She spent four hundred years by his side. She loved twenty-three mortal men. Yet she never once loved him. In the Chinese fantasy drama Love Beyond the Grace (白日提灯), the ghost king He Simu (贺思慕) rules the underworld realm of Gui Xu (归墟). Her closest companion, Yan Ke (晏柯), serves her for centuries, paints for her, waits for her. But when a mortal soldier named Duan Xu (段胥) appears, she gives him everything she never gave Yan Ke: her trust, her lantern, her heart. Why? The obvious answer is revenge—Yan Ke killed her father. But that’s only the surface. The real reason runs deeper, and it has everything to do with who they are, what they want, and what love actually means.
Power’s Phantom
Yan Ke was never in love with He Simu. He was in love with her throne. Before he became a wandering ghost, he was a prince who fought for the crown and lost—torn apart by chariots and left in the street. Death didn’t change his hunger. It only sharpened it. As a vengeful spirit, his obsession remained absolute power. He even murdered He Simu’s father to get closer to that goal. But he wasn’t strong enough to take the seat himself. So he hid the crime, bowed to her, and pretended to be her loyal minister for three hundred years.
She knew. He Simu is not naive. She kept him close not out of trust but out of strategy. She used his skills to stabilize Gui Xu, gave him the high title of Right Chancellor, and let him taste the illusion of near-success. That was her quiet revenge: let him see the chair, let him almost touch it, but never sit in it. A man who killed her father could never earn her love. But even without that crime, they were never a match. Because what they wanted from existence was completely opposite.
He Simu once said, “I don’t like evil ghosts.” That’s not prejudice. It’s observation. Evil ghosts are born from obsession. Every one of them is trying to fill a hole. Guan Huai clung to life. Jiang Ai hoarded gold. Fang Chang chased fame. And Yan Ke? His hole is shaped like a crown. He is an evil ghost through and through. But He Simu is different. She was born from her parents’ love—no obsession, no inner starvation. She grew up in the human world learning calligraphy and music. For four hundred years as the Lord of All Spirits, her heart stayed in the mortal realm.
Tainted Devotion
What Yan Ke called love was actually possession. He didn’t ache for He Simu’s happiness. He ached for her attention. When she smiled at Duan Xu, Yan Ke’s rage wasn’t heartbreak—it was the fury of a collector who sees someone else touch his prize. He couldn’t control her anymore. And that drove him mad. He thought four hundred years of standing by her side should have bought him her heart. When it didn’t, he tried to force it. That’s not love. That’s entitlement dressed in devotion.
He Simu spent four centuries alone. Not physically—she had servants, ministers, a whole realm under her rule. But no equal. No one who saw her as anything other than the ghost king. Yan Ke saw her as a stepping stone. He was polite, helpful, even tender at times. But underneath, he was always calculating. Every painting he gave her, every visit to the mortal world, every whispered word—it was all currency. He was investing in a future where he sat on her chair. She felt that. And she refused to be someone’s investment.
Compare that to Duan Xu. A mortal soldier with blood on his hands but a burning will to reclaim his homeland. He didn’t come to He Simu wanting power or protection. He came curious about her. Just her. He offered something no one else had ever offered: a trade. His sense of touch for the right to call her by her name—Simu. That small intimacy meant everything. She had never felt touch before. After she got it, she went around pinching everything, causing chaos everywhere. And Duan Xu? He followed behind her, cleaning up the mess, laughing at her joy.
What She Craved
Duan Xu gave He Simu three things Yan Ke never could. First: pain. She had never been hurt before. When she finally felt a sting, it was real. It was alive. Second: color. Her world had been gray for four hundred years. He brought red sunsets and green fields into her vision. Third: wind and sunlight. Simple things. Human things. Things you can’t experience when you’re a ghost king ruling the dead. Duan Xu didn’t offer her a throne. He offered her a life. And she was starving for it.
He also let her be imperfect. He whined when things got hard. He ran after her in the rain for blocks. He begged, he messed up, he tried again. He was messy and loud and hopelessly mortal. That’s what she needed. Not a polished minister who bowed and calculated. Not a four-hundred-year-old ghost pretending to be gentle while clutching a stolen crown. She needed someone who would chase her not because she was powerful, but because she was her. Duan Xu bet his remaining life on one goal: to make her remember him. Not serve him. Not fear him. Remember him.
So no, He Simu didn’t reject Yan Ke just because he killed her father. She rejected him because he is an evil ghost, and she spent four hundred years wanting to become a human. He craves power. She hates it. His love is a cage. Hers is a sunrise. Yan Ke could give her only two things: waiting and companionship—both poisoned by his need to own. Duan Xu gave her pain, color, laughter, and the first real taste of being alive. That’s why she loved twenty-three mortals and never him. The mortals, however briefly, made her feel human. Yan Ke, for four centuries, only reminded her of the ghost he truly was.
