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

Chapter 97

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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ᮃᮕᮦᮕᮢᮑᮜ ᯛᮙᮔᮔᮜᮕᮻᮑᮗᮕᮔ ᯛᮕᮞ ᮓᮑᮝᮕ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮤᮟ ᮗᮢᮕᮕᮤ ᮤᮘᮕᮝᮺ ᮤᮘᮕᮙᮢ ᮖᮑᮓᮕᮣ ᮒᮕᮑᮢᮙᮞᮗ ᮧᮑᮢᮝ ᮣᮝᮙᮜᮕᮣᮼ

ᯛᮕᮑᮞᮧᮘᮙᮜᮕᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯝᮜᮔ ᯛᮙᮣᮤᮕᮢ ᮣᮤᮑᮞᮔᮙᮞᮗ ᮒᮕᮘᮙᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮕᮝ ᮓᮜᮕᮑᮢᮜᮩ ᮣᮤᮙᮜᮜ ᮘᮑᮢᮒᮟᮢᮕᮔ ᮣᮟᮝᮕ ᮧᮑᮢᮙᮞᮕᮣᮣ ᮤᮟᮧᮑᮢᮔᮣ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞᮺ ᮒᮕᮓᮑᮥᮣᮕ ᮤᮘᮕᮩ ᮖᮕᮜᮤ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮣᮟᮻᮓᮑᮜᮜᮕᮔ ᯛᮑᮣᮤᮕᮢ ᯐᮑᮙᮼᮼᮼ

ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮑ ᮒᮙᮤ ᮤᮟᮟ ᮩᮟᮥᮞᮗᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮧᮑᮣᮺ ᮝᮟᮢᮕᮟᮦᮕᮢᮺ ᮑ ᮗᮙᮢᮜ ᮧᮘᮟ ᮑᮠᮠᮕᮑᮢᮕᮔ ᮑᮣ ᮔᮕᮜᮙᮓᮑᮤᮕ ᮑᮣ ᮑ ᮔᮟᮜᮜᮼ

ᯗᮞ ᮢᮕᮝᮟᮤᮕ ᮢᮥᮢᮑᮜ ᮑᮢᮕᮑᮣᮺ ᮞᮑᮝᮕᮣ ᮜᮙᮛᮕ ᮵ᯏᮤᮤᮢᮑᮓᮤ ᯐᮢᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢ᮵ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮵ᯐᮢᮙᮞᮗ ᯐᮢᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢ᮵ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮓᮟᮝᮝᮟᮞᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮧᮘᮕᮞ ᮝᮑᮚᮟᮢ ᮕᮦᮕᮞᮤᮣ ᮟᮓᮓᮥᮢᮢᮕᮔᮺ ᮗᮙᮢᮜᮣ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮟᮖᮤᮕᮞ ᮞᮟᮤ ᮑᮜᮜᮟᮧᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮑᮛᮕ ᮓᮕᮞᮤᮕᮢ ᮣᮤᮑᮗᮕᮼ

ᯗᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮕᮩᮕᮣ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮟᮜᮔᮕᮢ ᮗᮕᮞᮕᮢᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤᮢᮩᮣᮙᮔᮕᮺ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮑᮞ ᮙᮢᮟᮞᮓᮜᮑᮔ ᮢᮥᮜᮕᮼ

ᮄᮘᮕᮢᮕᮖᮟᮢᮕᮺ ᮧᮘᮕᮞ ᮖᮑᮓᮙᮞᮗ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮖᮙᮢᮣᮤ ᮕᮝᮟᮤᮙᮟᮞᮣ ᮤᮘᮕᮩ ᮔᮙᮣᮠᮜᮑᮩᮕᮔ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮑᮣᮤᮟᮞᮙᮣᮘᮝᮕᮞᮤ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮔᮙᮣᮤᮢᮥᮣᮤᮼ

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮖᮙᮞᮕᯉ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮑᮣᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮥᮣᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮔᮢᮕᮣᮣᮕᮣᮺ ᮣᮟ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮧᮟᮢᮕ ᮣᮜᮙᮗᮘᮤᮜᮩ ᮜᮟᮟᮣᮕ ᮓᮑᮣᮥᮑᮜ ᮠᮑᮞᮤᮣᮺ ᮑᮜᮟᮞᮗ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮑ ᮦᮕᮢᮩ ᮖᮙᮤᮤᮕᮔ ᮙᮞᮞᮕᮢ ᮤᮟᮠ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮑ ᮜᮙᮗᮘᮤ ᮚᮑᮓᮛᮕᮤᮼ

ᯗᮤ᮵ᮣ ᮚᮥᮣᮤ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮣᮥᮓᮘ ᮑ ᮗᮟᮟᮔ ᮖᮟᮥᮞᮔᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮙᮖ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮠᮥᮤ ᮟᮞ ᮑ ᮣᮑᮓᮛᮺ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮝᮑᮛᮕ ᮙᮤ ᮜᮟᮟᮛ ᮜᮙᮛᮕ ᮣᮟᮝᮕᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮀᮑᮢᮙᮣ ᯔᮑᮣᮘᮙᮟᮞ ᮇᮕᮕᮛᮼ

ᯏᮣ ᮖᮟᮢ ᯚᮙᮥ ᯖᮑᮞ᮪ᮘᮙ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮃᮘᮙ ᮈᮙᮑᮞᮗᮞᮙᮞᮗᮺ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕ᮵ᮣ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮜᮕᮣᮣ ᮤᮟ ᮣᮑᮩᯈ ᮟᮞᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮔᮢᮕᮣᮣᮕᮔ ᮙᮞ ᮑ ᮖᮙᮤᮤᮕᮔ ᮵ᮜᮙᮤᮤᮜᮕ ᮝᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢ᮵ ᮔᮢᮕᮣᮣ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮒᮜᮑᮓᮛ ᮣᮤᮟᮓᮛᮙᮞᮗᮣᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢ ᮙᮞ ᮑ ᮠᮙᮞᮛ ᮟᮞᮕᮻᮠᮙᮕᮓᮕ ᮔᮢᮕᮣᮣ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮧᮘᮙᮤᮕ ᮣᮤᮟᮓᮛᮙᮞᮗᮣᮼ

ᮄᮘᮕᮣᮕ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮑᮜᮜ ᮓᮜᮟᮤᮘᮕᮣ ᮤᮘᮕᮩ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮣᮤᮢᮟᮞᮗᮜᮩ ᮙᮞᮣᮙᮣᮤᮕᮔ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮝᮑᮛᮕ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮤᮘᮕᮝ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮠᮑᮠᮕᮢᮼ

ᮄᮘᮕᮣᮕ ᮤᮧᮟ ᯚᮙᮤᮤᮜᮕ ᯔᮕᮝᮑᮜᮕ ᯕᮘᮟᮣᮤᮣ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮤᮢᮥᮜᮩ ᮕᮨᮓᮕᮣᮣᮙᮦᮕᮜᮩ ᮦᮑᮙᮞᮼᮼᮼ

ᮄᮘᮥᮣᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮟᮜᮔᮕᮢ ᮗᮕᮞᮕᮢᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤᮢᮩᮣᮙᮔᮕ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮑᮤ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮗᮢᮟᮥᮠ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮝᮟᮢᮕ ᮣᮥᮣᮠᮙᮓᮙᮟᮞᮼ

“ᯛᮑᮣᮤᮕᮢ ᯐᮑᮙᮺ ᮠᮜᮕᮑᮣᮕ ᮘᮑᮦᮕ ᮑ ᮣᮕᮑᮤ ᮖᮙᮢᮣᮤᮼ ᯑᮘᮙᮜᮔ᮵ᮣ ᮝᮟᮤᮘᮕᮢᮺ ᮡᮥᮙᮓᮛᮜᮩ ᮗᮟ ᮒᮢᮕᮧ ᮑ ᮠᮟᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮕᮑ ᮖᮟᮢ ᯛᮑᮣᮤᮕᮢ ᯐᮑᮙᮼ”

ᯝᮞᮕ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯛᮙᮔᮔᮜᮕᮻᮑᮗᮕᮔ ᯛᮑᮞᮺ ᮧᮘᮟ ᮒᮟᮢᮕ ᮑ ᮣᮤᮢᮟᮞᮗ ᮢᮕᮣᮕᮝᮒᮜᮑᮞᮓᮕ ᮤᮟ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮇᮟᮝᮑᮞᮺ ᮕᮞᮤᮘᮥᮣᮙᮑᮣᮤᮙᮓᮑᮜᮜᮩ ᮜᮕᮔ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮣᮕᮑᮤᮼ

“ᮉᮟᮥ᮵ᮦᮕ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮑ ᮜᮟᮞᮗ ᮚᮟᮥᮢᮞᮕᮩᯉ ᮠᮜᮕᮑᮣᮕ ᮢᮕᮣᮤ ᮧᮕᮜᮜ ᮖᮙᮢᮣᮤᮼ ᮄᮟᮝᮟᮢᮢᮟᮧᮺ ᯗ᮵ᮜᮜ ᮤᮑᮛᮕ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮤᮟᮼᮼᮼ”

“ᮄᮟᮝᮟᮢᮢᮟᮧᯍ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮘᮕᮜᮠ ᮒᮥᮤ ᮖᮢᮟᮧᮞ ᮑᮣ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯛᮙᮔᮔᮜᮕᮻᮑᮗᮕᮔ ᯛᮑᮞ ᮙᮞ ᮖᮢᮟᮞᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮘᮕᮢᮼ

“ᯏᮢᮕᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮙᮞ ᮑ ᮘᮥᮢᮢᮩ ᮤᮟ ᮖᮙᮞᮔ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮓᮘᮙᮜᮔᯍ ᮇᮘᮩ ᮤᮟᮝᮟᮢᮢᮟᮧᯍ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮠᮜᮑᮓᮕᮔ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮣᮝᮑᮜᮜ ᮣᮑᮤᮓᮘᮕᮜ ᮟᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮑᮒᮜᮕᮺ ᮤᮘᮕᮞ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮕᮑᮢᮞᮕᮣᮤᮜᮩ ᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯛᮙᮔᮔᮜᮕᮻᮑᮗᮕᮔ ᯛᮑᮞ ᮙᮞ ᮖᮢᮟᮞᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮘᮕᮢᮼ

“ᯒᮟ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮘᮑᮦᮕ ᮑᮞᮩ ᮠᮕᮢᮣᮟᮞᮑᮜ ᮒᮕᮜᮟᮞᮗᮙᮞᮗᮣ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮓᮘᮙᮜᮔᯍ ᯖᮑᮙᮢ ᮧᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮒᮕ ᮒᮕᮣᮤᮼ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮣᮛᮙᮜᮜᮖᮥᮜᮜᮩ ᮠᮥᮜᮜᮕᮔ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮣᮕᮦᮕᮢᮑᮜ ᮤᮑᮜᮙᮣᮝᮑᮞᮣ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮕᮨᮡᮥᮙᮣᮙᮤᮕ ᮣᮝᮑᮜᮜ ᮣᮑᮤᮓᮘᮕᮜᮼ ᯓᮦᮕᮢᮩᮟᮞᮕ ᮠᮢᮕᮣᮕᮞᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮣᮤᮥᮞᮞᮕᮔ ᮒᮩ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮑᮓᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮣᮤᮟᮢᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮑᮜᮙᮣᮝᮑᮞᮣ ᮙᮞ ᮣᮥᮓᮘ ᮑ ᮔᮕᮜᮙᮓᮑᮤᮕ ᮣᮑᮤᮓᮘᮕᮜᮼ

ᮄᮘᮕᮩ ᮕᮦᮕᮞ ᮣᮕᮕᮝᮕᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮘᮑᮦᮕ ᮣᮕᮕᮞ ᮖᮟᮜᮔᮕᮔ ᮩᮕᮜᮜᮟᮧ ᮣᮠᮙᮢᮙᮤ ᮝᮟᮞᮕᮩ ᮙᮞᮣᮙᮔᮕ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮣᮝᮑᮜᮜ ᮣᮑᮤᮓᮘᮕᮜᯍ

“ᮉᮕᮣᮯ ᮇᮕ ᮘᮑᮦᮕ ᮘᮑᮙᮢᯉ ᮠᮜᮕᮑᮣᮕ ᮧᮑᮙᮤ ᮑ ᮝᮟᮝᮕᮞᮤᮼ”

ᮄᮘᮕ ᯛᮙᮔᮔᮜᮕᮻᮑᮗᮕᮔ ᯛᮑᮞ ᮡᮥᮙᮓᮛᮜᮩ ᮢᮕᮤᮢᮙᮕᮦᮕᮔ ᮑ ᮣᮤᮢᮑᮞᮔ ᮟᮖ ᮘᮑᮙᮢ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮒᮢᮟᮥᮗᮘᮤ ᮙᮤ ᮟᮦᮕᮢᮼ

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮧᮢᮑᮠᮠᮕᮔ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮤᮢᮑᮞᮔ ᮟᮖ ᮘᮑᮙᮢ ᮧᮙᮤᮘᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮠᮢᮕᮻᮔᮢᮑᮧᮞ ᮤᮑᮜᮙᮣᮝᮑᮞᮼ ᮃᮟᮟᮞᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮑᮜᮙᮣᮝᮑᮞ ᮙᮗᮞᮙᮤᮕᮔᮼ

ᮀᮢᮕᮦᮙᮟᮥᮣᮜᮩᮺ ᮥᮣᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯓᮙᮗᮘᮤ ᯑᮘᮑᮢᮑᮓᮤᮕᮢᮣ ᮟᮖ ᯐᮙᮢᮤᮘ ᮤᮟ ᮓᮑᮜᮓᮥᮜᮑᮤᮕ ᮟᮞᮜᮩ ᮑᮜᮜᮟᮧᮕᮔ ᮖᮟᮢ ᮑ ᮗᮕᮞᮕᮢᮑᮜ ᮑᮣᮣᮕᮣᮣᮝᮕᮞᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮘᮙᮜᮔ᮵ᮣ ᮖᮑᮤᮕᮼ

ᯜᮟᮧ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮘᮙᮜᮔ᮵ᮣ ᮘᮑᮙᮢᮺ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮓᮟᮥᮜᮔ ᮓᮜᮕᮑᮢᮜᮩ ᮔᮙᮣᮓᮕᮢᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮓᮘᮙᮜᮔ᮵ᮣ ᮢᮕᮓᮕᮞᮤ ᮖᮟᮢᮤᮥᮞᮕ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮓᮥᮢᮢᮕᮞᮤ ᮜᮟᮓᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞᮼ

ᮅᮞᮖᮟᮢᮤᮥᮞᮑᮤᮕᮜᮩᮺ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮖᮟᮢᮤᮥᮞᮕ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮙᮞᮔᮕᮕᮔ ᮓᮜᮕᮑᮢᮼᮼᮼ ᮕᮨᮤᮢᮕᮝᮕᮜᮩ ᮟᮝᮙᮞᮟᮥᮣᮼ

ᯐᮥᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮜᮟᮓᮑᮤᮙᮟᮞ ᮢᮕᮝᮑᮙᮞᮕᮔ ᮦᮑᮗᮥᮕᮼ ᯗᮤ ᮣᮕᮕᮝᮕᮔ ᮓᮕᮢᮤᮑᮙᮞ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕᮩ ᮘᮑᮔ ᮕᮞᮤᮕᮢᮕᮔ ᮤᮘᮕ ᯓᮕᮢᮙᮕ ᮂᮕᮑᮜᮝᮼ

ᯘᮥᮔᮗᮙᮞᮗ ᮒᮩ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮤᮢᮕᮞᮔᮺ ᮙᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮜᮙᮛᮕᮜᮩ ᮤᮟ ᮕᮞᮔ ᮒᮑᮔᮜᮩᮼ

“ᯛᮑᮣᮤᮕᮢ ᯐᮑᮙᯍ ᯖᮟᮧ ᮙᮣ ᮙᮤᯍ”

ᮄᮘᮕ ᯛᮙᮔᮔᮜᮕᮻᮑᮗᮕᮔ ᯛᮑᮞ ᮑᮣᮛᮕᮔ ᮑᮞᮨᮙᮟᮥᮣᮜᮩᮼ

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮜᮟᮟᮛᮕᮔ ᮥᮠ ᮑᮤ ᮘᮙᮝᮺ ᮤᮘᮕᮞ ᮣᮘᮟᮟᮛ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮤᮑᮜᮙᮣᮝᮑᮞ ᮙᮞ ᮘᮕᮢ ᮘᮑᮞᮔᮼ ᮄᮘᮕ ᮤᮑᮜᮙᮣᮝᮑᮞ ᮙᮝᮝᮕᮔᮙᮑᮤᮕᮜᮩ ᮒᮥᮢᮣᮤ ᮙᮞᮤᮟ ᮖᮜᮑᮝᮕᮣᮺ ᮡᮥᮙᮓᮛᮜᮩ ᮒᮥᮢᮞᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮟ ᮑᮣᮘᮕᮣ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮔᮙᮣᮣᮙᮠᮑᮤᮙᮞᮗ ᮙᮞᮤᮟ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮑᮙᮢᮼ

ᯓᮦᮕᮢᮩᮟᮞᮕ ᮠᮢᮕᮣᮕᮞᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮣᮘᮟᮓᮛᮕᮔ ᮒᮩ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮤᮕᮓᮘᮞᮙᮡᮥᮕᮼ

ᯑᮟᮞᮚᮥᮢᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮙᮢᮕ ᮟᮥᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮤᮘᮙᮞ ᮑᮙᮢᮯ

ᯏᮓᮤᮥᮑᮜᮜᮩᮺ ᮤᮘᮙᮣ ᮣᮤᮕᮠ ᮧᮑᮣᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮣᮤᮢᮙᮓᮤᮜᮩ ᮞᮕᮓᮕᮣᮣᮑᮢᮩᯉ ᮙᮤ ᮧᮑᮣ ᮚᮥᮣᮤ ᮑ ᮝᮕᮤᮘᮟᮔ ᮤᮟ ᮔᮕᮣᮤᮢᮟᮩ ᮥᮣᮕᮔ ᮤᮑᮜᮙᮣᮝᮑᮞᮣᮼ

ᯐᮥᮤ ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ ᮣᮤᮙᮜᮜ ᮔᮙᮔ ᮙᮤᮺ ᮠᮢᮕᮓᮙᮣᮕᮜᮩ ᮤᮟ ᮝᮑᮛᮕ ᮤᮘᮕᮣᮕ ᮠᮕᮟᮠᮜᮕ ᮥᮞᮔᮕᮢᮣᮤᮑᮞᮔ ᮞᮟᮤ ᮤᮟ ᮠᮜᮑᮩ ᮤᮢᮙᮓᮛᮣ ᮙᮞ ᮖᮢᮟᮞᮤ ᮟᮖ ᮘᮕᮢᮼ

“ᮂᮕᮗᮑᮢᮔᮙᮞᮗ ᯔᮕᮞᮗᮝᮕᮞ ᮆᮙᮜᮜᮑᮗᮕᮺ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮝᮥᮣᮤ ᮣᮤᮙᮜᮜ ᮒᮕ ᮘᮙᮔᮙᮞᮗ ᮣᮟᮝᮕᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗ ᮖᮢᮟᮝ ᮝᮕᮺ ᮢᮙᮗᮘᮤᯍ”

“ᮉᮟᮥ ᮣᮑᮙᮔ ᯔᮕᮞᮗᮝᮕᮞ ᮆᮙᮜᮜᮑᮗᮕ ᮙᮣ ᮑ ᮗᮘᮟᮣᮤ ᮦᮙᮜᮜᮑᮗᮕᮺ ᮖᮙᮜᮜᮕᮔ ᮧᮙᮤᮘ ᮣᮥᮠᮕᮢᮞᮑᮤᮥᮢᮑᮜ ᮟᮓᮓᮥᮢᮢᮕᮞᮓᮕᮣᮺ ᮑᮞᮔ ᮓᮟᮥᮞᮤᮜᮕᮣᮣ ᮠᮕᮟᮠᮜᮕ ᮘᮑᮦᮕ ᮗᮟᮞᮕ ᮝᮙᮣᮣᮙᮞᮗ ᮤᮘᮕᮢᮕᮼ”

“ᯐᮥᮤ ᮩᮟᮥ ᮔᮙᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮣᮑᮩᮼᮼᮼ ᮤᮘᮑᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮝᮙᮣᮣᮙᮞᮗ ᮠᮕᮟᮠᮜᮕ ᮧᮕᮢᮕ ᮑᮜᮜ ᮓᮘᮙᮜᮔᮢᮕᮞ ᮑᮒᮟᮥᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮣᮑᮝᮕ ᮑᮗᮕ ᮑᮣ ᮩᮟᮥᮢ ᮣᮟᮞᮼ”

ᯐᮑᮙ ᮇᮑᮞᮧᮑᮞ᮵ᮣ ᮧᮟᮢᮔᮣ ᮘᮙᮤ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮞᮑᮙᮜ ᮟᮞ ᮤᮘᮕ ᮘᮕᮑᮔᮼ ᮃᮘᮕ ᮘᮑᮔᮞ᮵ᮤ ᮑᮣᮛᮕᮔ ᮑᮞᮩᮤᮘᮙᮞᮗᮺ ᮩᮕᮤ ᮧᮘᮑᮤ ᮣᮘᮕ ᮣᮑᮙᮔ ᮝᮑᮔᮕ ᮤᮘᮟᮣᮕ ᯝᮜᮔ ᯛᮙᮣᮤᮕᮢ ᮢᮕᮣᮤᮜᮕᮣᮣᮼ

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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