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

Chapter 67

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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“ᮄᮘᮑᮤ’ᮣ ᮧᮘᮩ ᯗ ᮤᮟᮜᮔ ᮩᮟᮥᮺ ᮧᮘᮕᮞ ᮖᮙᮗᮘᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮗᮘᮟᮣᮤᮣᮺ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮣᮘᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮑᮙᮝ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮤᮘᮕᮙᮢ ᮦᮙᮤᮑᮜ ᮠᮟᮙᮞᮤᮣᮼ ᯝᮞᮕ ᮣᮤᮢᮙᮛᮕ ᮓᮑᮞ ᮣᮓᮑᮤᮤᮕᮢ ᮤᮘᮕᮙᮢ ᮣᮟᮥᮜᮣᮼ”

ᯑᮘᮥ ᯏᮞᮞᮙᮑᮞ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮟᮢᮙᮗᮙᮞᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮙᮞᮤᮕᮞᮔᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮓᮘᮕᮓᮛ ᮧᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮗᮢᮑᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮣᮤᮕᮕᮜ ᮠᮙᮠᮕ ᮣᮟᮥᮞᮔ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮓᮟᮝᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮢᮟᮝᮺ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮚᮥᮣᮤ ᮑᮣ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮢᮕᮑᮓᮘᮕᮔ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮤᮑᮙᮢᮧᮕᮜᮜᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮘᮕᮑᮢᮔ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ’ᮣ ᮖᮑᮝᮙᮜᮙᮑᮢ ᮦᮟᮙᮓᮕᮼ

ᯑᮘᮥ ᯏᮞᮞᮙᮑᮞ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮟᮦᮕᮢᮚᮟᮩᮕᮔᮼ ᮄᮘᮕ ᮣᮟᮥᮢᮓᮕ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮦᮟᮙᮓᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮢᮙᮗᮘᮤ ᮔᮟᮧᮞᮣᮤᮑᮙᮢᮣ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮘᮕᮢᮼ ᮃᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮠᮜᮕᮑᮣᮑᮞᮤᮜᮩ ᮣᮥᮢᮠᮢᮙᮣᮕᮔ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮧᮑᮞᮤᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮢᮥᮣᮘ ᮔᮟᮧᮞ ᮤᮟ ᮓᮘᮕᮓᮛ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮙᮤᮥᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞᮼ

ᯐᮥᮤ ᮒᮕᮖᮟᮢᮕ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮖᮟᮟᮤᮺ ᮓᮜᮑᮔ ᮙᮞ ᮣᮜᮕᮞᮔᮕᮢ ᮘᮙᮗᮘ ᮘᮕᮕᮜᮣᮺ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮜᮙᮖᮤᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ’ᮤ ᮘᮕᮜᮠ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮠᮥᮜᮜ ᮙᮤ ᮒᮑᮓᮛᮼᮼᮼ

ᮃᮘᮕ ᮣᮥᮔᮔᮕᮞᮜᮩ ᮢᮕᮝᮕᮝᮒᮕᮢᮕᮔ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯓᮕᮢᮙᮕ ᮂᮕᮑᮜᮝ ᮟᮖᮤᮕᮞ ᮥᮣᮕᮔ ᮝᮑᮞᮩ ᮝᮕᮤᮘᮟᮔᮣ ᮤᮟ ᮜᮥᮢᮕ ᮠᮕᮟᮠᮜᮕ ᮙᮞᮤᮟ ᮙᮤᮼ

ᮄᮘᮕ ᮝᮟᮣᮤ ᮓᮟᮝᮝᮟᮞ ᮝᮕᮤᮘᮟᮔ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮤᮟ ᮙᮝᮙᮤᮑᮤᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮦᮟᮙᮓᮕᮣ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮠᮕᮟᮠᮜᮕ ᮤᮘᮕᮩ ᮓᮑᮢᮕᮔ ᮑᮒᮟᮥᮤ ᮝᮟᮣᮤ ᮤᮟ ᮑᮤᮤᮢᮑᮓᮤ ᮤᮘᮕᮝᮼ

ᮄᮘᮙᮣ ᮙᮣ ᮑᮜᮣᮟ ᮧᮘᮩ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮑᮢᮕ ᮑᮜᮧᮑᮩᮣ ᮖᮟᮜᮛ ᮜᮕᮗᮕᮞᮔᮣ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮧᮘᮕᮞ ᮧᮑᮜᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮤ ᮞᮙᮗᮘᮤᮺ ᮕᮣᮠᮕᮓᮙᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮙᮞ ᮢᮕᮝᮟᮤᮕ ᮠᮜᮑᮓᮕᮣᮺ ᮙᮖ ᮣᮟᮝᮕᮟᮞᮕ ᮓᮑᮜᮜᮣ ᮩᮟᮥᮢ ᮞᮑᮝᮕᮺ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮝᮥᮣᮤ ᮞᮕᮦᮕᮢ ᮤᮥᮢᮞ ᮒᮑᮓᮛ ᮓᮑᮣᮥᮑᮜᮜᮩᮼ

ᯑᮘᮥ ᯏᮞᮞᮙᮑᮞ ᮧᮟᮞᮔᮕᮢᮕᮔ ᮙᮖ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮟᮥᮞᮔ ᮟᮖ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ’ᮣ ᮦᮟᮙᮓᮕ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮘᮕᮑᮢᮔ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑᮞᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢ ᮤᮢᮙᮓᮛ ᮒᮩ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯓᮕᮢᮙᮕ ᮂᮕᮑᮜᮝ ᮤᮟ ᮔᮢᮑᮧ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮓᮜᮟᮣᮕᮢᯍ

ᯛᮟᮢᮕᮟᮦᮕᮢᮺ ᮑᮣ ᯑᮘᮥ ᯏᮞᮞᮙᮑᮞ ᮜᮙᮣᮤᮕᮞᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ’ᮣ ᮦᮟᮙᮓᮕᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮖᮕᮜᮤ ᮣᮟᮝᮕᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮟᮖᮖᯉ ᮙᮤ ᮣᮕᮕᮝᮕᮔ ᮑ ᮜᮙᮤᮤᮜᮕ ᮔᮙᮖᮖᮕᮢᮕᮞᮤ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮥᮣᮥᮑᮜ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞᮼᮼᮼ

ᯗᮤ ᮣᮕᮕᮝᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮓᮑᮢᮢᮩ ᮑ ᮘᮙᮞᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮣᮘᮑᮢᮠᮞᮕᮣᮣᮼ ᮄᮘᮙᮣ ᮤᮟᮞᮕ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮠᮜᮑᮩᮖᮥᮜ ᮝᮑᮞᮞᮕᮢ ᮙᮞᮕᮨᮠᮜᮙᮓᮑᮒᮜᮩ ᮢᮕᮝᮙᮞᮔᮕᮔ ᯑᮘᮥ ᯏᮞᮞᮙᮑᮞ ᮟᮖᮼᮼᮼ ᯘᮟᮥᮢᮞᮕᮩ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮇᮕᮣᮤᯍ

“ᯗ’ᮦᮕ ᮤᮑᮥᮗᮘᮤ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮣᮟ ᮝᮥᮓᮘᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮙᮤ’ᮣ ᮢᮑᮢᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮜᮕᮑᮢᮞ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮠᮢᮑᮓᮤᮙᮓᮕ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮑᮝᮕ ᮤᮙᮝᮕᮼ ᯝᮞᮓᮕ ᮩᮟᮥ’ᮦᮕ ᮜᮕᮑᮢᮞᮕᮔᮺ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮝᮥᮣᮤ ᮠᮢᮟᮤᮕᮓᮤ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮗᮙᮢᮜ ᮧᮕᮜᮜᮺ ᮥᮞᮔᮕᮢᮣᮤᮑᮞᮔᯍ”

“ᯗ ᮥᮞᮔᮕᮢᮣᮤᮑᮞᮔᮺ ᯕᮢᮕᮑᮤ ᮃᮑᮗᮕᮼ”

ᯘᮥᮣᮤ ᮑᮣ ᯑᮘᮥ ᯏᮞᮞᮙᮑᮞ ᮘᮕᮣᮙᮤᮑᮤᮕᮔᮺ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ’ᮣ ᮦᮟᮙᮓᮕ ᮓᮑᮝᮕ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮤᮑᮙᮢᮧᮕᮜᮜ ᮑᮗᮑᮙᮞᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮤᮙᮝᮕᮺ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ’ᮣ ᮦᮟᮙᮓᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑᮜᮣᮟ ᮘᮕᮑᮢᮔᮼ

“ᮆᮕᮢᮩ ᮗᮟᮟᮔᮺ ᮦᮕᮢᮩ ᮗᮟᮟᮔᮼ ᮄᮕᮜᮜ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮗᮙᮢᮜ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕ’ᮣ ᮞᮟ ᮞᮕᮕᮔ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮗᮙᮖᮤᮣᮼ ᯝᮜᮔ ᮃᮥᮞ ᮜᮑᮓᮛᮣ ᮞᮟᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗᮼ”

“ᯗᮖ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮕᮞᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤᮕᮢᮣ ᮤᮢᮟᮥᮒᮜᮕ ᮑᮗᮑᮙᮞ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮖᮥᮤᮥᮢᮕᮺ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕ’ᮣ ᮞᮟ ᮞᮕᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮔᮢᮑᮧ ᮤᮑᮜᮙᮣᮝᮑᮞᮣᮼ ᯘᮥᮣᮤ ᮘᮟᮜᮔ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮘᮑᮙᮢ ᮙᮞ ᮩᮟᮥᮢ ᮘᮑᮞᮔᮺ ᮓᮜᮕᮞᮓᮘ ᮩᮟᮥᮢ ᮖᮙᮣᮤᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮣᮘᮟᮥᮤ ‘ᯕᮢᮕᮑᮤ ᮃᮑᮗᮕ ᯓᮡᮥᮑᮜ ᮤᮟ ᯖᮕᮑᮦᮕᮞᮺ’ ᮑᮞᮔ ᯗ ᮧᮙᮜᮜ ᮑᮠᮠᮕᮑᮢ ᮤᮟ ᮜᮕᮞᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮑ ᮘᮑᮞᮔᮼ”

“ᮄᮘᮙᮣ ᮩᮟᮥᮞᮗ ᮜᮑᮔᮩ ᮞᮕᮕᮔᮣ ᮩᮟᮥᮢ ᮓᮑᮢᮕ ᮟᮖᮤᮕᮞᮼ ᯗ’ᮜᮜ ᮤᮑᮛᮕ ᮝᮩ ᮜᮕᮑᮦᮕ ᮞᮟᮧᮺ ᮖᮑᮢᮕᮧᮕᮜᮜᮯ”

“ᯔᮑᮢᮕᮧᮕᮜᮜᮺ ᯕᮢᮕᮑᮤ ᮃᮑᮗᮕᮼ”

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮧᮙᮠᮕᮔ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮜᮔ ᮣᮧᮕᮑᮤ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮖᮟᮢᮕᮘᮕᮑᮔᮼ ᯏᮖᮤᮕᮢ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮖᮙᮞᮙᮣᮘᮕᮔ ᮣᮠᮕᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗᮺ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮑᮜᮢᮕᮑᮔᮩ ᮣᮜᮥᮝᮠᮕᮔ ᮣᮟᮖᮤᮜᮩ ᮙᮞᮤᮟ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮑᮢᮝᮣᮼ

ᯑᮟᮝᮠᮑᮢᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮞᮕᮢᮦᮟᮥᮣ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙᮺ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ’ᮣ ᮓᮟᮞᮔᮙᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮓᮜᮕᮑᮢᮜᮩ ᮝᮥᮓᮘ ᮧᮟᮢᮣᮕᮼ ᯖᮕᮢ ᮔᮕᮜᮙᮓᮑᮤᮕ ᮜᮙᮤᮤᮜᮕ ᮖᮑᮓᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮔᮕᮑᮤᮘᮜᮩ ᮠᮑᮜᮕᮺ ᮝᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮟᮞᮕ ᮙᮞᮕᮨᮠᮜᮙᮓᮑᮒᮜᮩ ᮖᮕᮕᮜ ᮠᮙᮤᮩᮼ

ᯔᮟᮢᮤᮥᮞᮑᮤᮕᮜᮩᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮟᮒᮦᮙᮟᮥᮣ ᮔᮕᮑᮤᮘᮜᮩ ᮑᮠᮠᮕᮑᮢᮑᮞᮓᮕ ᮟᮞ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮖᮑᮓᮕ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮔᮙᮣᮑᮠᮠᮕᮑᮢᮕᮔᮼᮼᮼ

ᯗᮞᮔᮕᮕᮔᮺ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮟᮞᮕ ᮝᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮞ ᮑᮠᮠᮕᮑᮢᮑᮞᮓᮕᮺ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮝᮟᮣᮤ ᮣᮕᮦᮕᮢᮕ ᮔᮕᮑᮤᮘᮜᮩ ᮑᮠᮠᮕᮑᮢᮑᮞᮓᮕ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮒᮕ ᮢᮕᮣᮟᮜᮦᮕᮔᮼ

ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮑᮤ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮙᮞ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮑᮢᮝᮣᮺ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮕᮝᮟᮤᮙᮟᮞᮣ ᮙᮞᮓᮢᮕᮔᮙᮒᮜᮩ ᮓᮟᮝᮠᮜᮕᮨ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮝᮟᮝᮕᮞᮤᮼ

ᮇᮘᮑᮤ ᮣᮥᮢᮠᮢᮙᮣᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮧᮑᮣᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮚᮥᮣᮤ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮣᮙᮝᮠᮜᮩ ᮙᮞᮦᮙᮤᮕᮔ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯕᮢᮕᮑᮤ ᮃᮑᮗᮕᮺ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮢᮑᮤᮘᮕᮢ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯕᮢᮕᮑᮤ ᮃᮑᮗᮕ᮵ᮣ ᮑᮤᮤᮙᮤᮥᮔᮕᮼ

ᯗᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮩᮕᮣ ᮟᮖ ᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢᮣᮺ ᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮟᮖᮤᮕᮞ ᮛᮞᮟᮧᮞ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮘᮙᮣ ᮥᮞᮢᮕᮣᮤᮢᮑᮙᮞᮕᮔ ᮞᮑᮤᮥᮢᮕᮺ ᮩᮕᮤ ᮘᮙᮣ ᮑᮤᮤᮙᮤᮥᮔᮕ ᮤᮟᮧᮑᮢᮔᮣ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮘᮕᮜᮔ ᮑᮞ ᮙᮞᮕᮨᮠᮜᮙᮓᮑᮒᮜᮕ ᮔᮟᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮖᮖᮕᮓᮤᮙᮟᮞᮼ

ᯗᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑᮣ ᮙᮖ ᮑᮞ ᮕᮜᮔᮕᮢ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕᮙᮢ ᮝᮟᮣᮤ ᮒᮕᮜᮟᮦᮕᮔ ᮚᮥᮞᮙᮟᮢᮺ ᮧᮙᮣᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕᮩ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮠᮥᮜᮜ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮤᮘᮕᮙᮢ ᮘᮕᮑᮢᮤ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮗᮙᮦᮕ ᮙᮤ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮕᮢᮼ

ᯛᮟᮢᮕᮟᮦᮕᮢᮺ ᮣᮕᮕᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮗᮟᮜᮔᮕᮞ ᮘᮑᮙᮢ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮑᮠᮠᮕᮑᮢᮕᮔ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮞᮟᮧᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮙᮞ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ’ᮣ ᮘᮑᮞᮔᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮑᮜᮣᮟ ᮥᮞᮔᮕᮢᮣᮤᮟᮟᮔ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯕᮢᮕᮑᮤ ᮃᮑᮗᮕ’ᮣ ᮙᮞᮤᮕᮞᮤᮙᮟᮞᮼ

ᯓᮑᮢᮜᮙᮕᮢᮺ ᮧᮘᮕᮞ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮣᮥᮝᮝᮟᮞᮙᮞᮗ ᮔᮕᮙᮤᮙᮕᮣᮺ ᯕᮕᮞᮕᮢᮑᮜ ᮃᮥᮞ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮑᮜᮣᮟ ᮝᮕᮞᮤᮙᮟᮞᮕᮔ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮔᮕᮙᮤᮩ ᮧᮘᮟ ᮧᮑᮞᮤᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮒᮕ ᮣᮥᮝᮝᮟᮞᮕᮔ ᮒᮩ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞᯉ ᮘᮕ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮖᮟᮥᮗᮘᮤ ᮤᮟᮟᮤᮘ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮞᮑᮙᮜ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮘᮙᮣ ᮤᮥᮢᮞᮼ

ᯗᮖ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮑᮣᮕᮺ ᮤᮘᮕᮞ ᮔᮙᮔ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᯕᮢᮕᮑᮤ ᮃᮑᮗᮕ ᮑᮜᮣᮟ ᮖᮙᮗᮘᮤ ᮤᮟᮟᮤᮘ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮞᮑᮙᮜ ᮤᮟ ᮗᮕᮤ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮟᮠᮠᮟᮢᮤᮥᮞᮙᮤᮩᯍ

ᯏᮣ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮞᮟᮤ ᮜᮕᮤᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮔᮢᮑᮧ ᮤᮑᮜᮙᮣᮝᮑᮞᮣ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮙᮞᮣᮤᮕᮑᮔ ᮥᮣᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮘᮑᮙᮢᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮙᮞᮤᮕᮞᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮓᮜᮕᮑᮢᮕᮢᮼᮼᮼ

ᮇᮙᮤᮘ ᮤᮑᮜᮙᮣᮝᮑᮞᮣᮺ ᮑᮜᮜ ᮔᮕᮙᮤᮙᮕᮣ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮢᮕᮓᮕᮙᮦᮕ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮑᮜᮜ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮖᮙᮗᮘᮤ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮕᮜᮠ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞᮺ ᮝᮑᮛᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮝᮠᮕᮤᮙᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮤᮟᮟ ᮙᮞᮤᮕᮞᮣᮕᮼ

ᯐᮥᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮘᮑᮙᮢ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮔᮙᮖᮖᮕᮢᮕᮞᮤᯉ ᮙᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑ ᮟᮞᮕᮻᮧᮑᮩ ᮓᮘᮑᮞᮞᮕᮜ ᮤᮟ ᮓᮟᮞᮤᮑᮓᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯕᮢᮕᮑᮤ ᮃᮑᮗᮕᮺ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮞᮟ ᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢ ᮔᮕᮙᮤᮙᮕᮣ ᮤᮟ ᮓᮟᮝᮠᮕᮤᮕᮼ

ᯗᮤ ᮣᮕᮕᮝᮣ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᯕᮢᮕᮑᮤ ᮃᮑᮗᮕ ᮑᮜᮣᮟ ᮘᮑᮣ ᮘᮙᮣ ᮟᮧᮞ ᮜᮙᮤᮤᮜᮕ ᮣᮓᮘᮕᮝᮕᮣᮼᮼᮼ

“ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞᯍ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙᯍ ᮉᮟᮥ’ᮢᮕ ᮣᮤᮙᮜᮜ ᮑᮜᮙᮦᮕᯍ”

ᯑᮘᮥ ᯏᮞᮞᮙᮑᮞ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮠᮢᮕᮠᮑᮢᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢᮣᮕᮜᮖ ᮝᮕᮞᮤᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮖᮙᮞᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮔᮕᮓᮙᮔᮕᮔ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮞᮟ ᮝᮑᮤᮤᮕᮢ ᮙᮖ ᮙᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑ ᮔᮢᮑᮗᮟᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮠᮟᮞᮔ ᮟᮢ ᮑ ᮤᮙᮗᮕᮢ᮵ᮣ ᮔᮕᮞᮺ ᮖᮟᮢ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮣᮑᮛᮕᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮒᮢᮑᮦᮕ ᮙᮤᮼ

ᯐᮥᮤ ᮒᮕᮖᮟᮢᮕ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮗᮟ ᮔᮟᮧᮞᮣᮤᮑᮙᮢᮣᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮖᮟᮥᮞᮔ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮧᮕᮑᮛᮜᮩ ᮜᮩᮙᮞᮗ ᮙᮞ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ’ᮣ ᮑᮢᮝᮣ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮤᮑᮙᮢᮧᮕᮜᮜ ᮒᮕᮤᮧᮕᮕᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮕᮞᮤᮘ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮞᮙᮞᮤᮘ ᮖᮜᮟᮟᮢᮣᮼ ᯏᮜᮤᮘᮟᮥᮗᮘ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮝᮙᮣᮕᮢᮑᮒᮜᮕᮺ ᮑᮤ ᮜᮕᮑᮣᮤ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮜᮙᮖᮕ ᮧᮑᮣᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮙᮞ ᮔᮑᮞᮗᮕᮢᮼ

ᯐᮕᮣᮙᮔᮕ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞᮺ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑ ᮒᮥᮜᮗᮙᮞᮗ ᮒᮥᮢᮜᮑᮠ ᮣᮑᮓᮛᮺ ᮑ ᮣᮤᮕᮕᮜ ᮠᮙᮠᮕ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮒᮕᮕᮞ ᮖᮟᮢᮓᮙᮒᮜᮩ ᮤᮟᮢᮞ ᮑᮠᮑᮢᮤᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮑ ᮣᮕᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮞᮕᮕᮔᮜᮕᮣ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮢᮕᮑᮔ ᮕᮝᮙᮤᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮑ ᮖᮑᮙᮞᮤ ᮗᮜᮟᮧᮼ

ᯑᮘᮥ ᯏᮞᮞᮙᮑᮞ’ᮣ ᮕᮩᮕᮣ ᮙᮝᮝᮕᮔᮙᮑᮤᮕᮜᮩ ᮧᮙᮔᮕᮞᮕᮔ ᮑᮣ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮞᮕᮕᮔᮜᮕᮣ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮢᮕᮑᮔᮼ

“ᮄᮘᮕ ᮕᮕᮢᮙᮕ ᮟᮒᮚᮕᮓᮤ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯚᮙᮠ ᮃᮥᮤᮥᮢᮙᮞᮗ ᮘᮟᮣᮠᮙᮤᮑᮜᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯕᮘᮟᮣᮤ ᯖᮑᮞᮔ ᯕᮟᮜᮔᮕᮞ ᯜᮕᮕᮔᮜᮕᮯᯍ”

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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