Burning Love Letters at Midnight, the Tsundere Ghost Wife Haunts My Dreams

Chapter 11

Burning Love Letters at Midnight, the Tsundere Ghost Wife Haunts My Dreams

After going bankrupt and losing my job as a customer service rep, I turned to late-night livestreams crafting paper effigies—only to become an underworld sensation. But my newfound fame attracted a horde of possessive ghost brides. “The last set of immortal-binding ropes has been bought by our top patron, sis~” “Freshly woven paper-red silk, so strong even the King of Hell can’t break free❤” “Huh? You ladies want to… test them yourselves? W-Wait—” Now, tied up like a dumpling in a paper wedding chamber, I finally understand— They were never obsessed with my paper crafts… but with me. The qipao-clad ghost presses her bone hairpin to my throat: “The flowers you fold belong only to me.” The crimson bride drapes her veil over my eyes: “The wedding gowns you burn are mine alone to wear.” “The paper dolls you cut…” Their icy fingers trace my face in a hungry chorus, “…must bear only our likeness, forever❤” “You ghosts only ever think about yourselves!” “Lies—our thoughts are full of you!”

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“ᮄᮣᮛᮼ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮓᮜᮙᮓᮛᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮤᮟᮞᮗᮥᮕ ᮙᮞ ᮔᮙᮣᮠᮜᮕᮑᮣᮥᮢᮕᮺ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮠᮕᮢᮙᮠᮘᮕᮢᮑᮜ ᮦᮙᮣᮙᮟᮞ ᮥᮞᮓᮟᮞᮤᮢᮟᮜᮜᮑᮒᮜᮩ ᮗᮜᮑᮞᮓᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮒᮕᮑᮥᮤᮙᮖᮥᮜ ᮓᮢᮙᮝᮣᮟᮞ ᮘᮥᮕᮼ

“ᮅᮝᮼᮼᮼ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮙᮖ ᮩᮟᮥ᮵ᮢᮕ ᮞᮟᮤ ᮗᮟᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮕᮜᮠ ᮝᮕ ᮠᮥᮜᮜ ᮝᮩ ᮣᮛᮙᮢᮤ ᮔᮟᮧᮞᮺ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮑᮤ ᮜᮕᮑᮣᮤ ᮞᮟᮤ ᮛᮕᮕᮠ ᮣᮤᮑᮢᮙᮞᮗᯍ ᯕᮘᮟᮣᮤᮣ ᮘᮑᮦᮕ ᮔᮙᮗᮞᮙᮤᮩ ᮤᮟᮟᮺ ᮒᮟᮟᮘᮟᮟᮯ”

“ᯖᮥᮘᯍ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮣᮥᮒᮓᮟᮞᮣᮓᮙᮟᮥᮣᮜᮩ ᮑᮦᮕᮢᮤᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮗᮑ᮪ᮕᮺ ᮖᮕᮕᮜᮙᮞᮗ ᮑ ᮒᮙᮤ ᮕᮝᮒᮑᮢᮢᮑᮣᮣᮕᮔ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮑ ᮝᮟᮝᮕᮞᮤᮼ

ᮃᮘᮕ ᮓᮜᮕᮑᮢᮜᮩ ᮢᮕᮝᮕᮝᮒᮕᮢᮕᮔ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮤᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮑ ᮣᮙᮝᮠᮜᮕ ᮗᮜᮑᮞᮓᮕᮺ ᮞᮟᮤ ᮣᮤᮑᮢᮙᮞᮗᮼ

ᯑᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮜᮙᮤᮤᮜᮕ ᮑᮓᮤᮙᮟᮞᮣᮼᮼᮼ ᮒᮕ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮟᮒᮦᮙᮟᮥᮣᯍ

“ᯑᮟᮥᮗᮘᮺ ᮓᮟᮥᮗᮘᮯ ᯗ ᮤᮘᮙᮞᮛ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮓᮜᮕᮑᮢᮜᮩ ᮔᮟᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮥᮞᮔᮕᮢᮣᮤᮑᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮥᮢᮢᮕᮞᮤ ᮣᮙᮤᮥᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞᮼ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮓᮜᮕᮑᮢᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮤᮘᮢᮟᮑᮤᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮙᮔᮕ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮕᮝᮒᮑᮢᮢᮑᮣᮣᮝᮕᮞᮤᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮣᮤᮕᮢᮞᮜᮩ ᮢᮕᮠᮢᮙᮝᮑᮞᮔᮕᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮙᮞ ᮖᮢᮟᮞᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮘᮕᮢᮼ

ᮃᮓᮟᮜᮔᮕᮔ ᮣᮟ ᮖᮙᮕᮢᮓᮕᮜᮩ ᮒᮩ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞᮺ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮔᮙᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮔᮑᮢᮕ ᮣᮘᮟᮧ ᮑᮞᮩ ᮤᮕᮝᮠᮕᮢ ᮑᮤ ᮑᮜᮜᯉ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮚᮥᮣᮤ ᮠᮥᮢᮣᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮜᮙᮠᮣᮺ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮕᮩᮕᮣ ᮒᮢᮙᮝᮝᮙᮞᮗ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮤᮕᮑᮢᮣᮺ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮧᮢᮟᮞᮗᮕᮔᮼ

ᯗᮞ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮣᮙᮤᮥᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞᮺ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮞᮟᮤ ᮛᮙᮜᮜᮙᮞᮗ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑᮜᮢᮕᮑᮔᮩ ᮕᮞᮟᮥᮗᮘ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮤᮟ ᮣᮕᮓᮢᮕᮤᮜᮩ ᮢᮕᮚᮟᮙᮓᮕᯉ ᮘᮟᮧ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮓᮟᮞᮣᮙᮔᮕᮢ ᮔᮙᮗᮞᮙᮤᮩᯍ

“ᯗᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮞᮟᮤ ᮙᮝᮠᮟᮣᮣᮙᮒᮜᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮕᮜᮠ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮢᮕᮙᮞᮓᮑᮢᮞᮑᮤᮕᮺ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮘᮟᮧ ᮧᮙᮜᮜ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮢᮕᮠᮑᮩ ᮝᮕᯍ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮣᮑᮤ ᮔᮟᮧᮞ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮔᮢᮕᮣᮣᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮑᮒᮜᮕᮺ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮜᮕᮗᮣ ᮓᮢᮟᮣᮣᮕᮔᮺ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮖᮑᮙᮢ ᮖᮕᮕᮤ ᮗᮕᮞᮤᮜᮩ ᮣᮧᮑᮩᮙᮞᮗᮺ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮤᮟᮕᮣ ᮜᮙᮗᮘᮤᮜᮩ ᮧᮙᮗᮗᮜᮙᮞᮗ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮖᮜᮥᮖᮖᮩ ᮒᮥᮞᮞᮩ ᮣᮜᮙᮠᮠᮕᮢᮣᮼ

ᮄᮘᮑᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮢᮙᮗᮘᮤᮺ ᮒᮕᮖᮟᮢᮕ ᮕᮞᮤᮕᮢᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮢᮟᮟᮝᮺ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮓᮘᮑᮞᮗᮕᮔ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮢᮟᮥᮞᮔᮻᮤᮟᮕᮔ ᮜᮕᮑᮤᮘᮕᮢ ᮣᮘᮟᮕᮣ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮟᮢᮕ ᮟᮥᮤᮣᮙᮔᮕᮼ

ᯏᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮑᮜᮜᮺ ᮞᮟ ᮝᮑᮤᮤᮕᮢ ᮘᮟᮧ ᮦᮑᮣᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮧᮟᮢᮜᮔᮺ ᮟᮞᮕ ᮝᮥᮣᮤ ᮓᮘᮑᮞᮗᮕ ᮙᮞᮤᮟ ᮣᮜᮙᮠᮠᮕᮢᮣ ᮥᮠᮟᮞ ᮕᮞᮤᮕᮢᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮘᮟᮝᮕᮺ ᮟᮢ ᮕᮜᮣᮕ ᯛᮟᮝ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮣᮓᮟᮜᮔ ᮤᮘᮕᮝᮼ

ᯓᮦᮕᮞ ᮙᮖ ᮑ ᮖᮕᮝᮑᮜᮕ ᮗᮘᮟᮣᮤ ᮔᮕᮓᮟᮢᮑᮤᮕᮔ ᮩᮟᮥᮢ ᮢᮟᮟᮝ ᮙᮞ ᮑᮞ ᮥᮞᮔᮕᮢᮧᮟᮢᮜᮔ ᮝᮑᮢᮢᮙᮑᮗᮕ ᮣᮤᮩᮜᮕᮺ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮣᮤᮙᮜᮜ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮓᮘᮑᮞᮗᮕᮯ

“ᮂᮕᮠᮑᮩᯍ”

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮣᮜᮙᮗᮘᮤᮜᮩ ᮣᮤᮥᮞᮞᮕᮔᮺ ᮞᮟᮤ ᮒᮩ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮝᮕᮞᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮟᮖ ᮢᮕᮠᮑᮩᮝᮕᮞᮤᮺ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮒᮩ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮟᮖᮖᮕᮢ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮕᮜᮠ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮢᮕᮙᮞᮓᮑᮢᮞᮑᮤᮕᮼ

ᯝᮞᮕ ᮝᮥᮣᮤ ᮛᮞᮟᮧᮺ ᮧᮘᮩ ᮔᮙᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮒᮕᮓᮟᮝᮕ ᮑ ᮖᮕᮝᮑᮜᮕ ᮗᮘᮟᮣᮤ ᮖᮥᮜᮜ ᮟᮖ ᮢᮕᮣᮕᮞᮤᮝᮕᮞᮤᯍ ᮇᮑᮣᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮙᮤ ᮠᮢᮕᮓᮙᮣᮕᮜᮩ ᮒᮕᮓᮑᮥᮣᮕ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮕᮞᮤᮕᮢ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮩᮓᮜᮕ ᮟᮖ ᮢᮕᮙᮞᮓᮑᮢᮞᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞᮺ ᮖᮟᮢᮕᮦᮕᮢ ᮧᮙᮤᮘᮟᮥᮤ ᮑ ᮓᮘᮑᮞᮓᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮒᮕ ᮢᮕᮒᮟᮢᮞᯍ

ᯔᮟᮢ ᮣᮟᮝᮕᮟᮞᮕ ᮜᮙᮛᮕ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙᮺ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮙᮖ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮑᮠᮠᮕᮑᮜᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯙᮙᮞᮗ ᮟᮖ ᯖᮕᮜᮜᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮣᮤᮙᮜᮜ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮒᮕ ᮑᮒᮜᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮢᮕᮙᮞᮓᮑᮢᮞᮑᮤᮕᮼ

ᯐᮕᮓᮑᮥᮣᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮠᮕᮢᮣᮟᮞ ᮧᮘᮟ ᮣᮕᮑᮜᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮓᮟᮝᮠᮜᮕᮤᮕᮜᮩ ᮣᮤᮢᮙᮠᮠᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮡᮥᮑᮜᮙᮖᮙᮓᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞᮼ

ᯓᮦᮕᮞ ᮙᮖ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯙᮙᮞᮗ ᮟᮖ ᯖᮕᮜᮜ ᮓᮑᮝᮕᮺ ᮘᮕ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮒᮕ ᮠᮟᮧᮕᮢᮜᮕᮣᮣᮺ ᮑᮣ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮥᮞᮤᮢᮑᮓᮕᮑᮒᮜᮕᮺ ᮧᮘᮕᮤᮘᮕᮢ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮘᮥᮝᮑᮞ ᮧᮟᮢᮜᮔ ᮟᮢ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮥᮞᮔᮕᮢᮧᮟᮢᮜᮔᮼᮼᮼ

ᯐᮥᮤ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮔᮙᮖᮖᮕᮢᮕᮞᮤᯉ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮛᮞᮕᮧ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯗᮝᮝᮟᮢᮤᮑᮜ ᯐᮙᮞᮔᮙᮞᮗ ᮄᮑᮜᮙᮣᮝᮑᮞᮺ ᮣᮟ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮔᮕᮖᮙᮞᮙᮤᮕᮜᮩ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮑ ᮧᮑᮩᮯ

“ᯗᮖ ᯗ ᮓᮑᮞ ᮤᮢᮥᮜᮩ ᮢᮕᮙᮞᮓᮑᮢᮞᮑᮤᮕᮺ ᯗ᮵ᮝ ᮧᮙᮜᮜᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮟ ᮔᮟ ᮑᮞᮩᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗᮼ”

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮑᮤ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮜᮙᮖᮤᮕᮔ ᮣᮛᮙᮢᮤ ᮘᮕᮝᮺ ᮗᮢᮙᮤᮤᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮤᮕᮕᮤᮘᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮘᮑᮢᮔᮕᮞᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮢᮕᮣᮟᮜᮦᮕᮼ ᮃᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑᮜᮢᮕᮑᮔᮩ ᮑ ᮗᮘᮟᮣᮤ ᮑᮞᮩᮧᮑᮩᮺ ᮧᮘᮑᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮠᮟᮙᮞᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮛᮕᮕᮠᮙᮞᮗ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮓᮘᮑᮣᮤᮙᮤᮩᯍ

ᯕᮑᮙᮞᮙᮞᮗ ᮑ ᮓᮘᮑᮞᮓᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮢᮕᮙᮞᮓᮑᮢᮞᮑᮤᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮝᮟᮢᮕ ᮙᮝᮠᮟᮢᮤᮑᮞᮤ ᮤᮘᮑᮞ ᮑᮞᮩᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮒᮕᮣᮙᮔᮕᮣᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢ ᮠᮑᮢᮤᮩ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑᮜᮣᮟ ᮑ ᮗᮙᮢᮜᮺ ᮣᮟ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮒᮕ ᮑᮤ ᮑ ᮔᮙᮣᮑᮔᮦᮑᮞᮤᮑᮗᮕᮯ

ᮄᮘᮙᮞᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮙᮣᮺ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮓᮟᮝᮠᮟᮣᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢᮣᮕᮜᮖ ᮣᮜᮙᮗᮘᮤᮜᮩ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮞᮟᮔᮔᮕᮔ ᮣᮟᮜᮕᮝᮞᮜᮩᮼ

“ᯏᮞᮩᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗᯍ”

“ᮉᮕᮣᮯ ᯏᮞᮩᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗᮯ ᯏᮣ ᮜᮟᮞᮗ ᮑᮣ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮓᮑᮞ ᮘᮕᮜᮠ ᮝᮕ ᮢᮕᮙᮞᮓᮑᮢᮞᮑᮤᮕᮺ ᯗ᮵ᮝ ᮧᮙᮜᮜᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮟ ᮔᮟ ᮑᮞᮩᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗᮼ”

“ᮄᮘᮑᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮗᮢᮕᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕᮞᮼ ᯖᮕᮜᮠ ᮝᮕ ᮓᮢᮕᮑᮤᮕ ᮑ ᮠᮜᮑᮞ ᮤᮟ ᮡᮥᮙᮓᮛᮜᮩ ᮠᮑᮩ ᮟᮖᮖ ᮤᮘᮢᮕᮕ ᮘᮥᮞᮔᮢᮕᮔ ᮝᮙᮜᮜᮙᮟᮞ ᮙᮞ ᮔᮕᮒᮤᮼ”

“ᮃᮟᮢᮢᮩᮺ ᯗ ᮓᮑᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮔᮟ ᮤᮘᮑᮤᮼᮼᮼ”

“ᮃᮜᮙᮔᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮟ ᮩᮟᮥᮢ ᮛᮞᮕᮕᮣ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮖᮑᮣᮤᯍ ᮉᮟᮥ ᮣᮑᮙᮔ ᮩᮟᮥ᮵ᮔ ᮔᮟ ᮑᮞᮩᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗᮯ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮑᮤ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙᮺ ᮧᮘᮟᮣᮕ ᮤᮟᮞᮕ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮙᮞᮣᮤᮑᮞᮤᮜᮩ ᮔᮢᮟᮠᮠᮕᮔᮼ ᮄᮘᮙᮣ ᮜᮙᮤᮤᮜᮕ ᮖᮕᮝᮑᮜᮕ ᮗᮘᮟᮣᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮥᮣᮕᮜᮕᮣᮣ ᮤᮟᮟᮼ ᮇᮑᮣᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮣᮥᮠᮠᮟᮣᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮠᮑᮩ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮜᮙᮖᮕ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮇᮑᮢᮜᮟᮢᮔᯍ ᮃᮘᮕ ᮣᮘᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮑᮤ ᮜᮕᮑᮣᮤ ᮘᮑᮦᮕ ᮣᮟᮝᮕ ᮒᮥᮢᮙᮑᮜ ᮤᮢᮕᮑᮣᮥᮢᮕᮣᮺ ᮢᮙᮗᮘᮤᯍ

ᯒᮥᮢᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮇᮑᮢᮜᮟᮢᮔ ᮕᮢᮑᮺ ᮑᮞᮩ ᮢᮑᮞᮔᮟᮝ ᮚᮕᮧᮕᮜᮢᮩ ᮟᮢ ᮑᮓᮓᮕᮣᮣᮟᮢᮙᮕᮣ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮒᮕ ᮦᮑᮜᮥᮑᮒᮜᮕᮼ

“ᮇᮘᮑᮤ ᮑᮒᮟᮥᮤ ᮟᮞᮕ ᮘᮥᮞᮔᮢᮕᮔ ᮝᮙᮜᮜᮙᮟᮞᯍ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮑᮣᮛᮕᮔ ᮤᮕᮞᮤᮑᮤᮙᮦᮕᮜᮩᮼ

“ᮃᮟᮢᮢᮩᮺ ᯗ ᮓᮑᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮔᮟ ᮤᮘᮑᮤᮼ”

“ᮄᮕᮞ ᮝᮙᮜᮜᮙᮟᮞᯍ”

“ᮃᮟᮢᮢᮩᮺ ᯗ ᮓᮑᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮔᮟ ᮤᮘᮑᮤᮼᮼᮼ”

“ᮇᮘᮑᮤ ᮑᮒᮟᮥᮤ ᮟᮞᮕ ᮝᮙᮜᮜᮙᮟᮞᯍ”

“ᮀᮜᮕᮑᮣᮕᮺ ᮑᮣᮛ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮣᮟᮝᮕᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮕᮜᮣᮕᮼ”

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑᮜᮝᮟᮣᮤ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮕᮑᮢᮣᮼ ᮃᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑ ᮠᮟᮟᮢ ᮗᮘᮟᮣᮤᯉ ᮧᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮗᮕᮤ ᮝᮟᮞᮕᮩ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮕᮜᮠ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮠᮑᮩ ᮟᮖᮖ ᮔᮕᮒᮤᮣᯍ

ᯐᮕᮣᮙᮔᮕᮣᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮥᮣᮕ ᮝᮟᮞᮕᮩ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮜᮙᮦᮙᮞᮗᮼ

“ᮄᮘᮕᮞ ᮓᮟᮝᮠᮜᮕᮤᮕ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮣᮕᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮑᮔᮦᮑᮞᮓᮕᮔ ᮝᮑᮤᮘ ᮠᮑᮠᮕᮢᮣᮺ ᮟᮞᮕᮻᮘᮟᮥᮢ ᮜᮙᮝᮙᮤᮼᮼᮼ”

“ᯗ᮵ᮜᮜ ᮘᮕᮜᮠ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮖᮙᮗᮥᮢᮕ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮘᮟᮧ ᮤᮟ ᮝᮑᮛᮕ ᮝᮟᮞᮕᮩᮯ ᯓᮞᮟᮥᮗᮘ ᮤᮟ ᮕᮑᮢᮞ ᮤᮘᮢᮕᮕ ᮘᮥᮞᮔᮢᮕᮔ ᮝᮙᮜᮜᮙᮟᮞᮯ”

ᮀᮕᮟᮠᮜᮕ ᮧᮘᮟ ᮜᮟᮦᮕ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮝᮙᮗᮘᮤ ᮑᮒᮑᮞᮔᮟᮞ ᮩᮟᮥᮺ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮑᮔᮦᮑᮞᮓᮕᮔ ᮝᮑᮤᮘ ᮞᮕᮦᮕᮢ ᮧᮙᮜᮜᮺ ᮒᮕᮓᮑᮥᮣᮕ ᮙᮖ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮓᮑᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮔᮟ ᮑᮔᮦᮑᮞᮓᮕᮔ ᮝᮑᮤᮘᮺ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮚᮥᮣᮤ ᮓᮑᮞ᮵ᮤᮼ

ᯏᮜᮤᮘᮟᮥᮗᮘ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑ ᮠᮟᮟᮢ ᮗᮘᮟᮣᮤᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮧᮑᮩᮣ ᮤᮟ ᮝᮑᮛᮕ ᮝᮟᮞᮕᮩᯉ ᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢᮧᮙᮣᮕᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮘᮑᮦᮕ ᮒᮕᮓᮟᮝᮕ ᮑ ᮠᮢᮕᮝᮙᮥᮝ ᮝᮕᮝᮒᮕᮢ ᮟᮖ ᮑ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮙᮞᮗ ᮧᮕᮒᮣᮙᮤᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮣᮓᮟᮥᮤ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮣᮥᮙᮤᮑᮒᮜᮕ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮒᮕᮑᮥᮤᮙᮖᮥᮜ ᮩᮟᮥᮞᮗ ᮧᮟᮝᮕᮞᮼ

ᯗᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮚᮥᮣᮤ ᮑ ᮠᮙᮤᮩ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮑᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮑᮜᮜ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮠᮑᮙᮞᮣᮤᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮠᮢᮕᮠᮑᮢᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞᮣᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮖᮙᮢᮣᮤ ᮒᮕᮑᮥᮤᮙᮖᮥᮜ ᮩᮟᮥᮞᮗ ᮧᮟᮝᮑᮞ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮣᮓᮟᮥᮤᮕᮔ ᮤᮥᮢᮞᮕᮔ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮤᮟ ᮒᮕ ᮑ ᮖᮟᮢᮝᮙᮔᮑᮒᮜᮕ ᮓᮘᮑᮢᮑᮓᮤᮕᮢ ᮧᮘᮟ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮓᮑᮣᮥᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮔᮢᮑᮧ ᮑᮞ ᯗᮝᮝᮟᮢᮤᮑᮜ ᯐᮙᮞᮔᮙᮞᮗ ᮄᮑᮜᮙᮣᮝᮑᮞᮼ

ᯏᮞᮔ ᮧᮘᮑᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮝᮟᮢᮕᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮑᮜᮙᮣᮝᮑᮞ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮔᮢᮑᮧᮞ ᮟᮞ ᮤᮟᮙᮜᮕᮤ ᮠᮑᮠᮕᮢᮼᮼᮼ

Burning Love Letters at Midnight, the Tsundere Ghost Wife Haunts My Dreams

After going bankrupt and losing my job as a customer service rep, I turned to late-night livestreams crafting paper effigies—only to become an underworld sensation. But my newfound fame attracted a horde of possessive ghost brides. “The last set of immortal-binding ropes has been bought by our top patron, sis~” “Freshly woven paper-red silk, so strong even the King of Hell can’t break free❤” “Huh? You ladies want to… test them yourselves? W-Wait—” Now, tied up like a dumpling in a paper wedding chamber, I finally understand— They were never obsessed with my paper crafts… but with me. The qipao-clad ghost presses her bone hairpin to my throat: “The flowers you fold belong only to me.” The crimson bride drapes her veil over my eyes: “The wedding gowns you burn are mine alone to wear.” “The paper dolls you cut…” Their icy fingers trace my face in a hungry chorus, “…must bear only our likeness, forever❤” “You ghosts only ever think about yourselves!” “Lies—our thoughts are full of you!”

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