On the night I transmigrated into an apocalypse novel, I personally buried Gu Qi, the future Zombie Emperor. I planned to save my own skin and run, but he bit down on the claim that I was his “wife.”
I bound myself to a Tomato Manor: plant one crop of tomatoes and harvest ten thousand catties overnight; raise one zombie and flirt with him until he blushes every day.
My ex brought a nuclear bomb and demanded I hand over the male lead. I turned the bomb into fertilizer instead.
The cultivation world condemned us, saying “humans and zombies belong to different paths.” The Heavenly Dao sent thunderbolts to strike us down, but we kissed our way to ascension in the middle of the tribulation.
Later, ten thousand mu of spiritual fields flourished in the wasteland, my zombie underlings worked nine to five, and humans used tomatoes as currency.
Meanwhile, I cradled a mini version of the Zombie Emperor, now a baby, and heard him chuckle softly in my ear:
“Wife, shall we cultivate together tonight, or tend the fields?”
