Does it sound good? It’s a crisp slap in the face from the female supporting character.

Up until this point, the stakes felt personal — Zhao Xiaoyu vs. Sheng Qianyu, Chen Zhou's quiet devotion, academic rivalries. Then the vice dean walks in and suddenly it's life or death. Like, actual life or death for the Zhao family. The author ramps up the tension so smoothly here. First it's Song Jincheng trying to steal credit — annoying but manageable. Then he produces documents about Qin Fang's spy contact — oh. Now it's political. Now people disappear. Now the whole family could be destroyed. And Sheng Qianyu's calculation in that moment — she doesn't panic, she doesn't run to Zhao Daxiong (who's already under surveillance), she goes to the one person she barely knows because he's the only option left — that's when the stakes become genuinely terrifying. Because she walks into another trap. The vice dean wants her research, not to help her, but to use it as leverage. And she knows it. The internal conflict here is brutal: protect her adoptive family by handing over her life's work, or refuse and watch them suffer? The author doesn't give her an easy out. No deus ex machina. Just a brilliant woman backed into a corner, making the only choice she can. And that ending — 'Thus, she could no longer stay at the Agricultural Science Institute' — that's not a resolution, that's a detonation. What happens next?

The dialogue in this book is genuinely excellent. Every character has a distinct voice, and the conversations feel like something you'd actually overhear at a family dinner. Take Zhao Daxiong: "Daughters are nothing but debts." That line alone tells you everything about this man—pragmatic, military-minded, not particularly sentimental but not cruel either. And then there's Qin Fang, who says so much through what she doesn't say. Her sighs, her half-finished sentences, the way she keeps bringing up how sensible Qianyu is while clearly missing her... it's all there in the subtext. The exchange between Qin Fang and Sheng Qianyu about cooking is perfect. Qin Fang's surprise—"Qianyu, you know how to cook now?"—followed by Sheng Qianyu's gentle deflection about inheriting it from her Sheng family mom. You can feel the bittersweetness in that moment. Qin Fang is happy but also hurt, and the dialogue captures that perfectly without anyone saying "I'm conflicted." And Zhao Daxiong's response to Qin Fang's midnight confession: "Don't worry about things that aren't your concern." Classic military man. Practical, dismissive of sentimentality, but also trying to comfort his wife in his own way. The compound gossip scene is also great—those quick, overlapping remarks from neighbors that feel authentically chatty and slightly malicious. Real people really do talk like this.

Okay, let me just... breathe. The way this plot unraveled is absolutely brutal and I need to process it. So Sheng Qianyu — this girl, fifteen years old, gives up her own research to protect a family that actively abandoned her. She goes five days without food or water, nearly dying, while her biological parents are at home doting on Zhao Xiaoyu. The director literally says: "How old was she then? Fifteen. While other children were still growing, thinking about food and drink, and attending school carefree, she nearly died from exhaustion just to protect your Zhao family." FIFTEEN. She was fifteen. And the Zhao family? They never contacted her. Not once. For ten years. They believed Zhao Xiaoyu's lies about protecting them from being sent down, and they never once reached out to the girl who actually saved their lives. The plot twist here isn't just that Zhao Xiaoyu is a fraud — it's that the entire foundation of the Zhao family's safety was built on Sheng Qianyu's silence and suffering. And the director's final line? "Since the debt of upbringing has been repaid, it's time to sever this familial bond." That's it. That's the knife twist. The adopted daughter who literally risked her life for them is told to move on because she's done her duty. And honestly? I get why she did. She had a family who truly loved her now. She didn't need them. The Song family subplot with Song Jianü dying with resentment in her heart? That's the collateral damage of this whole mess. Everyone's a pawn except Sheng Qianyu, and even she was treated like one. This plot is a masterclass in dramatic irony. We know the truth from the beginning — Sheng Qianyu is the real hero — and we watch the Zhao family blindly favor the wrong daughter. Every scene with Zhao Xiaoyu taking credit is just... God, it makes me so angry.

Can we just appreciate the scene where Old Mrs. Song is yelling at absolutely nobody? She's spitting on the ground, threatening her sons and grandsons will "make something of themselves," and the narrative just deadpans: "Still, no one responded to her." I laughed out loud. The author's use of silence as a comedic weapon here is masterful. And then there's the contrast with Sheng Qianyu's dialogue — or lack thereof. "Mm." That's it. That's her entire response to Chen Zhou's phone call. Cool, detached, barely there. But then she adds, "Even if there were issues, I could handle them myself," and suddenly you feel this tiny crack in the armor. The mentor's speech is another highlight — he goes on this whole passionate tirade about how she's the future of the motherland and those critics are "boosting others' morale while undermining our own country's prestige." It's so earnest and slightly over-the-top that it perfectly captures the era's political flavor. And Chen Zhou's line to his fellow soldier: "I've said it before—there's absolutely nothing between us." Cold, sharp, definitive. Each character's voice is distinct. Old Mrs. Song sounds like a bitter gossip, Sheng Qianyu sounds like someone who conserves words like currency, Chen Zhou sounds like a man who's tired of explaining himself, and Zhao Xiaoyu sounds like a calculator wearing a crying face.

The dialogue in this section is remarkably distinct for each character, and I want to highlight a few moments that really showcase the author's skill. Sheng Qianyu's conversation with the dean is probably the most impressive piece of dialogue. When she says, 'We are now moving forward in the dark, but we do so because we believe light will come. Not only do I believe in the country, but millions of Chinese people also believe it!' — this isn't just words, it's her entire philosophy compressed into a single speech. And then she immediately pivots to the personal: 'I have things and people I care about. I cannot disregard them for the sake of my career.' She's not choosing between patriotism and personal life; she's saying both matter, and she'll find a way to honor both. The dean responds with 'Go. When the storm subsides, I hope you will return.' Short. Warm. Perfect. Zhao Daxiong's dialogue with Political Commissar Chen about his daughter is hilarious and painful at the same time. 'She said older men know how to cherish their partners!' — the fact that he had to OMIT the part where Chen Zhou ran away to an island shows how much he still wants to protect his friend's reputation, even while being utterly exasperated. And Chen's internal monologue — 'suppressing the wild joy in his heart and the trembling of his hands holding the enamel mug' — this is comedy gold. But Zhao Xiaoyu's line 'What a show' after Sheng Qianyu's emotional farewell? That single line tells us everything about her character. She can't process sincerity. To her, genuine emotion is performance. That's the tragedy of someone who's been rewarded for manipulation their entire life.

"I'm sorry." That's it. That's the line. Three words and I was absolutely destroyed. Let me just sit with this for a moment because Chen Zhou is — how do I put this — he's the most complicated man in this entire novel and I am HERE for it. On the surface, he's the perfect husband. He waited ten years. He proposed multiple times. He fought for her. He adopted a child when she couldn't have one. He stood up to his mother. He's a Political Commissar's son who climbed higher than the older generation. By every metric, he's the prize. But then you read between the lines and oh boy. "Have you ever loved me?" — he asks this at their wedding anniversary basically, when there's still no child, when she's forty and still devoted to science. And her answer? "I thought I had already answered that question when you proposed for the last time." She said yes. That was the answer. But he wasn't satisfied. He literally admits: "I've already obtained you, so why am I still unsatisfied?" That's not love, friends. That's possession with a heartbeat. He calls her "the bright moon in the sky, something he could never truly grasp." He knows it. He KNOWS it. And he married her anyway because the marriage certificate "served to cut off others' covetous gazes toward her." Meanwhile Sheng Qianyu? She places her hand on his cheek. She stands on her tiptoes. She kisses him. She says "I will try to love." That is... that is actually the most tender thing anyone has ever done for someone in a novel. She knows he's greedy. She knows she can't give him what he wants. And she still chooses to try. Then he deepens the kiss with "dominance, possessiveness, and deep-seated grievance." The narration doesn't even try to hide it. This man is not a romantic lead. He's a man who won the girl and still feels like he lost. And the adoption scene with Mother Chen? Chen Zhou's father literally defends Sheng Qianyu better than any husband has ever defended his wife. "If it weren't for your son insisting on marrying no one but her, would Qianyu have married him?" Oof. The old man sees it clearer than the son. I keep thinking about this scene. I can't stop thinking about it. The way she kisses him to comfort him while simultaneously saying "even if this marriage ends" — she's already prepared to leave, and he's the one who won't let go. Who is actually trapped here?