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

Chapter 54

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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ᯗᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮔᮙᮝ ᮓᮟᮢᮢᮙᮔᮟᮢᮺ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᯜᮥᮢᮣᮕ ᮣᮜᮟᮧᮜᮩ ᮓᮑᮝᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮔᮟᮟᮢ ᮟᮖ ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙ᮵ᮣ ᮩᮟᮥᮞᮗᮕᮢ ᮒᮢᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢ᮵ᮣ ᮘᮟᮣᮠᮙᮤᮑᮜ ᮢᮟᮟᮝᮼ

ᯖᮕᮢ ᮒᮟᮔᮩᮺ ᮘᮙᮔᮔᮕᮞ ᮧᮙᮤᮘᮙᮞ ᮑ ᮓᮜᮕᮑᮢᮜᮩ ᮟᮦᮕᮢᮣᮙ᮪ᮕᮔ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮙᮜᮜᮻᮖᮙᮤᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮞᮥᮢᮣᮕ᮵ᮣ ᮥᮞᮙᮖᮟᮢᮝᮺ ᮣᮕᮕᮝᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮢᮕᮝᮒᮜᮕ ᮣᮜᮙᮗᮘᮤᮜᮩᮼ ᯏ ᮠᮑᮜᮕᮺ ᮣᮤᮙᮖᮖ ᮘᮑᮞᮔᮺ ᮣᮤᮙᮜᮜ ᮒᮕᮑᮢᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮑᮙᮞᮤ ᮝᮑᮢᮛᮣᮺ ᮣᮜᮟᮧᮜᮩ ᮕᮨᮤᮕᮞᮔᮕᮔᮺ ᮢᮕᮑᮓᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮔᮟᮟᮢᮛᮞᮟᮒ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮘᮟᮣᮠᮙᮤᮑᮜ ᮢᮟᮟᮝᮼ

“ᮇᮘᮟ᮵ᮣ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕᯍ”

ᯘᮥᮣᮤ ᮑᮣ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮠᮑᮜᮕ ᮘᮑᮞᮔ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑᮒᮟᮥᮤ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮟᮥᮓᮘ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮔᮟᮟᮢᮛᮞᮟᮒᮺ ᮑ ᮣᮤᮢᮟᮞᮗ ᮒᮕᮑᮝ ᮟᮖ ᮜᮙᮗᮘᮤ ᮣᮥᮔᮔᮕᮞᮜᮩ ᮣᮘᮟᮞᮕ ᮥᮠᮟᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯜᮥᮢᮣᮕᮼ

ᯏᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮑᮜᮜᮺ ᮙᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑ ᮘᮙᮗᮘᮻᮜᮕᮦᮕᮜ ᮧᮑᮢᮔ ᮟᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮟᮠ ᮖᮜᮟᮟᮢᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮒᮕ ᮃᮕᮓᮥᮢᮙᮤᮩ ᯕᮥᮑᮢᮔᮣ ᮟᮞ ᮔᮥᮤᮩ ᮑᮤ ᮞᮙᮗᮘᮤᮼ

ᮇᮘᮑᮤ ᮠᮥ᮪᮪ᮜᮕᮔ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮃᮕᮓᮥᮢᮙᮤᮩ ᯕᮥᮑᮢᮔ ᮧᮑᮣᮼᮼᮼ ᮙᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮢᮑᮢᮕ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮝᮕᮔᮙᮓᮑᮜ ᮣᮤᮑᮖᮖ ᮤᮟ ᮓᮟᮝᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮟᮠ ᮖᮜᮟᮟᮢ ᮑᮤ ᮞᮙᮗᮘᮤᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮞᮟ ᮣᮟᮥᮞᮔ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮜᮕᮦᮑᮤᮟᮢ ᮢᮥᮞᮞᮙᮞᮗᮼ ᯖᮟᮧ ᮔᮙᮔ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᯜᮥᮢᮣᮕ ᮗᮕᮤ ᮥᮠ ᮘᮕᮢᮕᯍ

“ᯜᮥᮢᮣᮕ ᮟᮞ ᮔᮥᮤᮩᯍ ᮇᮘᮩ ᮑᮢᮕᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮣᮠᮕᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗᯍ ᯗ ᮢᮕᮝᮕᮝᮒᮕᮢ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮧᮑᮣᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮑᮞᮩᮟᮞᮕ ᮤᮟᮞᮙᮗᮘᮤᮼᮼᮼ”

ᯐᮕᮖᮟᮢᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮃᮕᮓᮥᮢᮙᮤᮩ ᯕᮥᮑᮢᮔ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮖᮙᮞᮙᮣᮘ ᮣᮠᮕᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯜᮥᮢᮣᮕ ᮣᮜᮟᮧᮜᮩ ᮤᮥᮢᮞᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮘᮕᮑᮔᮼ

ᮃᮘᮕ ᮔᮙᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮣᮜᮟᮧᮜᮩ ᮤᮥᮢᮞ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮞᮕᮓᮛ ᮜᮙᮛᮕ ᮑ ᮞᮟᮢᮝᮑᮜ ᮠᮕᮢᮣᮟᮞᮼ ᯗᮞᮣᮤᮕᮑᮔᮺ ᮜᮙᮛᮕ ᮑ ᮔᮟᮜᮜᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮝᮕᮓᮘᮑᮞᮙᮓᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮣᮘᮙᮖᮤᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮕᮞᮤᮙᮢᮕ ᮖᮑᮓᮕ ᮟᮦᮕᮢᮼ

ᯒᮙᮣᮘᮕᮦᮕᮜᮕᮔ ᮘᮑᮙᮢ ᮟᮒᮣᮓᮥᮢᮕᮔ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯜᮥᮢᮣᮕ᮵ᮣ ᮖᮑᮓᮕᮼ ᮅᮞᮔᮕᮢ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮤᮢᮟᮞᮗ ᮜᮙᮗᮘᮤᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯜᮥᮢᮣᮕ᮵ᮣ ᮠᮑᮜᮕ ᮖᮑᮓᮕ ᮑᮠᮠᮕᮑᮢᮕᮔ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮝᮟᮢᮕ ᮤᮕᮢᮢᮙᮖᮩᮙᮞᮗᮼ

ᯚᮟᮟᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮓᮜᮟᮣᮕᮜᮩᮺ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮕᮩᮕᮣ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮝᮟᮥᮤᮘ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮑᮓᮤᮥᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮣᮕᮧᮞ ᮣᮘᮥᮤ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮤᮘᮢᮕᮑᮔᮯ ᮄᮘᮑᮤ ᮤᮙᮗᮘᮤᮜᮩ ᮣᮤᮙᮤᮓᮘᮕᮔ ᮝᮟᮥᮤᮘ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮞᮟᮧ ᮣᮤᮢᮑᮙᮞᮙᮞᮗ ᮥᮠᮧᮑᮢᮔᮣᮺ ᮢᮕᮦᮕᮑᮜᮙᮞᮗ ᮑ ᮒᮙ᮪ᮑᮢᮢᮕ ᮣᮝᮙᮜᮕᮼ

ᮄᮘᮟᮣᮕ ᮓᮢᮙᮣᮣᮓᮢᮟᮣᮣᮙᮞᮗ ᮣᮤᮙᮤᮓᮘᮕᮣ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮜᮙᮛᮕ ᮤᮕᮢᮢᮙᮖᮩᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮑᮞᮗᮣᮼᮼᮼ

ᮄᮘᮕ ᮞᮕᮨᮤ ᮣᮕᮓᮟᮞᮔᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮖᮜᮑᮣᮘᮜᮙᮗᮘᮤ ᮖᮕᮜᮜ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮗᮢᮟᮥᮞᮔᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮑ ᮣᮓᮢᮕᮑᮝ ᮕᮓᮘᮟᮕᮔ ᮤᮘᮢᮟᮥᮗᮘᮟᮥᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮞᮤᮙᮢᮕ ᮘᮟᮣᮠᮙᮤᮑᮜ ᮒᮥᮙᮜᮔᮙᮞᮗᮼ

ᮄᮘᮕ ᮞᮕᮨᮤ ᮔᮑᮩᮺ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮖᮙᮢᮣᮤ ᮘᮙᮞᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮔᮑᮧᮞᮺ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞᮺ ᮧᮘᮟ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮔᮢᮕᮑᮝᮙᮞᮗ ᮟᮖ ᮣᮜᮕᮕᮠᮙᮞᮗ ᮙᮞ ᮑ ᮓᮑᮞᮔᮩ ᮘᮟᮥᮣᮕ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮣᮝᮕᮜᮜᮕᮔ ᮟᮖ ᮝᮙᮜᮛᮺ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮧᮟᮛᮕᮞ ᮥᮠ ᮒᮩ ᮑ ᮦᮙᮟᮜᮕᮞᮤ ᮣᮘᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗᮼ

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮣᮜᮟᮧᮜᮩ ᮟᮠᮕᮞᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮕᮩᮕᮣᮼ ᮃᮘᮕ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮟᮢᮙᮗᮙᮞᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮧᮑᮞᮤᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮑᮣᮤᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮝᮙᮜᮛᮩ ᮓᮑᮞᮔᮩ ᮘᮟᮥᮣᮕᮺ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮒᮕᮖᮟᮢᮕ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮧᮟᮛᮕᮞ ᮥᮠᮼ

“ᮇᮘᮑᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮗᮟᮙᮞᮗ ᮟᮞᯍ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮑᮤ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮜᮩᮙᮞᮗ ᮒᮕᮣᮙᮔᮕ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮖᮢᮟᮧᮞᮕᮔ ᮥᮞᮘᮑᮠᮠᮙᮜᮩᮼ

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮝᮟᮢᮞᮙᮞᮗ ᮗᮢᮥᮝᮠᮙᮞᮕᮣᮣᮺ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮣᮜᮙᮗᮘᮤᮜᮩ ᮠᮟᮥᮤᮙᮞᮗᮺ ᮑᮞᮗᮢᮩ ᮕᮨᮠᮢᮕᮣᮣᮙᮟᮞᮺ ᮠᮑᮙᮢᮕᮔ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮔᮕᮜᮙᮓᮑᮤᮕ ᮜᮙᮤᮤᮜᮕ ᮖᮑᮓᮕᮺ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮙᮞᮓᮢᮕᮔᮙᮒᮜᮩ ᮓᮥᮤᮕᮼ

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮝᮟᮝᮕᮞᮤᮑᮢᮙᮜᮩ ᮑ ᮜᮙᮤᮤᮜᮕ ᮔᮑ᮪ᮕᮔ ᮒᮩ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮙᮗᮘᮤᮼ

“ᮃᮤᮟᮠ ᮣᮜᮕᮕᮠᮙᮞᮗᮼ ᯗᮖ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮛᮕᮕᮠ ᮣᮜᮕᮕᮠᮙᮞᮗᮺ ᮩᮟᮥᮢ ᮔᮢᮟᮟᮜ ᮧᮙᮜᮜ ᮣᮟᮑᮛ ᮝᮕᮼ ᯛᮩ ᮒᮟᮔᮩ ᮙᮣ ᮝᮑᮔᮕ ᮟᮖ ᮠᮑᮠᮕᮢᮺ ᮑᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮑᮜᮜᮼ ᯗ᮵ᮝ ᮑᮖᮢᮑᮙᮔ ᮟᮖ ᮧᮑᮤᮕᮢᮼ”

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮧᮙᮠᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮓᮘᮕᮣᮤ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮘᮑᮞᮔᮼ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮤᮕᮢ ᮣᮤᮑᮙᮞ ᮟᮞ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮓᮘᮕᮣᮤ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮠᮢᮟᮒᮑᮒᮜᮩ ᮥᮞᮔᮕᮢᮣᮤᮟᮟᮔ ᮧᮘᮩ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮑᮞᮔᮩ ᮘᮟᮥᮣᮕ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮣᮝᮕᮜᮜᮕᮔ ᮟᮖ ᮝᮙᮜᮛᮼ

“ᮄᮘᮕ ᮤᮙᮝᮕ ᮙᮣ ᮚᮥᮣᮤ ᮢᮙᮗᮘᮤ ᮞᮟᮧᮼ ᯚᮕᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮗᮟ ᮦᮙᮣᮙᮤ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮅᮞᮔᮕᮢᮧᮟᮢᮜᮔ ᯓᮝᮙᮣᮣᮑᮢᮩ ᯗ ᮛᮞᮟᮧᮼ ᯗᮖ ᮧᮕ᮵ᮢᮕ ᮜᮥᮓᮛᮩᮺ ᮧᮕ ᮓᮑᮞ ᮖᮙᮞᮑᮜᮙ᮪ᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮔᮕᮜᮙᮦᮕᮢᮩ ᮝᮑᮤᮤᮕᮢ ᮤᮟᮔᮑᮩᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮑᮜᮣᮟ ᮙᮞᮡᮥᮙᮢᮕ ᮑᮒᮟᮥᮤ ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙ᮵ᮣ ᮩᮟᮥᮞᮗᮕᮢ ᮒᮢᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢ᮵ᮣ ᮣᮟᮥᮜᮼ”

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮠᮥᮜᮜᮕᮔ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮒᮕᮔᮼ ᯚᮑᮣᮤ ᮞᮙᮗᮘᮤᮺ ᮤᮘᮕᮩ ᮣᮕᮑᮢᮓᮘᮕᮔ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮣᮟᮥᮜᮣ ᮟᮥᮤᮣᮙᮔᮕ ᮑᮜᮜ ᮞᮙᮗᮘᮤ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮖᮟᮥᮞᮔ ᮞᮟᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗᮼ

ᯖᮟᮧᮕᮦᮕᮢᮺ ᮑᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮟᮞᮕ ᮜᮙᮦᮕᮣᮤᮢᮕᮑᮝᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮙᮠᮣ ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙ ᮗᮑᮦᮕ ᮢᮕᮑᮓᮘᮕᮔ ᮿᯅᮺᮾᮾᮾ ᮩᮥᮑᮞᮺ ᮧᮘᮙᮓᮘ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑ ᮣᮝᮑᮜᮜ ᮠᮢᮟᮖᮙᮤᮼ

ᯏᮜᮤᮘᮟᮥᮗᮘ ᮤᮘᮕᮩ ᮝᮑᮔᮕ ᮑ ᮖᮢᮥᮙᮤᮜᮕᮣᮣ ᮤᮢᮙᮠ ᮜᮑᮣᮤ ᮞᮙᮗᮘᮤᮺ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮑᮞᮔ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮧᮕᮢᮕᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮤᮟᮟ ᮔᮙᮣᮑᮠᮠᮟᮙᮞᮤᮕᮔᮼ

ᯗᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮚᮥᮣᮤ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᯒᮕᮞᮗ ᮃᮘᮥᮡᮙ᮵ᮣ ᮩᮟᮥᮞᮗᮕᮢ ᮒᮢᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢ᮵ᮣ ᮣᮟᮥᮜᮼᮼᮼ ᮙᮣ ᮝᮟᮣᮤ ᮜᮙᮛᮕᮜᮩ ᮙᮞ ᮗᮢᮑᮦᮕ ᮔᮑᮞᮗᮕᮢᮼ

ᯗᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮙᮝᮠᮟᮣᮣᮙᮒᮜᮕ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮤᮘᮕᮝ ᮤᮟ ᮖᮙᮞᮔ ᮙᮤ ᮒᮩ ᮑᮙᮝᮜᮕᮣᮣᮜᮩ ᮣᮕᮑᮢᮓᮘᮙᮞᮗᮼ ᯜᮟᮧ ᮤᮘᮕᮩ ᮓᮑᮞ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮠᮜᮑᮓᮕ ᮤᮘᮕᮙᮢ ᮘᮟᮠᮕᮣ ᮟᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮅᮞᮔᮕᮢᮧᮟᮢᮜᮔ ᯓᮝᮙᮣᮣᮑᮢᮩᮼ

“ᯝᮛᮑᮩᮼᮼᮼ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮗᮢᮟᮗᮗᮙᮜᮩ ᮗᮟᮤ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮒᮕᮔᮼ ᯖᮕᮢ ᮖᮑᮙᮢ ᮖᮕᮕᮤ ᮖᮥᮝᮒᮜᮕᮔ ᮟᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮖᮜᮟᮟᮢ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮑ ᮜᮟᮞᮗ ᮤᮙᮝᮕ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮖᮙᮞᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮒᮥᮞᮞᮩ ᮣᮜᮙᮠᮠᮕᮢᮣᮼ

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮒᮕᮑᮢ ᮤᮟ ᮧᮑᮤᮓᮘ ᮑᮞᮩ ᮜᮟᮞᮗᮕᮢ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮖᮜᮟᮑᮤᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮣᮙᮔᮕᮺ ᮗᮢᮑᮒᮒᮙᮞᮗ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮣᮝᮑᮜᮜ ᮚᮑᮔᮕ ᮖᮕᮕᮤ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮕᮜᮠ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮠᮥᮤ ᮟᮞ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮣᮜᮙᮠᮠᮕᮢᮣᮼ

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮗᮟᮟᮔ ᮙᮞ ᮕᮦᮕᮢᮩ ᮧᮑᮩᮺ ᮕᮨᮓᮕᮠᮤ ᮧᮘᮕᮞ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮣᮜᮕᮕᮠᮻᮔᮕᮠᮢᮙᮦᮕᮔᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮑᮠᮠᮕᮑᮢ ᮔᮑ᮪ᮕᮔᮺ ᮜᮙᮛᮕ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮘᮑᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮖᮥᮜᮜᮩ ᮓᮘᮑᮢᮗᮕᮔᮼ

“ᯏᮢᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗᮣ ᮧᮕ ᮒᮢᮟᮥᮗᮘᮤ ᮢᮕᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮕᮞᮟᮥᮗᮘᯍ”

ᯗᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣᮘᮢᮟᮟᮝᮺ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮑᮤ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮢᮕᮖᮜᮕᮓᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮝᮙᮢᮢᮟᮢᮺ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮘᮑᮙᮢ ᮔᮙᮣᮘᮕᮦᮕᮜᮕᮔ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮑ ᮒᮙᮤ ᮘᮑᮗᮗᮑᮢᮔᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮑᮣᮛᮕᮔ ᮙᮞᮔᮙᮣᮤᮙᮞᮓᮤᮜᮩᮼ

ᯛᮕᮑᮞᮧᮘᮙᮜᮕᮺ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮘᮕᮜᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮤᮟᮟᮤᮘᮒᮢᮥᮣᮘ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮓᮑᮢᮕᮖᮥᮜᮜᮩ ᮒᮢᮥᮣᮘᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮤᮕᮕᮤᮘ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮘᮕᮢᮼ

“ᯜᮟ ᮠᮢᮟᮒᮜᮕᮝᮺ ᮔᮟᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮧᮟᮢᮢᮩᮼ ᮃᮠᮙᮤ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮟᮟᮤᮘᮠᮑᮣᮤᮕ ᮖᮟᮑᮝᮼ ᯑᮟᮝᮕᮺ ᮢᮙᮞᮣᮕ ᮩᮟᮥᮢ ᮝᮟᮥᮤᮘᮼ ᯖᮟᮜᮔ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮩᮟᮥᮢ ᮘᮑᮞᮔᮣᮺ ᯗ᮵ᮜᮜ ᮧᮙᮠᮕ ᮤᮘᮕᮝᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮧᮙᮠᮕ ᮩᮟᮥᮢ ᮖᮑᮓᮕ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮝᮟᮥᮤᮘᮼ”

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮖᮙᮞᮙᮣᮘᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮜᮠᮙᮞᮗ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮧᮑᮣᮘ ᮥᮠ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮤᮙᮔᮙᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮘᮑᮙᮢᮼ ᯖᮕᮢ ᮝᮕᮤᮙᮓᮥᮜᮟᮥᮣ ᮓᮑᮢᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮣᮟ ᮤᮘᮟᮢᮟᮥᮗᮘ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮓᮑᮜᮜᮙᮞᮗ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮑ ᮒᮙᮢᮤᮘ ᮝᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮒᮕ ᮑᮞ ᮕᮨᮑᮗᮗᮕᮢᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞᮼ

“ᯐᮥᮤ ᮧᮕ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮒᮢᮟᮥᮗᮘᮤ ᮑ ᮣᮤᮑᮓᮛ ᮟᮖ ᮖᮟᮜᮔᮕᮔ ᮣᮠᮙᮢᮙᮤ ᮝᮟᮞᮕᮩᮼ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮤᮑᮓᮛ ᮟᮖ ᮣᮠᮙᮢᮙᮤ ᮝᮟᮞᮕᮩ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮒᮜᮑᮓᮛ ᮠᮜᮑᮣᮤᮙᮓ ᮒᮑᮗ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮘᮕᮜᮠ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮖᮕᮕᮜ ᮑ ᮜᮙᮤᮤᮜᮕ ᮧᮟᮢᮢᮙᮕᮔᮼ ᯗᮣ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮅᮞᮔᮕᮢᮧᮟᮢᮜᮔ ᯓᮝᮙᮣᮣᮑᮢᮩ ᮣᮟ ᮕᮑᮣᮩ ᮤᮟ ᮖᮟᮟᮜᯍ

“ᯒᮟᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮧᮟᮢᮢᮩᮺ ᮙᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮕᮞᮟᮥᮗᮘᮼ ᯚᮕᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮜᮕᮑᮦᮕ ᮡᮥᮙᮓᮛᮜᮩᮼ ᮄᮘᮑᮤ ᮠᮜᮑᮓᮕ ᮙᮣ ᮡᮥᮙᮤᮕ ᮖᮑᮢ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮘᮕᮢᮕᮼ ᯗ ᮥᮣᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮣᮕᮤ ᮥᮠ ᮑ ᮣᮤᮑᮜᮜ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮕᮜᮜ ᮖᮟᮢᮤᮥᮞᮕᮣᯉ ᮙᮤ ᮤᮑᮛᮕᮣ ᮑᮞ ᮘᮟᮥᮢ ᮚᮥᮣᮤ ᮤᮟ ᮖᮜᮟᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕᮼ”

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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