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

Chapter 27

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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ᯑᮑᮞ ᮣᮥᮓᮘ ᮑ ᮩᮟᮥᮞᮗ ᮓᮘᮙᮜᮔ ᮢᮕᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮣᮟᮜᮦᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮠᮢᮟᮒᮜᮕᮝ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮘᮑᮣ ᮤᮢᮟᮥᮒᮜᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮩᮕᮑᮢᮣᯍ

ᯒᮙᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯕᮥᮟᮓᮘᮑᮞᮗ ᮢᮕᮓᮟᮝᮝᮕᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮧᮢᮟᮞᮗ ᮠᮕᮢᮣᮟᮞ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮕᮢᯍ

ᯏᮜᮤᮘᮟᮥᮗᮘ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮒᮕᮑᮥᮤᮙᮖᮥᮜ ᮧᮟᮝᮑᮞ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮔᮟᮥᮒᮤᮣ ᮙᮞ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮘᮕᮑᮢᮤᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮔᮙᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮣᮘᮟᮧ ᮤᮘᮕᮝᮺ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮕᮨᮠᮢᮕᮣᮣᮙᮟᮞ ᮢᮕᮝᮑᮙᮞᮙᮞᮗ ᮑ ᮗᮕᮞᮤᮜᮕ ᮣᮝᮙᮜᮕᮼ

“ᯏᮜᮜᮟᮧ ᮝᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮙᮞᮤᮢᮟᮔᮥᮓᮕ ᮝᮩᮣᮕᮜᮖᮺ ᮝᮩ ᮞᮑᮝᮕ ᮙᮣ ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙᮼ ᯛᮑᮣᮤᮕᮢ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮙᮣ ᮝᮥᮓᮘ ᮩᮟᮥᮞᮗᮕᮢ ᮤᮘᮑᮞ ᯗ ᮙᮝᮑᮗᮙᮞᮕᮔᮺ ᮤᮢᮥᮜᮩ ᮑ ᮘᮕᮢᮟ ᮕᮝᮕᮢᮗᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮢᮟᮝᮼᮼᮼ”

“ᮄᮘᮕᮢᮕ᮵ᮣ ᮞᮟ ᮞᮕᮕᮔ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮠᮜᮕᮑᮣᮑᮞᮤᮢᮙᮕᮣᮺ ᯛᮙᮣᮣ ᯒᮕᮞᮗᮼ ᮀᮜᮕᮑᮣᮕ ᮤᮕᮜᮜ ᮝᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮠᮕᮓᮙᮖᮙᮓ ᮣᮙᮤᮥᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞᮼ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮙᮞᮤᮕᮢᮢᮥᮠᮤᮕᮔ ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙ᮵ᮣ ᮠᮟᮜᮙᮤᮕ ᮢᮕᮝᮑᮢᮛᮣᮼ ᯏᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮑᮜᮜᮺ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮗᮟᮑᮜ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮣᮙᮝᮠᮜᮕᯈ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮟᮞᮕ ᮝᮙᮜᮜᮙᮟᮞᮼ

ᯖᮕᮜᮠᮙᮞᮗ ᮠᮕᮟᮠᮜᮕ ᮣᮟᮜᮦᮕ ᮤᮘᮕᮙᮢ ᮠᮢᮟᮒᮜᮕᮝᮣᮺ ᮣᮑᮤᮙᮣᮖᮩᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕᮝᮺ ᮤᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮝᮟᮞᮕᮩᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮜᮕᮑᮦᮙᮞᮗ—ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮠᮢᮟᮠᮕᮢ ᮧᮑᮩᮼ

ᯏᮣ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮖᮕᮝᮑᮜᮕ ᮒᮟᮣᮣ ᮧᮘᮟ ᮢᮑᮞ ᮑ ᮞᮙᮗᮘᮤᮓᮜᮥᮒᮼᮼᮼ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮢᮕᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮔᮙᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮧᮑᮞᮤ ᮑᮞᮩᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮟ ᮔᮟ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮘᮕᮢᮼ ᯜᮟᮤ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮙᮖ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮦᮕᮢᮩ ᮒᮕᮑᮥᮤᮙᮖᮥᮜᮼ

ᯜᮙᮞᮕ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮕᮞ ᮣᮥᮓᮘ ᮧᮟᮝᮕᮞ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮒᮑᮔ ᮧᮟᮝᮕᮞᮼ

“ᯗᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮞᮟᮤ ᮓᮟᮞᮦᮕᮞᮙᮕᮞᮤ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮑᮜᮛ ᮘᮕᮢᮕᮼ ᮀᮜᮕᮑᮣᮕ ᮗᮕᮤ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮑᮢ ᮖᮙᮢᮣᮤᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮧᮕ᮵ᮜᮜ ᮗᮟ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮙᮤᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮑᮛᮕ ᮑ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮼ”

ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙ ᮣᮑᮙᮔᮺ ᮧᮑᮢᮝᮜᮩ ᮠᮥᮜᮜᮙᮞᮗ ᮟᮠᮕᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯛᮑᮩᮒᮑᮓᮘ᮵ᮣ ᮓᮑᮢ ᮔᮟᮟᮢ ᮖᮟᮢ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞᮼ

“ᮇᮑᮙᮤ ᮑ ᮝᮟᮝᮕᮞᮤᮼ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮒᮑᮓᮛ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮢᮕᮑᮜᮙ᮪ᮕᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮘᮑᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮖᮟᮜᮜᮟᮧᮕᮔᮼ ᮃᮘᮕ ᮠᮢᮟᮒᮑᮒᮜᮩ ᮖᮟᮥᮞᮔ ᮙᮤ ᮙᮞᮓᮟᮞᮦᮕᮞᮙᮕᮞᮤ ᮤᮟ ᮣᮘᮟᮧ ᮘᮕᮢᮣᮕᮜᮖ ᮕᮑᮢᮜᮙᮕᮢ ᮧᮘᮕᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯚᮑᮞᮔᮜᮟᮢᮔ ᯏᮥᮞᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮔᮟᮟᮢᮼ

ᯐᮥᮤ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮣᮘᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮓᮟᮝᮕ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮞᮟᮧᮺ ᮢᮙᮗᮘᮤᯍ ᮃᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮚᮥᮣᮤ ᮜᮕᮑᮦᮕ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮒᮕᮘᮙᮞᮔ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮗᮟ ᮤᮟ ᯘᮙᮞ ᯐᮑᮙᮘᮑᮞ ᮑᮜᮟᮞᮕᮺ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮣᮘᮕᯍ

ᯏᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮑᮜᮜᮺ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮢᮕᮣᮠᮟᮞᮣᮙᮒᮜᮕ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮓᮑᮢᮢᮩᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮜᮜ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮟᮟᮜᮣ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮞᮕᮕᮔᮕᮔᮼᮼᮼ

“ᮇᮘᮟ ᮑᮢᮕ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮧᮑᮙᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮟᮢᯍ”

ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙ ᮖᮟᮜᮜᮟᮧᮕᮔ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮗᮑ᮪ᮕ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮣᮑᮧ ᮞᮟᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗᮼ

“ᯛᮩ ᮑᮣᮣᮙᮣᮤᮑᮞᮤᮼ”

“ᯏᮣᮣᮙᮣᮤᮑᮞᮤᯍ”

ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙ ᮖᮢᮟᮧᮞᮕᮔᮺ ᮤᮘᮙᮞᮛᮙᮞᮗᮺ ᮵ᮄᮘᮙᮣ ᯛᮑᮣᮤᮕᮢ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮢᮕᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮘᮑᮣ ᮑ ᮜᮟᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮔᮕᮝᮑᮞᮔᮣᮼᮼᮼ᮵

ᯖᮕᮢ ᮠᮑᮤᮙᮕᮞᮓᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮣᮜᮟᮧᮜᮩ ᮒᮕᮙᮞᮗ ᮧᮟᮢᮞ ᮑᮧᮑᮩᮼ

ᯗᮖ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮑᮣ ᮝᮙᮢᮑᮓᮥᮜᮟᮥᮣ ᮑᮣ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯕᮥᮟᮓᮘᮑᮞᮗ ᮓᮜᮑᮙᮝᮕᮔᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮔᮕᮖᮙᮞᮙᮤᮕᮜᮩ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮜᮕᮤ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮟᮖᮖ ᮕᮑᮣᮙᮜᮩᮼ

ᯚᮟᮟᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮞᮤᮙᮢᮕ ᯐᮑᮙ ᯑᮙᮤᮩᮺ ᮑᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮖᮑᮝᮙᮜᮩ ᮖᮕᮜᮜᮺ ᮧᮘᮟ ᮕᮜᮣᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮧᮟᮢᮤᮘ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮒᮟᮧᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮣᮓᮢᮑᮠᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮟᮺ ᮣᮠᮕᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮣᮟ ᮠᮟᮜᮙᮤᮕᮜᮩᯍ

ᯗᮖ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯕᮥᮟᮓᮘᮑᮞᮗ ᮘᮑᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮙᮞᮤᮢᮟᮔᮥᮓᮕᮔ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮑᮣ ᮓᮑᮠᮑᮒᮜᮕ ᮟᮖ ᮣᮟᮜᮦᮙᮞᮗ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮤᮢᮟᮥᮒᮜᮕᮣᮼᮼᮼ

ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙᮺ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮖᮑᮝᮙᮜᮩ ᮑᮣᮣᮕᮤᮣ ᮕᮨᮓᮕᮕᮔᮙᮞᮗ ᮑ ᮘᮥᮞᮔᮢᮕᮔ ᮝᮙᮜᮜᮙᮟᮞᮺ ᮢᮙᮔᮙᮞᮗ ᮙᮞ ᮑ ᯛᮑᮩᮒᮑᮓᮘᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮘᮑᮦᮙᮞᮗ ᮑ ᮔᮕᮔᮙᮓᮑᮤᮕᮔ ᮔᮢᮙᮦᮕᮢ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮒᮟᮔᮩᮗᮥᮑᮢᮔᮺ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮑᮒᮣᮟᮜᮥᮤᮕᮜᮩ ᮞᮕᮦᮕᮢ ᮘᮑᮦᮕ ᮣᮠᮑᮢᮕᮔ ᮑ ᮗᮜᮑᮞᮓᮕ ᮖᮟᮢ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞᮺ ᮧᮘᮟ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮔ ᮙᮞ ᮑ ᮔᮙᮜᮑᮠᮙᮔᮑᮤᮕᮔ ᮟᮜᮔ ᮘᮟᮥᮣᮕ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮥᮢᮒᮑᮞ ᮦᮙᮜᮜᮑᮗᮕᮼ

ᯜᮟᮧ ᮙᮤ ᮣᮕᮕᮝᮕᮔ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮢᮕᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮧᮑᮣᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮑᮞᮩᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮣᮠᮕᮓᮙᮑᮜᮼ ᮇᮙᮤᮘ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮑᮠᮠᮕᮑᮢᮑᮞᮓᮕᮺ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮢᮕᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮣᮟᮜᮦᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮠᮢᮟᮒᮜᮕᮝ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮤᮢᮟᮥᮒᮜᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮤᮧᮟ ᮩᮕᮑᮢᮣᯍ

ᯘᮥᮣᮤ ᮑᮣ ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮗᮢᮥᮝᮒᮜᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮒᮟᮥᮤ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮙᮞ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮝᮙᮞᮔᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮣᮥᮔᮔᮕᮞᮜᮩ ᮘᮕᮑᮢᮔ ᮑ ᮣᮟᮥᮞᮔ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮑᮒᮟᮦᮕᮼ ᯗᮝᮝᮕᮔᮙᮑᮤᮕᮜᮩᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮥᮠ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮣᮑᮧ ᮑ ᮣᮓᮕᮞᮕ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮞᮕᮦᮕᮢ ᮖᮟᮢᮗᮕᮤ ᮙᮞ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮜᮙᮖᮕᮼ

ᮃᮘᮕ ᮣᮑᮧ ᮑ ᮗᮢᮑᮓᮕᮖᮥᮜ ᮧᮟᮝᮑᮞ ᮙᮞ ᮑ ᮖᮟᮢᮝᮻᮖᮙᮤᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮡᮙᮠᮑᮟ ᮣᮜᮟᮧᮜᮩ ᮔᮕᮣᮓᮕᮞᮔᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮛᮩᮼ

ᮃᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮓᮑᮢᮢᮩᮙᮞᮗ ᮑ ᮘᮑᮞᮔᮒᮑᮗ ᮖᮙᮜᮜᮕᮔ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮦᮑᮢᮙᮟᮥᮣ ᮙᮤᮕᮝᮣᮺ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮡᮥᮙᮤᮕ ᮘᮕᮑᮦᮩᮼ

ᮉᮕᮤᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮧᮟᮝᮑᮞ ᮜᮑᮞᮔᮕᮔ ᮣᮤᮕᮑᮔᮙᮜᮩ ᮟᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮗᮢᮟᮥᮞᮔᮺ ᮑᮣ ᮜᮙᮗᮘᮤ ᮑᮣ ᮑ ᮖᮑᮜᮜᮙᮞᮗ ᮜᮕᮑᮖᮼ

ᯗᮤ ᮜᮕᮖᮤ ᮠᮕᮟᮠᮜᮕ ᮔᮥᮝᮒᮖᮟᮥᮞᮔᮕᮔᮼ

ᮇᮘᮑᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮤᮘᮙᮣᮼᮼᮼ ᮑ ᮣᮠᮕᮓᮙᮑᮜ ᮕᮖᮖᮕᮓᮤᯍ

ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮥᮠ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮟᮜᮔᮺ ᮔᮙᮜᮑᮠᮙᮔᮑᮤᮕᮔ ᮢᮕᮣᮙᮔᮕᮞᮤᮙᮑᮜ ᮒᮥᮙᮜᮔᮙᮞᮗᮼ ᮄᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮞᮟ ᮠᮜᮑᮓᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮑᮞᮗ ᮑ ᮧᮙᮢᮕ ᮘᮕᮢᮕᮺ ᮣᮟ ᮘᮟᮧ ᮔᮙᮔ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮖᮜᮩ ᮔᮟᮧᮞᯍ

ᯗᮖ ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙ ᮘᮑᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮕᮞᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤᮕᮢᮕᮔ ᮣᮥᮠᮕᮢᮞᮑᮤᮥᮢᮑᮜ ᮕᮦᮕᮞᮤᮣ ᮙᮞ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮟᮧᮞ ᮞᮙᮗᮘᮤᮓᮜᮥᮒ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮥᮣ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮣᮟᮝᮕ ᮕᮨᮠᮕᮢᮙᮕᮞᮓᮕᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮘᮑᮦᮕ ᮣᮓᮢᮕᮑᮝᮕᮔ ᮑᮜᮢᮕᮑᮔᮩᮼ

ᯐᮥᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮥᮢᮢᮕᮞᮤ ᮣᮙᮤᮥᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮕᮞᮟᮥᮗᮘ ᮤᮟ ᮝᮑᮛᮕ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮧᮟᮞᮔᮕᮢ ᮙᮖ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮣᮤᮙᮜᮜ ᮔᮢᮕᮑᮝᮙᮞᮗᮼ

ᯑᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮒᮕᮼᮼᮼ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮑᮣᮣᮙᮣᮤᮑᮞᮤᯍ

ᯏᮞ ᮑᮣᮣᮙᮣᮤᮑᮞᮤ ᮧᮘᮟ ᮓᮑᮞ ᮖᮜᮩ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮒᮥᮢᮢᮟᮧ ᮙᮞᮤᮟ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮑᮢᮤᮘᯍ ᮄᮘᮕᮞ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮙᮞ ᮖᮢᮟᮞᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮒᮕ ᮑᮞ ᮙᮝᮝᮟᮢᮤᮑᮜᯍ

“ᮇᮘᮩ ᮔᮙᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮥᮣᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮝᮑᮙᮞ ᮕᮞᮤᮢᮑᮞᮓᮕᯍ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮤᮟᮞᮕ ᮘᮕᮜᮔ ᮑ ᮘᮙᮞᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮠᮜᮑᮩᮖᮥᮜ ᮑᮞᮗᮕᮢᮼ

“ᮅᮗᮘᮺ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑᮞ ᮑᮥᮞᮤ ᮒᮜᮟᮓᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮔᮟᮟᮢᮧᮑᮩᮺ ᮣᮟ ᯗ ᮔᮙᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮔᮑᮢᮕ ᮣᮘᮟᮧ ᮝᮩᮣᮕᮜᮖ ᮓᮑᮣᮥᮑᮜᮜᮩᮼ ᯜᮕᮦᮕᮢ ᮝᮙᮞᮔ ᮧᮘᮙᮓᮘ ᮧᮑᮩ ᯗ ᮓᮑᮝᮕᮺ ᯗ᮵ᮦᮕ ᮗᮟᮤ ᮩᮟᮥᮢ ᮣᮤᮥᮖᮖ ᮢᮕᮑᮔᮩ ᮑᮞᮩᮧᮑᮩᮼ”

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮣᮧᮥᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮒᮑᮗ ᮙᮞ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮘᮑᮞᮔᮼ ᯐᮕᮣᮙᮔᮕᮣ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮒᮑᮗᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢ ᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮙᮞ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮘᮟᮝᮕ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮘᮟᮜᮔ ᮙᮤᮕᮝᮣ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑ ᮤᮢᮑᮣᮘ ᮒᮑᮗᮼ

ᮄᮘᮕᮣᮕ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮟᮟᮜᮣ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮕᮑᮢᮞᮙᮞᮗ ᮑ ᮜᮙᮦᮙᮞᮗᯉ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮠᮟᮣᮣᮙᮒᮜᮩ ᮠᮥᮤ ᮤᮘᮕᮝ ᮙᮞ ᮑ ᮤᮢᮑᮣᮘ ᮒᮑᮗᮺ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮣᮘᮕᯍ ᮄᮘᮑᮤ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮒᮕ ᮤᮟᮟ ᮥᮞᮔᮙᮗᮞᮙᮖᮙᮕᮔᮼ

“ᯐᮕ ᮝᮟᮢᮕ ᮓᮑᮢᮕᮖᮥᮜ ᮞᮕᮨᮤ ᮤᮙᮝᮕᮼ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮠᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ᮵ᮣ ᮖᮟᮢᮕᮘᮕᮑᮔᮼ

“ᯛᮙᮣᮣ ᯒᮕᮞᮗᮺ ᯗ ᮑᮠᮟᮜᮟᮗᮙ᮪ᮕ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮙᮤᮼ ᯗᮖ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮑᮢᮕ ᮞᮟ ᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢ ᮙᮣᮣᮥᮕᮣᮺ ᮜᮕᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮔᮕᮠᮑᮢᮤᮼ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮑᮤ ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙ᮵ᮣ ᮑᮣᮤᮟᮞᮙᮣᮘᮕᮔ ᮕᮨᮠᮢᮕᮣᮣᮙᮟᮞᮼ ᯏᮜᮤᮘᮟᮥᮗᮘ ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮢᮕᮠᮕᮑᮤᮕᮔᮜᮩ ᮤᮟᮜᮔ ᮘᮕᮢᮣᮕᮜᮖ ᮤᮟ ᮓᮑᮜᮝ ᮔᮟᮧᮞᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮜᮟᮟᮛ ᮟᮞ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮖᮑᮓᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮣᮤᮙᮜᮜ ᮖᮥᮜᮜ ᮟᮖ ᮣᮘᮟᮓᮛᮼᮼᮼ

ᮃᮟᮢᮢᮩᮺ ᯛᮑᮣᮤᮕᮢᮺ ᯗ ᮝᮙᮣᮚᮥᮔᮗᮕᮔ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮚᮥᮣᮤ ᮞᮟᮧᮼ

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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