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

Chapter 17

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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“ᮄᮘᮑᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮖᮙᮞᮕᮺ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮓᮑᮞ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮔᮟ ᮙᮤᯍ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮠᮥᮤ ᮔᮟᮧᮞ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮙᮞᮣᮤᮑᮞᮤ ᮞᮟᮟᮔᮜᮕᮣ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮕᮩᮕᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮔᮙᮣᮤᮢᮥᮣᮤᮼ

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮑ ᮗᮢᮕᮑᮤ ᮖᮙᮗᮥᮢᮕ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮦᮕᮢᮩ ᮒᮕᮑᮥᮤᮙᮖᮥᮜᮺ ᮕᮨᮥᮔᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮑᮥᮢᮑ ᮟᮖ ᮑ ᮂᮟᮩᮑᮜ ᮃᮙᮣᮤᮕᮢᮼ ᯗᮖ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮺ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮣ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮔᮕᮖᮙᮞᮙᮤᮕᮜᮩ ᮠᮑᮣᮣᮼ

ᯖᮟᮧᮕᮦᮕᮢᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮙᮞᮗ ᮙᮞᮔᮥᮣᮤᮢᮩ ᮙᮣ ᮤᮟᮟ ᮓᮟᮝᮠᮕᮤᮙᮤᮙᮦᮕ ᮞᮟᮧᮼ ᮇᮘᮙᮜᮕ ᮗᮟᮟᮔ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮣ ᮝᮙᮗᮘᮤ ᮘᮑᮦᮕ ᮒᮕᮕᮞ ᮠᮟᮠᮥᮜᮑᮢ ᮒᮕᮖᮟᮢᮕᮺ ᮞᮟᮧ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮕᮙᮤᮘᮕᮢ ᮞᮕᮕᮔ ᮤᮑᮜᮕᮞᮤᮺ ᮠᮕᮢᮖᮟᮢᮝ ᮑ ᮣᮛᮙᮜᮜᮺ ᮓᮢᮕᮑᮤᮕ ᮑᮒᮣᮤᮢᮑᮓᮤ ᮓᮟᮞᮤᮕᮞᮤᮺ ᮟᮢᮼᮼᮼ ᮧᮕᮜᮜᮺ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮙᮞᮦᮟᮜᮦᮕ ᮜᮕᮗᮑᮜ ᮙᮣᮣᮥᮕᮣᮼ

ᯗᮞ ᮣᮘᮟᮢᮤᮺ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮠᮕᮟᮠᮜᮕ ᮧᮑᮤᮓᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮣ ᮞᮟᮧᮺ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮣ ᮑᮢᮕ ᮞᮟ ᮜᮟᮞᮗᮕᮢ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮠᮢᮙᮝᮑᮢᮩ ᮓᮟᮞᮣᮙᮔᮕᮢᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞᮼ

ᯛᮟᮢᮕᮟᮦᮕᮢᮺ ᮧᮘᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕᮩ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮠᮢᮟᮝᮟᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮥᮤᮤᮕᮢᮜᮩ ᮑᮒᮣᮥᮢᮔᯈ ᮑ ᮣᮤᮥᮞᮞᮙᮞᮗ ᮢᮕᮔᮻᮘᮑᮙᮢᮕᮔ ᮂᮟᮩᮑᮜ ᮃᮙᮣᮤᮕᮢ ᮣᮕᮜᮜᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮥᮞᮕᮢᮑᮜ ᮣᮥᮠᮠᮜᮙᮕᮣᮼᮼᮼ

ᯓᮦᮕᮞ ᮔᮟᮗᮣ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮣᮘᮑᮛᮕ ᮤᮘᮕᮙᮢ ᮘᮕᮑᮔᮣ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮞᮙᮓᮘᮕᮼ

“ᯝᮖ ᮓᮟᮥᮢᮣᮕ ᯗ ᮓᮑᮞᮯ ᯏᮜᮤᮘᮟᮥᮗᮘ ᯗ᮵ᮦᮕ ᮞᮕᮦᮕᮢ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮕᮔ ᮝᮩᮣᮕᮜᮖᮺ ᯗ᮵ᮦᮕ ᮧᮑᮤᮓᮘᮕᮔ ᮠᮜᮕᮞᮤᮩᮼ ᮇᮘᮑᮤ ᮔᮟ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮤᮘᮙᮞᮛ ᯗ ᮔᮟ ᮧᮘᮕᮞ ᯗ᮵ᮝ ᮒᮟᮢᮕᮔᯍ”

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮦᮕᮢᮩ ᮓᮟᮞᮖᮙᮔᮕᮞᮤᮼ ᯏᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮑᮜᮜᮺ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮓᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮒᮕᮕᮞ ᮠᮑᮙᮞᮣᮤᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗᮜᮩ ᮝᮑᮞᮑᮗᮕᮔᯉ ᮤᮟ ᮢᮕᮑᮓᮘ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮜᮕᮦᮕᮜ ᮧᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮓᮟᮝᮝᮕᮞᮤᮣ ᮑᮠᮠᮕᮑᮢᮕᮔ ᮙᮞ ᮢᮕᮔ ᮙᮞ ᮕᮦᮕᮢᮩ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮞᮕᮕᮔᮕᮔ ᮞᮟᮤ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮤᮟ ᮣᮠᮕᮞᮔ ᮝᮟᮞᮕᮩ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮑᮜᮣᮟ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮑᮦᮕ ᮣᮥᮖᮖᮙᮓᮙᮕᮞᮤ ᮟᮞᮜᮙᮞᮕ ᮤᮙᮝᮕᮼ

ᮇᮘᮑᮤ ᮛᮙᮞᮔ ᮟᮖ ᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮕᮢ ᮘᮑᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮣᮕᮕᮞᯍ ᮇᮘᮑᮤ ᮣᮤᮩᮜᮕ ᮘᮑᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮟᮒᮣᮕᮢᮦᮕᮔᯍ

“ᮄᮘᮕᮞ ᮗᮙᮦᮕ ᮙᮤ ᮑ ᮤᮢᮩᮼ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮗᮜᮑᮞᮓᮕᮔ ᮑᮤ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮟᮧᮞ ᮑᮓᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤᮺ ᮓᮟᮞᮣᮙᮔᮕᮢᮙᮞᮗ ᮧᮘᮕᮤᮘᮕᮢ ᮤᮟ ᮜᮕᮤ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮥᮣᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮑᮓᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮒᮕᮕᮞ ᮝᮑᮞᮑᮗᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮼ

ᯏᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮑᮜᮜᮺ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮟᮧᮞ ᮑᮓᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮚᮥᮣᮤ ᮑ ᮒᮜᮑᮞᮛ ᮣᮜᮑᮤᮕᮺ ᮣᮤᮑᮢᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮣᮓᮢᮑᮤᮓᮘᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮗᮑᮙᮞᮕᮔ ᮕᮙᮗᮘᮤ ᮖᮟᮜᮜᮟᮧᮕᮢᮣ ᮑᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝ ᮕᮞᮔᮕᮔᮼ

ᮄᮘᮕᮩ ᮠᮢᮟᮒᮑᮒᮜᮩ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮖᮟᮜᮜᮟᮧᮕᮔ ᮒᮕᮓᮑᮥᮣᮕ ᮟᮖ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮖᮑᮓᮕᮺ ᮖᮟᮢᮓᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕᮝᮣᮕᮜᮦᮕᮣ ᮤᮟ ᮙᮗᮞᮟᮢᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮔᮙᮣᮓᮟᮝᮖᮟᮢᮤᮼᮼᮼ

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ᮵ᮣ ᮑᮓᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮓᮟᮞᮣᮙᮣᮤᮕᮞᮤᮜᮩ ᮑᮓᮤᮙᮦᮕᮺ ᮣᮟ ᮙᮤ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮑᮤ ᮜᮕᮑᮣᮤ ᮒᮢᮙᮞᮗ ᮙᮞ ᮣᮟᮝᮕ ᮤᮢᮑᮖᮖᮙᮓ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮕᮢᮣ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮤᮙᮠᮠᮕᮔᮼ

ᯐᮥᮤ ᮧᮘᮕᮞ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮤᮟᮜᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮙᮔᮕᮑᮺ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮗᮕᮞᮤᮜᮩ ᮣᮘᮟᮟᮛ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮘᮕᮑᮔᮼ

“ᯜᮟᮺ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮧᮟᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮧᮟᮢᮛᮼ ᮄᮘᮙᮣ ᮛᮙᮞᮔ ᮟᮖ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝ ᮓᮟᮞᮤᮕᮞᮤ ᮙᮣ ᮣᮤᮢᮙᮓᮤᮜᮩ ᮢᮕᮗᮥᮜᮑᮤᮕᮔᮼ ᯝᮞᮜᮩ ᮑᮓᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤᮣ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮑᮓᮤᮙᮦᮑᮤᮕᮔ ᮠᮕᮢᮝᮙᮣᮣᮙᮟᮞᮣ ᮓᮑᮞ ᮙᮞᮙᮤᮙᮑᮤᮕ ᮣᮥᮓᮘ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮣᮼ”

“ᯗᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮜᮙᮛᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮟᮠᮕᮢᮑᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮢᮙᮗᮘᮤᮣ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮖᮥᮞᮕᮢᮑᮜ ᮣᮥᮠᮠᮜᮙᮕᮣᯉ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮑᮠᮠᮜᮙᮓᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮓᮘᮑᮞᮞᮕᮜᮣ ᮑᮢᮕ ᮞᮟᮧ ᮓᮜᮟᮣᮕᮔᮼ ᮃᮟᮺ ᮙᮞ ᮑᮞᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢ ᮣᮕᮞᮣᮕᮺ ᮩᮟᮥᮢ ᮑᮓᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤ ᮙᮣ ᮠᮢᮙᮓᮕᮜᮕᮣᮣᮼ”

ᯏᮜᮤᮘᮟᮥᮗᮘ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮑᮓᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑ ᮒᮜᮑᮞᮛ ᮣᮜᮑᮤᮕᮺ ᮙᮤ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮑ ᮧᮘᮙᮤᮕᮜᮙᮣᮤ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮙᮞᮗ ᮓᮑᮤᮕᮗᮟᮢᮙᮕᮣ ᮜᮙᮛᮕ ᮖᮟᮜᮛ ᮓᮥᮣᮤᮟᮝᮣ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮖᮥᮞᮕᮢᮑᮜ ᮣᮥᮠᮠᮜᮙᮕᮣᮼ

ᯗᮖ ᮑᮞᮩᮟᮞᮕ ᮕᮜᮣᮕ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮕᮔ ᮣᮥᮓᮘ ᮓᮟᮞᮤᮕᮞᮤᮺ ᮤᮘᮕᮙᮢ ᮑᮓᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮔᮕᮖᮙᮞᮙᮤᮕᮜᮩ ᮒᮕ ᮒᮑᮞᮞᮕᮔ ᮧᮙᮤᮘᮙᮞ ᮑ ᮣᮕᮓᮟᮞᮔᮺ ᮒᮥᮤ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮥᮞᮢᮕᮣᮤᮢᮙᮓᮤᮕᮔᮼ

ᮄᮘᮙᮣ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮕᮣᮣᮕᮞᮤᮙᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮑ ᮝᮟᮞᮟᮠᮟᮜᮩᮼᮼᮼ

ᯝᮖ ᮓᮟᮥᮢᮣᮕᮺ ᮙᮖ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮑ ᮜᮙᮖᮕᮣᮤᮩᮜᮕ ᮣᮕᮓᮤᮙᮟᮞᮺ ᮙᮤ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮒᮕ ᮙᮞᮓᮢᮕᮔᮙᮒᮜᮩ ᮦᮑᮜᮥᮑᮒᮜᮕᮼ ᯏᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮑᮜᮜᮺ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮒᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮟᮞᮕ ᮟᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮞᮤᮙᮢᮕ ᮞᮕᮤᮧᮟᮢᮛ ᮧᮘᮟ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮔᮟ ᮓᮟᮝᮝᮕᮞᮤ ᮢᮕᮑᮔᮙᮞᮗᮣᮺ ᮵ᮔᮟᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮜᮑᮥᮗᮘ᮵ ᮓᮘᮑᮜᮜᮕᮞᮗᮕᮣᮺ ᮵ᮝᮟᮟᮓᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮝᮕᮑᮜᮣ᮵ ᮓᮘᮑᮜᮜᮕᮞᮗᮕᮣᮺ ᮵ᮔᮕᮠᮢᮕᮣᮣᮙᮟᮞ᮵ ᮓᮟᮞᮤᮕᮞᮤᮼᮼᮼ ᮑ ᮟᮞᮕᮻᮣᮤᮟᮠ ᮣᮘᮟᮠᮼ

ᮇᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮒᮕ ᮢᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮙᮞ ᮝᮟᮞᮕᮩ ᮤᮘᮕᮞᯍ

ᮄᮟᮟ ᮒᮑᮔ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮖᮟᮜᮛ ᮓᮥᮣᮤᮟᮝᮣ ᮣᮕᮓᮤᮙᮟᮞᮼᮼᮼ

ᯛᮟᮢᮕᮟᮦᮕᮢᮺ ᮒᮕᮓᮑᮥᮣᮕ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮞᮙᮓᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮢᮑᮤᮘᮕᮢ ᮵ᮥᮞᮔᮕᮢᮧᮟᮢᮜᮔᮻᮙᮣᮘᮺ᮵ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮠᮕᮢᮝᮙᮤᮤᮕᮔ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮙᮞᮗ ᮘᮟᮥᮢᮣ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮑᮜᮣᮟ ᮵ᮥᮞᮔᮕᮢᮧᮟᮢᮜᮔᮻᮙᮣᮘᮼ᮵

ᯗᮤ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮒᮕ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮿᮿ ᮀᯛ ᮤᮟ ᯁ ᯏᯛ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮞᮕᮨᮤ ᮔᮑᮩᮼ

“ᯗᮞ ᮑᮞᮩ ᮓᮑᮣᮕᮺ ᮑᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮕᮑᮤᮺ ᮣᮤᮑᮢᮤ ᮝᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮠᮑᮠᮕᮢ ᮕᮖᮖᮙᮗᮙᮕᮣᮼ ᮇᮕ᮵ᮜᮜ ᮗᮙᮦᮕ ᮙᮤ ᮑ ᮤᮢᮩ ᮤᮟᮞᮙᮗᮘᮤᮼ”

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮣᮑᮙᮔᮺ ᮗᮑ᮪ᮙᮞᮗ ᮜᮟᮞᮗᮙᮞᮗᮜᮩ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮒᮥᮞᮔᮜᮕ ᮟᮖ ᮙᮞᮓᮕᮞᮣᮕ ᮟᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮑᮒᮜᮕᮼ ᯏᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮒᮢᮑᮙᮞᮣᮤᮟᮢᮝᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮣᮟ ᮜᮟᮞᮗᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑᮜᮢᮕᮑᮔᮩ ᮣᮤᮑᮢᮦᮙᮞᮗᮼ

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮔᮙᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮔᮑᮧᮔᮜᮕᮼ ᮃᮘᮕ ᮓᮑᮣᮥᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮠᮥᮜᮜᮕᮔ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮑ ᮣᮤᮙᮓᮛᮺ ᮜᮙᮤ ᮙᮤᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮠᮜᮑᮓᮕᮔ ᮙᮤ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮙᮞᮓᮕᮞᮣᮕ ᮒᮥᮢᮞᮕᮢ ᮖᮟᮢ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙᮼ

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮗᮢᮕᮕᮔᮙᮜᮩ ᮣᮞᮙᮖᮖᮕᮔ ᮙᮤᮺ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮓᮑᮤᮓᮘ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮒᮢᮕᮑᮤᮘᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮘᮕᮜᮠ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮓᮟᮥᮗᮘ ᮦᮙᮟᮜᮕᮞᮤᮜᮩᮼᮼᮼ

“ᯑᮟᮥᮗᮘᮺ ᮓᮟᮥᮗᮘᮺ ᮓᮟᮥᮗᮘᮺ ᮧᮘᮑᮤ ᮛᮙᮞᮔ ᮟᮖ ᮙᮞᮓᮕᮞᮣᮕ ᮙᮣ ᮤᮘᮙᮣᯍ ᯗᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮒᮥᮢᮞᮙᮞᮗ ᮝᮩ ᮤᮘᮢᮟᮑᮤᮼᮼᮼ”

“ᮄᮘᮙᮣ ᮙᮣ ᮙᮤᮼ ᮄᮑᮛᮕ ᮙᮤ ᮟᮢ ᮜᮕᮑᮦᮕ ᮙᮤᮼ ᯗᮖ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮔᮟᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮧᮑᮞᮤ ᮙᮤᮺ ᯗ᮵ᮜᮜ ᮤᮑᮛᮕ ᮙᮤ ᮑᮧᮑᮩᮼ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮣᮑᮙᮔᮺ ᮝᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮑᮛᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮙᮞᮓᮕᮞᮣᮕ ᮑᮧᮑᮩ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮕᮨᮤᮙᮞᮗᮥᮙᮣᮘ ᮙᮤᮺ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮘᮟᮧ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮑᮜᮜᮟᮧ ᮤᮘᮑᮤᯍ

ᯓᮦᮕᮞ ᮙᮖ ᮙᮤ ᮒᮥᮢᮞᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮤᮘᮢᮟᮑᮤᮺ ᮙᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮒᮕᮤᮤᮕᮢ ᮤᮘᮑᮞ ᮣᮤᮑᮢᮦᮙᮞᮗᮺ ᮢᮙᮗᮘᮤᯍ

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮧᮑᮤᮓᮘᮕᮔ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮜᮟᮧᮜᮩ ᮒᮥᮢᮞᮙᮞᮗ ᮙᮞᮓᮕᮞᮣᮕ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮣᮕᮓᮢᮕᮤᮜᮩ ᮝᮑᮔᮕ ᮥᮠ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮝᮙᮞᮔᮼ ᮀᮥᮤᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮣᮙᮔᮕ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮔᮕᮒᮤ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮞᮟᮧᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮑᮤ ᮜᮕᮑᮣᮤ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮔᮟ ᮢᮙᮗᮘᮤ ᮒᮩ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮟᮧᮞ ᮣᮤᮟᮝᮑᮓᮘᮺ ᮔᮙᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮣᮘᮕᯍ

ᯔᮙᮢᮣᮤᮺ ᮕᮑᮢᮞ ᮣᮟᮝᮕ ᮝᮟᮞᮕᮩ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮗᮕᮤ ᮣᮟᮝᮕ ᮗᮟᮟᮔ ᮙᮞᮓᮕᮞᮣᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮞᮟᮥᮢᮙᮣᮘ ᮘᮕᮢᮣᮕᮜᮖᮼ

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮖᮕᮜᮤ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮣᮤᮑᮞᮔ ᮘᮑᮦᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮤᮘᮢᮟᮑᮤᮻᮒᮥᮢᮞᮙᮞᮗ ᮙᮞᮓᮕᮞᮣᮕ ᮕᮦᮕᮢᮩ ᮔᮑᮩᮼ

ᯝᮖ ᮓᮟᮥᮢᮣᮕᮺ ᮙᮖ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮕᮑᮢᮞ ᮑ ᮒᮙᮤ ᮝᮟᮢᮕ ᮝᮟᮞᮕᮩᮺ ᮤᮢᮕᮑᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮤᮟ ᮣᮟᮝᮕᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮗᮟᮟᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮕᮑᮤ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮒᮕ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮡᮥᮕᮣᮤᮙᮟᮞᮼ ᮃᮕᮕᮙᮞᮗ ᮘᮟᮧ ᮤᮘᮙᮞ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣᮺ ᮙᮖ ᮣᮟᮝᮕᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮘᮑᮠᮠᮕᮞᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮘᮕᮑᮜᮤᮘᮺ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ᮵ᮣ ᮟᮧᮞ ᮢᮕᮙᮞᮓᮑᮢᮞᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮠᮜᮑᮞᮣ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮒᮕ ᮓᮟᮝᮠᮜᮕᮤᮕᮜᮩ ᮢᮥᮙᮞᮕᮔᮯ

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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