Back to the 1970s The Childless Heiress Is Stranded on a Remote Island Giving Birth to Multiple Babies Every Pregnancy - Reviews

I need to talk about Pei Yunnuo's dialogue because honestly it made me want to reach through the page and shake her. Like, the woman literally says: "She only pushed me once, and I ended up like this… Sob… Could I take some time off and go to the clinic to put some medicine on my hands? If I keep handling salted fish with open wounds, they'll become infected and rot…" Girl. You are NOT fooling anyone. Not Lin Xizhi, not Song Zhuowei, definitely not me. The fact that she clings to Lin Xizhi's arm right after making this performance and asks "Can I work with you instead? Please, dear Sister, just ask Captain Song. He'll definitely agree if it's you!" — and then explicitly states she's speaking LOUDLY so Song Zhuowei can hear it — this is the most transparent manipulation I've ever encountered and I love it. But then Lin Xizhi's dialogue is on another level entirely. Listen to this: "Captain Song is absolutely right. I failed to think things through. I only saw that my sworn younger sister had been injured and that she and Comrade Xiao Ke had gotten into a conflict. I was only thinking about solving the immediate problem and didn't consider the trouble it would cause the organization." She admits fault. She takes the hit. And then she immediately pivots to praising Ke Yuerong as someone who "speaks her mind" and is "wholeheartedly devoted to the public good." This is diplomatic JUDO. She lets Song Zhuowei feel like he won, makes Ke Yuerong look like a hero, and then slides in her actual request wrapped in so much political correctness that nobody can object without looking like they're against the collective interest. And Song Zhuowei's voice? His lines are all authority and performative toughness. "What do you think this brigade is? Your family's private property?" He's not actually angry at Lin Xizhi—he's performing for the crowd. The narrative even tells us he's "quite good at pretending to be deaf" when Pei Yunnuo makes her request. These characters ALL understand the game. They're just at different skill levels.

I keep coming back to the setting of this whole scene and how perfectly it's constructed. We're at the Fifth Brigade's drying yard—salted fish being processed, open wounds, the physical labor environment. But it's so much more than just a workplace. It's a pressure cooker where every interaction is simultaneously personal AND political. The author never gives us a long description of the drying yard itself, which I actually think is the right call. We get enough sensory detail to feel the place: the salted fish, the risk of infection from open wounds, the physical strength required for the work. Ke Yuerong being described as someone who "could knock down three boys by herself" at age ten tells us everything we need to know about what this environment demands. This isn't a place for delicate people. But what really makes the scene work is the crowd. There are always villagers "watching nearby," exchanging "quiet glances," judging how Lin Xizhi handles herself. This is a society where you're never alone in your conflicts—every disagreement is a public performance, every alliance is visible, every humiliation is witnessed. The drying yard becomes a stage, and everyone knows their lines. The pig farm where Pei Yunnuo gets sent is also interesting—Song Zhuowei assigns her there specifically because "that work requires careful attention." It's a demotion disguised as a opportunity, and everyone understands the subtext. The world of this novel feels incredibly lived-in because every location has social meaning attached to it. The drying yard = public scrutiny. The pig farm = exile with a smile. You don't need exposition dumps when the setting itself carries the weight of the politics.

Okay so here's the thing that actually blew my mind about this chapter. Everyone thinks the drama is about Ke Yuerong vs. Pei Yunnuo, right? Like, oh look, two girls fighting over work assignments. But no. The real story is Lin Xizhi playing 4D chess while everyone else is playing checkers. Let me walk through this because it's genuinely impressive. Song Zhuowei shows up, humbles Ke Yuerong publicly (which is petty AND strategic on his part), then Lin Xizhi could've just stayed quiet. But she doesn't. She watches Pei Yunnuo put on this whole performance—showing off scraped palms, sobbing about salted fish and infection—like, girl, we see you. And then Lin Xizhi steps in and does something BRILLIANT: she frames her request as concern for the COLLECTIVE, not for herself. "Constant conflict certainly isn't good for the unity of the collective." She's basically weaponizing the political language of the era to get exactly what she wants. And the best part? Song Zhuowei tries to shut her down with that whole "is this your family's private property?" speech, and everyone expects her to crumble. She's from a former capitalist family—she's supposed to be the vulnerable one here. But instead of breaking down, she agrees with him first, then pivots so smoothly that she ends up defending Ke Yuerong of all people. The crowd is stunned. Ke Yuerong is STUNNED. Even Song Zhuowei is recalculating who this girl actually is. "She was decisive. Quick-witted. And, most importantly… she was never afraid to take responsibility." That's Song Zhuowei's internal assessment, and it's a complete reversal from how he's treated her. The plot twist here isn't some big reveal—it's the quiet realization that Lin Xizhi is way more dangerous (in a good way) than anyone gave her credit for. She didn't just survive this confrontation; she came out with Pei Yunnuo reassigned and Ke Yuerong as an unexpected ally. Two birds, one stone, zero bloodshed. The author really understands that in this world, the sharpest weapons aren't fists—they're words carefully placed.

The stakes in this section are ridiculously high and the author never lets you forget it. Let's start with Lin Xizhi's physical stakes: she's drugged, feverish, alternating between chills and heat, barely conscious. If Song Zhuowei hadn't found that water vat, if she hadn't had her storage space, she would have died. The author makes this clear when Lin Xizhi thinks "Song Zhuowei, you living King of Hell" while imagining the rooster blood injection. She's grateful he rescued her and simultaneously terrified he'll kill her with his well-intentioned incompetence. Then there's the emotional stakes—the betrayal by people she trusted. The Pei family didn't just steal her belongings; they planned to sell her. Her own uncle figure orchestrated her kidnapping. When she lists her possessions, she's not just recovering property—she's reconstructing her identity piece by piece. That warm-jade bracelet, the gold longevity pig pendant, the ration coupons. Each one is a thread connecting her to the life she had before everything fell apart. Song Zhuowei's stakes are different but equally intense. He's a man of rules and routines who just broke precedent for a girl he met hours ago. He's willing to write a self-criticism. He's standing between a fragile survivor and her predators. Every line he draws in the sand is a commitment he can't take back. And the Pei family? Their stakes are purely material but the author makes you feel their desperation. Without Lin Xizhi, they're ruined. Their fortune is gone, their plans are shattered, and they're performing grief because it's the only tool they have left. The conflict here isn't just good versus evil—it's survival versus survival, and that's what makes it so tense.

The chapter title itself—"Ding is Ding, Mao is Mao"—is a Chinese idiom meaning things should be called by their proper names, truth should be recognized for what it is. And this chapter is literally about that. About seeing people clearly, about not being fooled by appearances, about the difference between who someone pretends to be and who they actually are. Pei Yunnuo is the antithesis of this principle. She performs weakness to get what she wants. She clings to Lin Xizhi not out of genuine affection but because she's calculated that Lin Xizhi has connections. Her scraped palms—were they real? Probably. But the extent of her suffering is clearly manufactured. She represents everything corrupt about this system: people who've learned to play the victim card to climb. Ke Yuerong, meanwhile, is all surface-level toughness. She's strong, she's principled, she follows the rules. But she's also impulsive and publicly humiliated because she hasn't learned to read the room. Lin Xizhi recognizes this and actually defends her: "She's wholeheartedly devoted to the public good. She insists on doing everything by the book, which can make her seem rather cold and uncompromising. But that's also proof that she's conscientious and responsible." Lin Xizhi herself is the most complex embodiment of the chapter's theme. She's from a "once-famous, now-impoverished capitalist family"—someone the system has already labeled. Everyone expects her to break, to cry, to submit. But she's playing a different game entirely. The symbolism here is rich: the girl everyone underestimates is the one who actually controls the outcome. The one who speaks the most quietly gets the most done. And the chapter ends with Song Zhuowei finally seeing her clearly—not as some fragile capitalist heir, but as someone "far better than all those people in the brigade who only knew how to shift blame and shirk responsibility." The deeper theme, I think, is about authenticity in a world that rewards performance. Lin Xizhi is the most authentic character precisely because she's the most strategic. She doesn't pretend to be weak. She doesn't pretend to be obedient. She pretends to be nothing at all—she just acts, and lets the results speak.

This section moves like a freight train and I am here for it. Let me trace the rhythm here because the author is clearly a master at controlling pace. We open with Lin Xizhi in crisis—feverish, drugged, barely conscious. Song Zhuowei dumps her in cold water. She blacks out. Then—bam—she wakes up in the clinic. The transition is so quick you almost miss it, which is exactly right because she barely missed it too. She's disoriented, weak, and the reader is right there with her. Then the author does something clever: instead of letting the tension deflate after she wakes up, they immediately raise the stakes. The doctor is about to inject her with rooster blood (which would've been hilarious if it weren't so terrifying), and she sits up and shouts to stop it. That's a micro-cliffhanger that keeps you flipping pages. After that, the pacing shifts into confrontation mode. The Pei family's arrival is timed perfectly—they wail in the hallway just as Song Zhuowei and Lin Xizhi have a quiet moment. The author lets the drama build through their performance, then cuts it short with Lin Xizhi's cold, methodical dismantling of their lies. Each item she lists is like a hammer blow. The pace accelerates with every possession she mentions until Pei Zhikuan collapses on the floor. And then—chapter ends. Right at the climax. Of course. The author knows exactly what they're doing.

"The surrounding walls were painted white on the upper half and green on the lower half. A large red-painted character reading 'Silence' was emblazoned on the wall. The air was thick with the pungent smell of disinfectant." I keep coming back to this description. The author didn't just tell us it was a clinic—they gave us the specific color scheme, the propaganda-style red character, the smell. It's not a modern hospital with fluorescent lights and beeping machines. This is a commune clinic in what feels like 1970s China, and every detail grounds us in that era. But what really made me sit up was the contrast between the clinical setting and the emotional intensity inside it. White walls, green lower half, disinfectant smell—this sterile, almost austere environment becomes the stage for one of the most emotionally charged confrontations in the entire story so far. The Pei family's theatrical wailing in that hallway, Song Zhuowei's rigid uniform against the soft hospital bed, Lin Xizhi's fragile body wrapped in sheets while her eyes burn with vengeance. The setting doesn't compete with the drama—it frames it. And the storage space detail! When Lin Xizhi retreats into her inner space and drinks spring water that heals her—that's worldbuilding that feels organic, not info-dumpy. It's revealed through her unconscious state, through her physical need, and it immediately raises questions about the rules of this power. Can she use it anytime? Does it have limits? The author trusts the reader to connect the dots. I also loved the visual of Song Zhuowei washing that porcelain spoon over and over again. Small detail, huge impact. It tells us everything about his character—his meticulousness, his hidden tenderness—without a single internal monologue.

Okay so let me just say—Lin Xizhi is a STRATEGIST. I almost missed it at first because she plays the naive, fragile card so well, but the moment she realized Song Zhuowei responded to softness instead of confrontation? That was the pivot. She swallowed her actual response—probably something like 'leave me alone'—and instead deployed the most devastating weapon in her arsenal: vulnerability wrapped in flattery. 'Captain Song... how could there be dangerous people? With your Sea Guard protecting Shajing Commune...' She literally made him stand taller unconsciously. I love this woman already. And then the whole setup with Aunt Hui—Lin Xizhi heard the rumors about her medical skills, showed up uninvited, cooked a meal, and essentially trapped herself into staying. The fact that Aunt Hui tested the food for poison with a silver needle before eating? That's the kind of detail that tells you Widow Village operates on a completely different logic than the rest of the commune. Also, Song Zhuowei's threat—'Women who stay here too long end up with no one willing to marry them!'—was supposed to scare her off, but Lin Xizhi just smiled and said 'I'll remember that.' The look that 'pierced straight into Song Zhuowei's heart' while his heart pounded like thunder? Plot-wise, this is the author setting up a delicious tension where everyone thinks they're manipulating everyone else, but nobody actually has control.

I keep coming back to the food. Not just because it's deliciously described, but because EVERY interaction in these chapters revolves around cooking and eating as a form of power, negotiation, and survival. Lin Xizhi cooks to earn her place with Aunt Hui. Aunt Hui tests the food before eating—a woman who has survived long enough to trust no one. Lin Xizhi's tears fall into the lettuce, contaminating the offering with emotion she can't hide. And then there's the contrast: Song Zhuowei's Sea Guard operates on organizational rules and assignment notices, while Widow Village operates on hospitality, food, and unspoken agreements. The 'brick-red cloth pouch' containing the silver needle is such a loaded symbol—a woman's hidden knowledge, her arsenal, her way of surviving in a world that has taught her everyone is a threat. Even Aunt Hui's final acceptance of Lin Xizhi is framed through food: 'If it weren't for the meal you cooked for me...' She will not admit kindness. She will not admit that cooking, care, and domestic labor have value. But she admits it indirectly, through the language of utility—'No matter where you go, you'll be cooking for someone. So instead of cooking for other people, you might as well stay here.' The theme here is clear: in this world, women's labor is invisible until it's convenient for someone to make use of it. And Lin Xizhi, for all her fragility, understands this better than anyone.

I've been thinking about the rooster blood scene and what it represents beyond just plot comedy. The doctor says it "shouldn't work in theory" but they're treating a dead horse as though it were still alive. This is such a rich moment for understanding the world this story lives in—a place where desperate people cling to half-baked remedies because the formal systems aren't enough to save them. But then Lin Xizhi has her storage space. Spring water that heals illness and neutralizes poison. Two ladles and she's restored. The contrast is staggering. The commune clinic is doing its best with rooster blood and herbal decoctions, while she has access to something almost supernatural. It raises this interesting question about power and resource inequality that runs through the whole narrative. The red character for "Silence" on the clinic wall also stuck with me. In a story where everyone is shouting—Lin Xizhi shouting to report a crime, Pei Zhikuan wailing about dying, Song Zhuowei barking orders—there's this ironic command for quiet painted right on the wall. It's almost like the setting itself is commenting on the chaos. And the medicine itself—the bitter herbal decoction that Lin Xizhi gulps down in one go—what does that say about her? She doesn't flinch. She swallows poison-like medicine without hesitation because the alternative is weakness. The bitterness is a metaphor for everything she's endured and her willingness to endure more. Song Zhuowei notices this and looks at her with "a hint of newfound admiration and mutual respect." Two people who understand suffering recognizing each other. The licorice candies he secretly asks for are the sweet counterpoint to all this bitterness.

'Using the dried noodles, lettuce, and salted dried fish that Aunt Hui already had at home, Lin Xizhi cooked a small pot of noodle soup and a plate of pan-fried shredded fish.' This single sentence establishes SO much about the world. The scarcity. The resourcefulness. The fact that Aunt Hui's pantry contains exactly these three items tells you everything about Widow Village—these women are self-sufficient, isolated, surviving on preserved goods because the sea is both their livelihood and their barrier. And then the silver needle scene! Aunt Hui 'repeatedly inserted the needle into the dried fish and the noodle broth' like some kind of traditional poison test. I love how the author doesn't explain this—it's just there, matter-of-fact, which makes it feel even more authentic to the setting. The stone cottage, the wooden door with its bolt, the feather duster as a weapon, the communal sleeping platform with 'stinky feet'—every detail grounds you in this world. It's not glamorous, it's not romanticized, but it's vividly alive. The contrast between the clinical, organized Sea Guard clinic and Aunt Hui's dark, suspicious kitchen is a worldbuilding masterclass in showing rather than telling.

There's a recurring image in this section that I can't stop thinking about: salt. Pei Yunnuo works in a drying yard processing salted fish. By the end of each day, her body feels "salty and sour, like a piece of fish that had been marinated until it stank." But salt is also a preservative — it keeps things from rotting. And yet Pei Yunnuo is rotting from the inside out. The poisoning metaphor runs deeper than I initially realized. Lin Xizhi was slowly poisoned by someone close to her — not just physically, but emotionally. The Pei family is described as "rotten to the core, not a single exception." Meanwhile, Ke Yuerong calls Lin Xizhi a "rotten apple that spoils the whole barrel" — but who's actually corrupt? The woman who poisons her sister over two lifetimes, or the educated youth visiting her friend? The drying yard itself is symbolic. It's a place of exposure — everything is laid out under the blazing sun to dry, to be watched, to be judged. Pei Yunnuo can't escape the gaze of her coworkers. She's performing constantly, just like she performed her sisterly love for Lin Xizhi. And then there's the work point system — a metaphor for how value is assigned in this new society. Ke Yuerong controls who gets credited and who gets punished. But Lin Xizhi doesn't care about work points because she has the Spiritual Spring Space. She has something the system can't measure or control. That's a quiet but powerful statement about true worth versus institutional worth. The author is weaving these symbols together in ways that reward careful reading.