“Before Traveling to the 1970s, She Emptied Out Half the Imperial Palace”
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Gongsun Wanru, the daughter of the disgraced Prime Minister Gongsun Li, stands sentenced to death by waist-severing in the imperial prison of the Dayan Kingdom. Her father has rebelled against the throne, and she is blamed for treason and the fall of border cities. Unknown to the court, Wanru is not the original host intended for a system named Xiaodu. The system, a novice device from a higher dimension, mistakenly bound to her due to a spatial error, as she shares an identical appearance with her cousin, Gongsun Wanyan. With only three days remaining before her execution, Xiaodu reveals a desperate plan: utilize the upcoming transit of Venus to transport Wanru through time to a new era where she can escape her fate. However, the system lacks sufficient energy for a direct jump and requires Wanru to accumulate points by completing tasks first. To prepare for the journey, Wanru must survive the final days in the Cold Palace.

Using an invisibility cloak borrowed from the system mall, Wanru embarks on a nocturnal spree through the imperial palace. She systematically empties the outer and inner imperial kitchens, seizing vast quantities of food, utensils, and luxury items. She also loots the Empress’s quarters and the Shanggong Bureau, collecting bedding and fabrics. Her most audacious act involves using her mental connection to the system space to teleport the entire structure of the Emperor’s private treasury into her storage dimension. The thefts plunge the palace into chaos, causing the Emperor to suffer a heart attack upon discovering the empty vaults. Meanwhile, Wanru hides in the Imperial Garden, waiting for the celestial event. On the night of the transit, a blinding white light engulfs her, and she vanishes from the prison, leaving behind only rumors of her ascension to heaven.

Wanru awakens in a dense, primeval forest, far removed from the imperial city. The system, Xiaodu, falls into a deep slumber due to energy depletion, leaving Wanru alone and disoriented. She changes into coarse peasant clothing and begins a perilous journey toward the setting sun. Lost and exhausted, she is found by Lu Yao, a reclusive hunter known for his ferocity and a distinctive centipede-shaped scar on his face. Lu Yao, suspicious of her strange attire and evasive answers, interrogates her but ultimately decides to help her after realizing she is a victim of human trafficking rather than a spy. He carries her to his mountain cabin, where she recovers and witnesses a lush, free landscape that contrasts sharply with her confined life in the palace. She learns that she has traveled to the year 1973 in the People's Republic of China, a time and place without emperors or feudal hierarchies.

Lu Yao arranges for Wanru to obtain a false identity as Ji Wanru, an educated youth sent to the countryside for re-education. He secures her household registration and a letter of introduction, enabling her to legally reside in Yushugou Village. In exchange for her help, Wanru gives Lu Yao a collection of precious gems and gold taken from the imperial treasury, which he secretly sells on the black market to generate funds for her future. Wanru joins a group of educated youths, including Qiao Xiaobei and Du Meiting, and travels to the Sikanzi Brigade. As she settles into her new life of manual labor and rural simplicity, Wanru embraces her hard-won freedom, unaware that her past in the Dayan Kingdom is slowly being forgotten, while the system Xiaodu begins to recharge, hinting at future complications.

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Can we just appreciate how distinct these two characters sound when they talk? Ji Wanru's dialogue is this relentless stream of questions and observations that just spills out. She doesn't do pauses. She doesn't do subtlety. 'The city? They must sell candied haws there, right?' 'Are there any street performers?' 'Are there any monkey shows?' It's comedic gold but it also tells you everything about her—she's curious, optimistic, completely unbothered by Lu Yao's scowls. And Lu Yao? His lines are short. Brutal. 'No.' 'No.' 'No!' 'My name is Lu Yao, just call me by my name. And don't get too close to me; I'm not a good person!' He says the most dramatic things with the flattest delivery and it's perfect. The narrator's voice is also doing a lot of work here—there's this wry, almost teasing tone that comments on situations without being heavy-handed. Like when it says 'Lu Yao, who keeps getting the good sir card…' or 'Oh my god! What to do?' inside his head. The contrast between his internal panic and his external ice face is where the humor lives. And Grandma Lu! 'Grandson! You're up to something!' That old woman's gossip energy is unmatched. She lets him go with 'Alright, I won't ask' and then immediately thinks 'I'll find out sooner or later.' She's not fooled for a second and the reader knows it.
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Okay so I need to talk about this spy scene because honestly it completely shifted how I see Lu Yao. Up until Chapter 22, I was reading this like a wholesome rural romance—guy delivers eggs to a girl, bros are happy for him, cute stuff. Then BAM. Cut out his tongue, break his hands. The sheer coldness of it. And the worst part? The workers don't even flinch. The newcomers are horrified but the old-timers just go back to work like it's Tuesday. That's when it clicked—this man built an entire underground economy and he's not some reluctant criminal, he's a boss. The parallel with Tong Guoan's scene is brilliant too. Two different worlds, same kind of dangerous men. Meng Qing thinks Tong Guoan is just interfering in love affairs, but we know Tong Guoan plays a much bigger game. And Lu Yao's workers? Refugees from the famine. He fed them when no one else would, and now they'd kill for him. That's not manipulation, that's loyalty earned through survival. The plot is layered way deeper than I initially gave it credit for.
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I want to talk about how the author structures these chapters because honestly it's really tight. You open with Ji Wanru in the mountain cabin, dealing with the practical problem of what food to pack, worrying about starvation, then cut to Lu Yao coming down the mountain and immediately we're getting worldbuilding through his reputation—the scar, the vagrants, the dead family, the whole tragic backstory. That's a lot of exposition to absorb, but it's woven into action (him walking through the village, giving secret instructions) so it never feels like a info-dump. Then we cut back to the cabin, she's waiting, he arrives, there's this whole scene where he basically flees because he's flustered, then the next day he's securing her paperwork through corrupt officials. The chapter transitions are sharp—no lingering, no filler. Each scene advances either character development or plot, sometimes both. The pacing between the mountain sequences and the village/county sequences creates a nice rhythm too. You get the quiet, almost domestic moments (her eating the braised chicken leg, him watching from outside) contrasted with the tense underworld stuff (midnight meetings, ginseng bribes, betting pools among his crew). And that ending with Ji Wanru getting her household registration and introduction letter? Perfect cliffhanger. She's about to enter this new world and we know Lu Yao is watching over her, but from how far away? The author knows exactly when to cut and when to linger.
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There's this one moment—just a passing description—and it completely grounded me in this world. Ge Qiuju going home at noon to pick vegetables from her private plot, adding an egg, cooking a big pot of hot soup, and the whole family eating together with buns. Old and young, men and women, each holding a bowl. That's it. Three sentences. But I could SEE it. I could smell the soup. I could feel the warmth of that communal meal after morning labor. The author doesn't over-describe anything. The production team system, the work points, the difference between the disciplined third and fourth teams versus the lazy sixth and seventh where women bring sewing baskets to the fields—none of this is explained with infodumps. It just emerges naturally through Zhang Chunsheng and Zhang Chunfa's conversation while they're weeding. You learn about the entire social structure of this village through people doing their actual jobs. And the elm tree scene where Lu Yao waits for Wanru—morning sun, the scar on his face, people passing by, the tension of being seen together. The author writes: "Just standing face to face like this had already attracted the attention of many people." You feel the eyes. You feel the risk. This isn't just a romantic moment; it's a moment that exists under constant surveillance in a place where reputation is everything. The kerosene lamp, the medicinal wine passed around between the three girls, the thick porridge and coarse-flour buns for breakfast—all these details build a world that feels lived-in and specific. Not a generic "rural China" backdrop but a place with its own rhythms, its own hierarchies, its own rules about what you can and can't do without facing consequences.
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The pacing here is absolutely wild and I love it. Chapter 21 starts almost comedic—five bros eavesdropping on their leader's love life, drinking water to settle rankings, the whole village gossip energy. Then it pivots to Song Fei's arc with Meng Qing, which adds romantic tension. You're sitting there thinking this is a period romance with some business subplot. Then Chapter 22 drops the hammer. The breeding farm description alone is chilling—100 chickens, 800 pigs, 30 adult pigs sent out daily. This is a full-scale illegal operation. The spy scene is brutal and the transition from the lighthearted village gossip to 'cut out his tongue' is jarring in the best way. Chapter 23 then does this incredible tonal whiplash by going back to Ji Wanru's perspective, shopping in town, worrying about not seeing Lu Yao for three days. It's like the author is breathing. After the suffocating tension of Chapter 22, we get sunlight and ox carts and flower-print shirts. But even that feels layered—Wanru is secretly planning to mix grain from her space, and she hasn't told anyone. The structure keeps you off-balance and that's exactly what makes it addictive.
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The whole novel seems built around this question: what does it mean to owe someone, and how do you repay a debt that can never truly be settled? Wanru keeps saying she owes Lu Yao. She owes him for the medicinal wine, for the eggs, for the job, for protecting her from Song Honglian, for everything. But the beautiful turn in this chapter is when she says: "when you are in danger, I can protect you too." This is the moment the debt dynamic flips. She's not just a passive recipient of his care—she wants to be his protector. She wants the relationship to be reciprocal. Xiaobei understands this on a deeper level. She knows Wanru can't repay him with money or labor, so she orchestrates situations where Wanru can give back in ways that matter—like the lamb-grazing job that gives her independence, or the medicinal wine that lets her care for her friends. Xiaobei's rebirth knowledge makes her a ghost architect of their happiness, quietly rearranging the board so the pieces can find each other. The scar on Lu Yao's face is doing heavy symbolic work too. It's described as "terrible" and "hideous," but Wanru explicitly says it doesn't scare her. In a village where he's been called a traitor and ostracized for years, her refusal to flinch at his face is the purest form of acceptance. The scar marks him as an outcast, but Wanru's gaze reclaims him. And the eggs—warm, shared, insisted upon. Food as love language. Food as the only currency Wanru has to offer. "Let's have one each! No refusing!" She won't let him carry everything alone, not even something as small as an egg. That's the theme in miniature: two people learning how to be equal, one warm egg at a time.
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