Transmigrated into a Novel: Becoming a Pitiful Girl in the 1970s - Reviews

Let me just say this chapter is a masterclass in pacing. It opens with Su Ci eating an egg—slowly, deliberately, making three kids watch her—and that opening alone establishes the power dynamic without a single word of exposition. She's in control. They're powerless. Period. Then she reveals the points system, and the author immediately follows up with the kids' reactions in rapid succession: Lu Xiangbei reads the chart and his pupils shrink to pinpoints, Lu Xiangnan and Lu Xiangbei wrestle over a broom, Lu Xiangdong wraps himself around Su Ci's leg like a koala. Three different responses to the same stimulus, each one moving the scene forward faster than the last. The middle section—the recycling station trip—could have dragged. It's essentially 'they walked to a place and bought stuff.' But the author keeps it tight by filtering everything through Lu Xiangbei's horrified perspective. Every detail is seen through his eyes: the stench, the twenty yuan price tag, the rotten wood. His internal screaming provides constant comedic tension while the scene advances the plot. Then comes the furniture reveal, and the pacing shifts dramatically. The author slows everything down—'The courtyard fell silent. Only rustling leaves—And… Strange friction sounds.' The ellipses, the line breaks, the deliberate spacing all create a sense of anticipation. We're not just waiting for the kids to turn around; we're waiting for the DESCRIPTION of what they'll see. And the ending? It doesn't resolve. It ends on that image of the transformed room with the line 'This was no longer the workers' dorm building. It looked like...' and cuts off. The fragment itself is a cliffhanger. The author knows exactly when to stop, leaving us wanting more without feeling cheated. From the egg-eating opening to the incomplete ending sentence, every beat serves the momentum. No filler. No wasted scenes.

I need to talk about Lu Xiangbei because THIS BOY is a force of nature and I am obsessed. When Su Ci first arrives, this kid sets a TRAP. A wooden bucket full of slop, rigged to fall on anyone opening the door. And not just any slop—rotten leftovers, dead fish and shrimp. He's basically weaponized garbage. When Su Ci dodges it with "the speed of a nimble cat," his reaction is priceless: "Was she a cat?" Then he charges at her. FIST RAISED. In a house this poor, with these kids who've clearly been through hell, you understand WHY he's like this. They're feral. They've survived by being feral. And then Su Ci does the most powerful thing possible—she doesn't fight back. She just... buys them off. "The rest of the money... is yours. Whether you earn it—that's up to you." Three seconds of struggle and he grabs the ten yuan. THREE SECONDS. I laughed out loud. The stakes here are so interesting because on the surface it's just a rich woman vs. poor kids, but underneath it's about survival. These kids have nothing. Pride doesn't feed your sick brother. And Su Ci knows it. She reads them like a book and exploits exactly what they need. That's not just wealth—that's intelligence. The real tension isn't whether she'll win, it's whether she'll earn something more than their obedience.

There's so much going on beneath the surface of this chapter and I want to unpack it. The bed is the central symbol. It starts as "his brother's room"—the last shred of dignity in a house that has nothing left. When Su Ci throws the old bedding into the mud, it's almost sacrilegious. But then she replaces it with her white quilt, her soft pillows, her lavender scent, and the bed becomes something new. It's no longer about survival. It's about living. The bed transforms from a place where sick children rest into a sanctuary. That's the whole story in one object. Then there's the ten yuan. In this era, where one cent buys two candies, ten yuan is enormous. It's more than Lu Xiangbei might earn in a month on the black market. The money represents everything Su Ci has that they don't—resources, options, a world they've never seen. But the author is careful: Su Ci doesn't just give it away. "Whether you earn it—that's up to you." The money is a tool, not charity. It's a challenge. And the smells—oh the smells. The chapter is a battlefield of aromas. The half-fermented slop, the unwashed sweat, the sea rot versus the Jo Malone perfume, the lavender, the caramelizing sugar, the soy sauce. Smell is how the author tracks power. Whoever controls the scent controls the room. By the end, the entire island is breathing in Su Ci's cooking and the feral kids are hypnotized. She hasn't just cleaned a house—she's colonized a sensory world.

I need to talk about Lu Xiangbei because THIS BOY went through more character development in three pages than most protagonists do in an entire arc. At the start of this chapter, he's your classic feral street kid—arms crossed, teeth clenched, refusing to do anything useful. When Su Ci tells him to wash her clothes, his internal monologue is just 'In her dreams.' He's proud, stubborn, and completely resistant to her authority. Classic defensive mechanism for a kid who's probably been through stuff. But then Su Ci drops the Warrior-brand white sneakers on that points chart and something BREAKS in him. The narration says it all: 'The fierceness in his eyes was gone—replaced by near-mad desire. The look of a starving wolf spotting meat on a trap.' He KNOWS it might be a trap. He KNOWS. But it's meat. And he's so hungry. What I love is how quickly his entire identity shifts. One minute he's refusing to sweep, the next he's LUNGING for the broom like his life depends on it. And when his little brother outsmarts him by reciting a poem and getting MORE points for LESS effort? His 'mindset collapsed.' He threw down the broom and started bellowing poems. The humiliation of getting only 2 points because his recitation was 'just following the trend' while his brother got 3? His cheeks puffed up like an aggrieved child. This is a boy whose entire sense of self-worth just got reprogrammed by a piece of paper and some candy. But here's the real character moment: after the furniture reveal, when he's touching that leather sofa and looking at his own worn-out Liberation shoes with big toes poking through? That contrast isn't just visual—it's the moment he stops seeing Su Ci as 'troublesome' and starts seeing her as genuinely impressive. The text says he 'genuinely felt respect.' Not fear. Not manipulation. Actual respect. That's a relationship that's actually evolving, and I'm here for it.

Let's talk about Su Ci's voice because WOW. "I have the final say." Four words. Four. And Lu Xiangbei's entire worldview cracked. The author writes: "No dust rose—But they left him... shifting between red and pale." That's not just dialogue, that's a weapon. What I love is how Su Ci NEVER raises her voice. Not once. While the kids are screaming, spitting, charging at her—she's fanning her perfume sachet. She puts on sunglasses indoors. She says things like "What? Want to give me a massage?" with total casualness. Her dialogue is lazy, almost bored, which makes it infinitely more powerful. She's not trying to dominate them—she's already won and she knows it. Compare that to Lu Xiangbei's voice: "Get out!" "This is my brother's home!" "A woman like you isn't qualified!" His dialogue is all noise and fury, mid-puberty voice cracking, spit flying. He's trying so hard and it's almost tragic because we know he's already lost. And the neighbor! "Which house is cooking meat?!" "How much soy sauce did they use?! What a waste!" This side character gets THREE LINES and I can hear her voice perfectly. That's good writing. The narrative voice itself is also worth noting—it's snappy, occasionally sarcastic, and never takes itself too seriously. When Su Ci thinks "If there is—then use two," referring to money solving problems, the narration just... agrees. It's on her team.

I need to talk about Lu Xiangnan. Thirteen years old, hands like dried bark from years of hard labor, and she sneaks out at night to steal a handful of cream because she's never experienced anything soft in her life. That detail alone — "her skin looked thirty" — hit me so hard. But what really got me was Su Ci's reaction. I expected her to be angry, to scold the girl. Instead? She gently wipes the cream off, teaches her how to use it properly, and then GIVES HER THE JAR. With a side of harsh words — "idiot," "wasted on your face" — but her hands are feather-soft the entire time. That contrast is everything. And then the final line: "Even if we're poor, people of the Lu family stand straight." She's not just teaching a girl how to apply moisturizer, she's teaching her dignity. Meanwhile Lu Xiangbei is just standing there watching, and I could see his entire worldview shifting. The sister-in-law he was scared of? She's becoming someone he looks up to. The dynamic between these three kids and Su Ci is evolving so naturally — from wary strangers to devoted followers, and it's earned every step of the way.

There's a moment in this chapter where Su Ci hands the aloe gel to Li Xiujuan and says, "Unlike some people, always gossiping, never doing a proper thing." And I just — I couldn't. She's being generous to a neighbor, healing a child, and she STILL finds a way to take a shot at Wang's wife. It's petty and it's beautiful and it's so human. But the emotional core of this chapter isn't the revenge, it's the quiet scene between Su Ci and Lu Xiangnan. Think about it: a woman who just arrived in this house, in this time period, with no real connections, takes it upon herself to teach a thirteen-year-old girl how to take care of her skin. That's not obligation. That's not strategy. That's genuine care, even if she wraps it in sarcasm. And Lu Xiangnan's reaction — hugging that warm jar, tears streaming down her face — you can feel how starved this girl is for kindness. The author doesn't over dramatize it. No big speeches, no dramatic music. Just a jar of cream and a girl who finally feels seen. That's the kind of emotional writing that stays with you.

There's so much going on beneath the surface of this seemingly simple domestic scene. Food is the central symbol here—obviously—but it's not just about hunger. That braised pork represents everything these kids have never had: warmth, care, abundance. When Lu Xiangbei wipes the last sauce off the basin with a corn bun, that's not just being hungry, that's the moment survival overrides identity. The 'Sister-in-law' title itself is a symbolic conquest—he's not just calling her by a family title, he's accepting a new hierarchy. And Su Ci? She's deliberately performing fragility. The scene where she 'fails' to lift the bucket and shows him her red palm—that's calculated. The author makes it clear Lu Xiangbei knows she's acting ('He knew she was acting. Knew she was being lazy.') but the symbolism of the porcelain doll works regardless. Her delicate hands in this filthy courtyard are a visual statement about class, about power, about how softness can be sharper than any threat. Then there's the chocolate—this impossible luxury in a time of scarcity. It's not just a treat, it's a tool of control. 'I don't like owing people favors.' Every gift is a chain. And the ending with the copper stench of capitalism notes—she's literally writing the rules of this new household economy. The author is building this whole theme about how power operates not through force but through desire.