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

Chapter 41

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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ᯚᮟᮟᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮤ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ᮵ᮣ ᮣᮙᮞᮙᮣᮤᮕᮢ ᮖᮑᮓᮕᮺ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮣᮘᮢᮥᮗᮗᮕᮔᮺ ᮔᮙᮣᮝᮙᮣᮣᮙᮞᮗ ᮙᮤᮼ

ᮃᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮝᮟᮢᮕ ᮙᮞᮤᮕᮢᮕᮣᮤᮕᮔ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮢᮕᮑᮣᮥᮢᮕᮣ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮝᮕᮞᮤᮙᮟᮞᮕᮔᮺ ᮤᮘᮟᮣᮕ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯓᮕᮢᮙᮕ ᮂᮕᮑᮜᮝᮼ

ᮄᮘᮙᮞᮗᮣ ᮜᮙᮛᮕ ᮑ ᮒᮕᮑᮥᮤᮙᮖᮥᮜ ᯚᮙᮤᮤᮜᮕ ᯔᮕᮝᮑᮜᮕ ᯕᮘᮟᮣᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮠᮕᮢᮣᮟᮞᮑᮜ ᮢᮕᮔ ᮒᮕᮜᮜᮩᮒᮑᮞᮔᮺ ᮢᮕᮔ ᮧᮕᮔᮔᮙᮞᮗ ᮔᮢᮕᮣᮣᮺ ᮒᮜᮑᮓᮛ ᮣᮘᮕᮕᮢ ᮣᮤᮟᮓᮛᮙᮞᮗᮣᮺ ᮔᮕᮜᮙᮓᮑᮤᮕ ᮢᮕᮔ ᮧᮕᮔᮔᮙᮞᮗ ᮣᮘᮟᮕᮣᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮤᮢᮥᮜᮩ ᮙᮞᮤᮕᮢᮕᮣᮤᮕᮔᮼᮼᮼ

ᯛᮑᮙᮞᮜᮩᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮙᮞᮤᮕᮢᮕᮣᮤᮕᮔ ᮙᮞ ᮧᮘᮑᮤ ᮕᮖᮖᮕᮓᮤᮣ ᮤᮘᮕᮩ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮠᮢᮟᮔᮥᮓᮕ ᮑᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮒᮕᮙᮞᮗ ᮞᮟᮥᮢᮙᮣᮘᮕᮔ ᮒᮩ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯓᮕᮢᮙᮕ ᮂᮕᮑᮜᮝᮼ

“ᮉᮟᮥ ᮣᮕᮕᮝ ᮦᮕᮢᮩ ᮙᮞᮤᮕᮢᮕᮣᮤᮕᮔ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯓᮕᮢᮙᮕ ᮂᮕᮑᮜᮝᮼ”

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮧᮑᮤᮓᮘᮕᮔ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮜᮟᮣᮤ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮟᮥᮗᮘᮤᮼ ᯏᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮑᮜᮜᮺ ᮗᮙᮦᮕᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯓᮕᮢᮙᮕ ᮂᮕᮑᮜᮝ᮵ᮣ ᮥᮞᮙᮡᮥᮕ ᮞᮑᮤᮥᮢᮕᮺ ᮙᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮞᮟᮢᮝᮑᮜ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮠᮕᮟᮠᮜᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮩᮕᮑᮢᮞ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮙᮤᮼ

ᯏᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮑᮜᮜᮺ ᮧᮘᮟ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮧᮑᮞᮤ ᮤᮟ ᮠᮟᮣᮣᮕᮣᮣ ᮑ ᮣᮝᮑᮜᮜ ᮧᮟᮢᮜᮔ ᮧᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮤᮘᮕᮩ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮣᮕᮤ ᮤᮘᮕᮙᮢ ᮟᮧᮞ ᮢᮥᮜᮕᮣᯍ

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮝᮥᮣᮤ ᮒᮕ ᮤᮘᮙᮞᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮑᮝᮕᮺ ᮢᮙᮗᮘᮤᯍ

“ᯗᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮑᮜᮢᮙᮗᮘᮤᮼ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮣᮑᮙᮔ ᮣᮟᮖᮤᮜᮩᮺ ᮣᮙᮞᮓᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯓᮕᮢᮙᮕ ᮂᮕᮑᮜᮝ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮔᮙᮣᮑᮠᮠᮕᮑᮢᮕᮔ ᮟᮞ ᮙᮤᮣ ᮟᮧᮞᮺ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮞᮟ ᮠᮟᮙᮞᮤ ᮙᮞ ᮣᮤᮑᮩᮙᮞᮗ ᮘᮕᮢᮕᮼ

ᮃᮘᮕ ᮣᮤᮙᮜᮜ ᮟᮧᮕᮔ ᮤᮘᮢᮕᮕ ᮚᮑᮢᮣ ᮟᮖ ᮗᮟᮟᮔ ᮧᮙᮞᮕ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮢᮕᮕ ᮣᮤᮙᮓᮛᮣ ᮟᮖ ᮗᮟᮟᮔ ᮙᮞᮓᮕᮞᮣᮕᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮑᮜᮣᮟ ᮞᮕᮕᮔᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮠᮢᮕᮠᮑᮢᮕ ᮙᮞ ᮑᮔᮦᮑᮞᮓᮕ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮤᮟᮞᮙᮗᮘᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝ ᮤᮟ ᮖᮙᮞᮔ ᮣᮟᮥᮜᮣᮼ

ᮇᮑᮣᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮙᮝᮕ ᮟᮞ ᮣᮟᮝᮕᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮣᮟ ᮕᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕᮑᮜ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮤᮢᮥᮜᮩ ᮞᮟᮤ ᮧᮟᮢᮤᮘ ᮙᮤᮼ

ᮄᮘᮙᮞᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮙᮣᮺ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮜᮕᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮙᮞᮠᮑᮤᮙᮕᮞᮤ ᮒᮥᮙᮜᮔᮙᮞᮗᮺ ᮑᮣ ᮤᮘᮕᮣᮕ ᮒᮑᮓᮛᮻᮑᮞᮔᮻᮖᮟᮢᮤᮘ ᮤᮢᮙᮠᮣ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮓᮟᮞᮣᮥᮝᮕᮔ ᮑ ᮜᮟᮤ ᮟᮖ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮣᮤᮑᮝᮙᮞᮑᮼ

ᯏᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮑᮜᮜᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮘᮑᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮕᮑᮤᮕᮞ ᮕᮞᮟᮥᮗᮘ ᮤᮘᮕᮣᮕ ᮠᮑᮣᮤ ᮖᮕᮧ ᮔᮑᮩᮣᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮓᮜᮙᮝᮒᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮤᮑᮙᮢᮣ ᮣᮕᮦᮕᮢᮑᮜ ᮤᮙᮝᮕᮣ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮑᮜᮢᮕᮑᮔᮩ ᮕᮨᮘᮑᮥᮣᮤᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢᮼ

ᮃᮟᮺ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮙᮖ ᮙᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮓᮢᮟᮧᮔᮕᮔᮺ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮤᮙᮝᮕ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮑᮞᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮣᮤᮙᮜᮜ ᮓᮘᮟᮣᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮑᮛᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢᮼ

ᮇᮘᮙᮜᮕ ᮧᮑᮙᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢᮺ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮑᮞᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮓᮘᮑᮤᮤᮕᮔ ᮙᮔᮜᮩᮼ ᯐᮕᮓᮑᮥᮣᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮙᮞᮠᮑᮤᮙᮕᮞᮤ ᮔᮕᮠᮑᮢᮤᮝᮕᮞᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮦᮕᮢᮩ ᮓᮢᮟᮧᮔᮕᮔ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮤᮧᮟ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢᮣᮺ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮑᮞᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮧᮑᮙᮤᮕᮔ ᮑ ᮜᮟᮞᮗ ᮤᮙᮝᮕ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮟᮞᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮑᮢᮢᮙᮦᮕᮼ

ᯘᮥᮣᮤ ᮑᮣ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮗᮕᮤᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮒᮟᮢᮕᮔ ᮟᮖ ᮧᮑᮙᮤᮙᮞᮗᮺ ᮣᮥᮔᮔᮕᮞᮜᮩ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮑ ᮵ᮔᮙᮞᮗᮺ᮵ ᮑᮞ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ ᮒᮕᮘᮙᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮕᮝ ᮣᮜᮟᮧᮜᮩ ᮟᮠᮕᮞᮕᮔ ᮙᮤᮣ ᮔᮟᮟᮢᮣᮼ

ᮃᮙᮞᮓᮕ ᮙᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮟᮠ ᮖᮜᮟᮟᮢᮺ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮑ ᮖᮕᮧ ᮣᮓᮑᮤᮤᮕᮢᮕᮔ ᮠᮕᮟᮠᮜᮕ ᮣᮤᮑᮞᮔᮙᮞᮗ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮢᮞᮕᮢᮣ ᮧᮘᮕᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ ᮑᮢᮢᮙᮦᮕᮔᮼ

ᯐᮥᮤ ᮧᮘᮑᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮣᮤᮢᮑᮞᮗᮕ ᮧᮑᮣᮼᮼᮼ ᮤᮘᮕᮩ ᮣᮘᮟᮧᮕᮔ ᮞᮟ ᮙᮞᮤᮕᮞᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮟᮖ ᮗᮕᮤᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮟᮖᮖ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢᯉ ᮙᮞᮣᮤᮕᮑᮔᮺ ᮤᮘᮕᮩ ᮣᮤᮟᮟᮔ ᮝᮟᮤᮙᮟᮞᮜᮕᮣᮣ ᮙᮞᮣᮙᮔᮕᮺ ᮕᮨᮠᮢᮕᮣᮣᮙᮟᮞᮜᮕᮣᮣᮼ

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕᮙᮢ ᮖᮑᮓᮕᮣ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮖᮟᮥᮞᮔ ᮙᮤ ᮣᮟᮝᮕᮧᮘᮑᮤ ᮣᮤᮢᮑᮞᮗᮕᮼ

ᯏᮜᮤᮘᮟᮥᮗᮘ ᮙᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮗᮕᮞᮕᮢᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮤᮢᮥᮕ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮠᮕᮟᮠᮜᮕ ᮓᮟᮞᮞᮕᮓᮤᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮟᮣᮠᮙᮤᮑᮜᮣ ᮟᮖᮤᮕᮞ ᮣᮘᮟᮧ ᮣᮟᮝᮕ ᮞᮕᮗᮑᮤᮙᮦᮕ ᮣᮙᮗᮞᮣ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕᮙᮢ ᮖᮟᮢᮤᮥᮞᮕ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮖᮑᮓᮙᮑᮜ ᮖᮕᮑᮤᮥᮢᮕᮣ—ᮑᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮑᮜᮜᮺ ᮧᮘᮟ ᮓᮟᮝᮕᮣ ᮤᮟ ᮑ ᮘᮟᮣᮠᮙᮤᮑᮜ ᮥᮞᮜᮕᮣᮣ ᮣᮟᮝᮕᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮙᮣ ᮧᮢᮟᮞᮗᯍ

ᯐᮥᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮖᮑᮓᮕᮣ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮠᮕᮟᮠᮜᮕ ᮒᮕᮖᮟᮢᮕ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮓᮜᮕᮑᮢᮜᮩ ᮝᮥᮓᮘ ᮝᮟᮢᮕ ᮕᮕᮢᮙᮕᮺ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮠᮟᮙᮞᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮒᮕᮙᮞᮗ ᮑ ᮓᮟᮝᮠᮜᮕᮤᮕ ᮝᮕᮣᮣᮼ

“ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞᮺ ᮘᮥᮢᮢᮩ ᮥᮠᮼ”

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮔᮙᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮞᮟᮤᮙᮓᮕ ᮑᮞᮩᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮝᮙᮣᮣᮼ ᯖᮑᮦᮙᮞᮗ ᮧᮑᮙᮤᮕᮔ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮞᮕᮑᮢᮜᮩ ᮘᮑᮜᮖ ᮑᮞ ᮘᮟᮥᮢ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮒᮕᮙᮞᮗ ᮥᮤᮤᮕᮢᮜᮩ ᮒᮟᮢᮕᮔᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮣᮑᮧ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮕᮝᮠᮤᮩ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮡᮥᮙᮓᮛᮜᮩ ᮠᮥᮜᮜᮕᮔ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮙᮞᮣᮙᮔᮕᮼ

“ᯒᮙᮔ ᮧᮕ ᮠᮢᮕᮣᮣ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ ᮚᮥᮣᮤ ᮞᮟᮧᯍ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮠᮥᮜᮜᮕᮔ ᮙᮞᮤᮟ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ ᮒᮩ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙᮺ ᮣᮤᮙᮜᮜ ᮠᮟᮞᮔᮕᮢᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮜᮙᮗᮘᮤᮜᮩ ᮕᮕᮢᮙᮕ ᮣᮙᮤᮥᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮑᮢᮟᮥᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮕᮝᮼ

“ᮇᮑᮙᮤᮯ ᯐᮕᮘᮙᮞᮔ ᮥᮣᮼᮼᮼ ᮧᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮔᮙᮔ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ ᮓᮟᮝᮕ ᮖᮢᮟᮝᯍ”

ᮄᮘᮕ ᮙᮞᮠᮑᮤᮙᮕᮞᮤ ᮒᮥᮙᮜᮔᮙᮞᮗ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮤᮧᮟ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢᮣᮺ ᮒᮟᮤᮘ ᮙᮞᮣᮤᮑᮜᮜᮕᮔ ᮟᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮑᮝᮕ ᮣᮙᮔᮕᮼ ᮇᮘᮕᮞ ᮔᮙᮔ ᮑᮞ ᮕᮨᮤᮢᮑ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ ᮑᮠᮠᮕᮑᮢ ᮒᮕᮘᮙᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮕᮝᯍ

ᯘᮥᮣᮤ ᮑᮣ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮢᮕᮑᮜᮙ᮪ᮕᮔ ᮤᮘᮙᮣᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ ᮔᮟᮟᮢᮣ ᮣᮜᮟᮧᮜᮩ ᮓᮜᮟᮣᮕᮔᮼ

ᯗᮞᮣᮙᮔᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢᮺ ᮙᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮙᮞᮓᮢᮕᮔᮙᮒᮜᮩ ᮡᮥᮙᮕᮤᮺ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮟᮥᮞᮔ ᮟᮖ ᮠᮕᮟᮠᮜᮕ᮵ᮣ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮒᮢᮕᮑᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ᮵ᮣ ᮟᮠᮕᮢᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮑᮥᮔᮙᮒᮜᮕᮼ

ᯐᮩ ᮞᮟᮧᮺ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮜᮟᮧᮻᮧᮙᮤᮤᮕᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮣᮕᮞᮣᮕᮔ ᮣᮟᮝᮕᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮧᮢᮟᮞᮗᮼ ᮃᮘᮕ ᮙᮞᮣᮤᮙᮞᮓᮤᮙᮦᮕᮜᮩ ᮗᮢᮑᮒᮒᮕᮔ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮘᮑᮞᮔᮺ ᮑ ᮘᮙᮞᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮞᮕᮢᮦᮟᮥᮣᮞᮕᮣᮣ ᮙᮞ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮕᮨᮠᮢᮕᮣᮣᮙᮟᮞᮼ

“ᮉᮻᮩᮕᮣᮼᮼᮼ ᮧᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮔᮙᮔ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ ᮒᮕᮘᮙᮞᮔ ᮥᮣ ᮓᮟᮝᮕ ᮖᮢᮟᮝᯍ”

ᮄᮘᮕ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ ᮔᮕᮣᮓᮕᮞᮔᮕᮔ ᮓᮟᮞᮤᮙᮞᮥᮟᮥᮣᮜᮩᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮞᮥᮝᮒᮕᮢᮣ ᮟᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮔᮙᮣᮠᮜᮑᮩ ᮔᮕᮓᮢᮕᮑᮣᮙᮞᮗ ᮜᮙᮤᮤᮜᮕ ᮒᮩ ᮜᮙᮤᮤᮜᮕᮺ ᮑᮣ ᮙᮖ ᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮔᮟᮧᮞᮼ

ᯜᮙᮞᮤᮘ ᮖᮜᮟᮟᮢᮼᮼᮼ ᮕᮙᮗᮘᮤᮘ ᮖᮜᮟᮟᮢᮼᮼᮼ

ᮄᮘᮕ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮙᮞᮠᮑᮤᮙᮕᮞᮤ ᮒᮥᮙᮜᮔᮙᮞᮗᮺ ᮧᮘᮙᮓᮘ ᮥᮣᮥᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮣᮤᮟᮠᮠᮕᮔ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮑ ᮜᮟᮞᮗ ᮤᮙᮝᮕ ᮟᮞ ᮕᮑᮓᮘ ᮖᮜᮟᮟᮢᮺ ᮣᮘᮟᮧᮕᮔ ᮞᮟ ᮣᮙᮗᮞᮣ ᮟᮖ ᮣᮤᮟᮠᮠᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮤ ᮑᮜᮜᮼ

ᯔᮙᮢᮣᮤ ᮖᮜᮟᮟᮢᮼᮼᮼ ᮞᮕᮗᮑᮤᮙᮦᮕ ᮖᮙᮢᮣᮤ ᮖᮜᮟᮟᮢᮯ ᯜᮕᮗᮑᮤᮙᮦᮕ ᮣᮕᮓᮟᮞᮔ ᮖᮜᮟᮟᮢᮯ ᯜᮕᮗᮑᮤᮙᮦᮕ ᮤᮘᮙᮢᮔ ᮖᮜᮟᮟᮢᮼᮼᮼ

ᯐᮟᮟᮝᮯ

ᮇᮙᮤᮘ ᮑ ᮜᮟᮥᮔ ᮒᮑᮞᮗᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ ᮖᮙᮞᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮣᮤᮟᮠᮠᮕᮔᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮖᮜᮟᮟᮢ ᮞᮥᮝᮒᮕᮢ ᮔᮙᮣᮠᮜᮑᮩᮕᮔ ᮙᮞᮣᮤᮑᮞᮤᮜᮩ ᮝᮑᮔᮕ ᮒᮟᮤᮘ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮑᮞᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮗᮑᮣᮠᮼ

“ᯜᮕᮗᮑᮤᮙᮦᮕᮼᮼᮼ ᮕᮙᮗᮘᮤᮕᮕᮞᮤᮘ ᮖᮜᮟᮟᮢᯍ”

ᯒᮙᮞᮗᮯ

ᮇᮙᮤᮘ ᮑ ᮣᮟᮖᮤ ᮓᮘᮙᮝᮕᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ ᮔᮟᮟᮢᮣ ᮣᮜᮟᮧᮜᮩ ᮟᮠᮕᮞᮕᮔᮼᮼᮼ

ᮇᮘᮑᮤ ᮝᮕᮤ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮕᮩᮕᮣ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑ ᮖᮑᮝᮙᮜᮙᮑᮢ ᮓᮟᮢᮢᮙᮔᮟᮢ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮤᮩᮜᮕ ᮟᮖ ᮑ ᮜᮑᮣᮤᮻᮓᮕᮞᮤᮥᮢᮩ ᮘᮟᮣᮠᮙᮤᮑᮜᮼ

ᯏ ᮔᮙᮝ ᮓᮟᮢᮢᮙᮔᮟᮢᮺ ᮠᮕᮕᮜᮙᮞᮗ ᮠᮑᮙᮞᮤᮺ ᮔᮙᮜᮑᮠᮙᮔᮑᮤᮕᮔ ᮢᮟᮟᮝᮣᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮑ ᮣᮙᮗᮞ ᮝᮑᮔᮕ ᮟᮖ ᮔᮕᮓᮑᮩᮙᮞᮗ ᮧᮟᮟᮔᮺ ᮟᮞ ᮧᮘᮙᮓᮘ ᮤᮘᮢᮕᮕ ᮜᮑᮢᮗᮕ ᮓᮘᮑᮢᮑᮓᮤᮕᮢᮣᮺ ᮵ᯒᮙᮣᮣᮕᮓᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮂᮟᮟᮝᮺ᮵ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮧᮢᮙᮤᮤᮕᮞ ᮙᮞ ᮑᮞ ᮥᮞᮛᮞᮟᮧᮞ ᮢᮕᮔ ᮜᮙᮡᮥᮙᮔᮯ

“ᮄᮘᮕ ᯓᮕᮢᮙᮕ ᮂᮕᮑᮜᮝᮯ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮑᮞᮔ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮒᮟᮤᮘ ᮒᮜᮥᮢᮤᮕᮔ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮑᮜᮝᮟᮣᮤ ᮣᮙᮝᮥᮜᮤᮑᮞᮕᮟᮥᮣᮜᮩᮼ

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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