Ghost Emperor smoothed her hair back. Her previously messy black locks now lay perfectly straight against her spine. As she slowly settled onto the bed, the dark tresses spilled across the sheets.
Only one pillow had been on the bed—clearly insufficient for two. Fortunately, Zhong Cheng had anticipated this. He’d already fetched an extra from his parents’ room earlier.
He’d even cleaned it thoroughly, slipped on a fresh case, and lightly spritzed it with perfume—swiped from his sister’s room—to avoid earning the Ghost Emperor’s disdain.
He mused: if they shared the bed nightly, a new pillow was non-negotiable.
Full of resolve.
Now tucked under the covers, they lay quietly side by side, each with their own pillow.
A gentle fragrance drifted from beside him—the blended scent of shampoo and body wash. All-natural, no preservatives. Simply lovely.
Though they used identical products, hers carried a uniquely intoxicating warmth.
He stole another quiet sniff.
His heart hammered like a startled fawn.
“Wife, do you recall what you said this afternoon? Evening’s here now. Shouldn’t we… do what only married couples do?” Zhong Cheng asked.
“I remember.”
“And your thoughts?”
“What do *you* think?”
Damn!
Shit!
Fuck!
A trifecta of curses.
Again with that ambiguous reply.
I don’t care what *I* think—I care what *you* think!
Was she toying with him? This female ghost was infuriating. He almost wanted to subdue her.
Fine. Then he would.
He gazed at his pillow-mate’s breathtaking beauty—fresh from her bath, warm like a just-baked egg tart, utterly mouthwatering…
Screw it. Fortune favors the bold.
He’d waited since daytime. Now, he couldn’t hold back.
They’d shared the wedding wine—legitimate husband and wife. What they did was reasonable, lawful.
Even in court, he’d have grounds. Adults, mutual consent—no one loses.
She hadn’t refused outright. Fifty-fifty chance. Maybe she was teasing him on purpose.
What a mischievous ghost-wife.
Zhong Cheng steeled himself. No hesitation.
No time to waste. Seize the moment.
This was his only shot. Go, go, go!
Thanks to those “educational films,” he had a passing grasp of the Forty-Eight Techniques. Time to shine.
He reached out decisively. Foreplay first. So soft, so ample…
But the pleasure ended instantly.
Not because he was quick—his body wouldn’t move.
Ghost oppression.
Not the lewd kind you imagine—the *real* ghost oppression.
An invisible weight pinned him utterly. Only his eyes could dart freely.
He glanced at the Ghost Emperor. Frost now coated her face—a bone-deep chill.
The cold seeped through the room. Frost glazed the glass surfaces.
The space had turned into a deep freeze.
So cold.
Zhong Cheng shivered.
“Unexpected, husband. Bold of you to lay hands on this wife,” the Ghost Emperor said coldly.
“But you implied it was okay! We’re married! A little spice is normal!” Zhong Cheng protested, aggrieved.
Somehow, he could speak under the oppression—perhaps she’d allowed it for explanation.
“When did this wife say you could touch?”
“Your hints today, that vague reply—they signaled consent! Stop teasing! I know you’re eager! Be honest! Come on, fuck me!” Zhong Cheng declared, righteous.
“That’s your assumption. An emergency ration knows its place. No overstepping.”
“Ah! So I’m just food?! I’m your husband! I want spice!”
“Ahem. My mistake. Husband, you’re mischievous. Discipline is needed. The oppression stays,” she said with a cold laugh.
Zhong Cheng cried, “Yamete!” Sleeping like this meant waking up sore. He did *not* want that.
“Wife, marital relations are pleasurable. No shame. Trust your husband. I know the Forty-Eight Techniques—I’ll ensure your comfort,” he said earnestly.
“Filthy scoundrel. You call *that* comfort? Trying to take advantage?” She sneered, eyes sharp with disdain.
*Take advantage?* What was she talking about?
“Wife… you couldn’t possibly be… completely ignorant of marital matters?” Zhong Cheng asked carefully.
“Do you take this wife for a naive maiden? Marital life means sharing a bed in harmonious accord.”
“Touching this wife’s body isn’t harmony—it’s lewdness. Don’t deceive me,” she stated wisely.
“…” Zhong Cheng.
He suspected her sex ed was taught by a literature teacher. Or never taught at all.
He recalled her asking on the shuttle bus: *What do “eight hundred rounds of battle” and “various positions” mean?*
He’d thought she was acting. Now he knew—she was a total blank slate.
In this era? Surprisingly… not bad.
Men *do* like conservative women—reserved in public, but… *ahem*… behind closed doors.
That contrast was perfect.
But if she refused even a touch in bed? No harmony. Just solo strings.
She needed correcting.
As her husband, he owed her a vivid lesson—lest she remain ignorant of where babies come from.
Most importantly… how could they ever… *ahem*… ⁄(⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)⁄
Interest is the best teacher. Only by embracing *that* interest could life be beautiful.
Human society would thrive. The Party’s spirit would resonate. Faith eternal.
Harmony, democracy, rule of law, civility, courtesy, prosperity…
*Slap! Slap!*
Zhong Cheng reeled—dizzy, stars flashing. The Party’s spirit blurred, fading fast.
His cheek swelled hot. Utterly wronged. Tears welled.
He’d barely started his “lesson” when she yanked him up by the collar and slapped him soundly.
“No more lewd words in this wife’s ear. Next time, consequences,” she said coldly.
“…” Zhong Cheng.
No “educating” this irritable ghost-wife about *interest*.
Baffled. Aggrieved.
What era was she from? Not knowing bedchamber arts was one thing—but forbidding instruction?
Hand-holding was her limit. No contact below the neck. No descriptions permitted.
A sexually frigid ghost-wife… could marriage survive? Divorce seemed inevitable.
Wait—he *was* the husband.
No. He was divorcing her. Grounds: refusal of intimacy.
He’d never believe in love again!!
Exhausted from travel, drained by her energy siphoning, Zhong Cheng finally sank into troubled sleep. Only the Ghost Emperor’s earlier teasing had kept him awake this long.
Lights off. Room swallowed by darkness.
Night air cooled. Serene.
Would’ve been perfectly peaceful—if not for Zhong Cheng’s rhythmic snores.
*Hrrk… hrrk…* steady as a metronome.
Suddenly, the Ghost Emperor’s eyes opened. Two crimson pinpricks glowed in the black.
“Bulb broken?”
An auntie climbed the stairwell toward home. The bulb flickered erratically, casting shaky shadows.
This was the same auntie Zhong Cheng had met at the market.
She ignored it and kept climbing—until she noticed *every* bulb on the stairs pulsed the same eerie rhythm.
The air turned unnaturally cold. Shivering in her thin clothes, she quickened her pace.
“What’s happening…”
Superstitious by nature, fear prickled her spine. Just get home.
Moments later, she slipped inside her top-floor apartment. Relief washed over her as the door clicked shut.
She didn’t notice the silent shadow that slipped in right behind her.
On the door, the paper effigies of the two door gods—Yuchi Gong and Qin Qiong—their once-vigilant eyes now smeared shut.
