Eat.

But the words soured his meal. Every bite felt like feeding *her*.

All her fault. Ruined his appetite.

She picked at food—fried chicken deemed “passable,” discarded half-eaten veggies. Picky. Wasteful.

When she snagged the *last* braised pork rib? Zhong Cheng snapped.

“Enough! Sucking my yang, treating me as rations—*and* stealing my food?!”

“You object?”

“N-no!”

Her glare hit like ice. Zhong Cheng folded instantly.

…Ahem. *Tactical retreat*. Not cowardice.

Her power level? Unbeatable. Swallow pride now. A true man bends to rise later.

But don’t mistake retreat for surrender. One day—he’d flip the script. Pin her down. *Smack, smack, smack.*

One shot. One kill.