In a famine year we split the family I emptied the deep mountains making the shameless relatives drool with envy - Reviews

I need to talk about the dinner scene because I literally had to pause and stare at the wall for a minute. You've got this tiny oil lamp, three people sitting around a small wooden table, and bowls of white rice that these two haven't seen in months. Liú Xiùxiù is picking at her rice with red eyes, savoring every grain. Liú Cōngmíng is burying his face in his bowl like he's afraid someone will take it away. And Liú Xiǎomǎn? She has no appetite. She's sitting there listening to the wind howl outside, gripping her chopsticks until her knuckles turn pale, thinking about how this leaky hut can't protect them. The contrast between the warmth of that meal and the cold dread in her chest — it's devastating. But then she stands up, crouches beside them, holds her mother's cold hands, and tells them she's not abandoning them, she's taking them to a real home. The hug described as "light but seemed to contain infinite strength" — I'm not crying, you're crying. This is the heart of the whole story right here. It's not about the money or the herbs or the system points. It's about a daughter who was nearly dead from fever becoming the pillar her family needs. That moment when Liú Xiùxiù finally nods and says "I trust you" with tears in her eyes? That's the emotional payoff of everything.

There's so much going on symbolically in these chapters and I want to unpack it because it's genuinely impressive. Let's start with the hut itself — it's described as a "leaky cage on the west side," with broken holes in the walls, a doorless entrance, wind howling through like ghosts and wolves. It's not just a setting, it's a metaphor for their entire situation: exposed, vulnerable, held together by barely anything. The Liú family mansion represents the old order — patriarchal, greedy, suffocating. Elder Tián's demand that "money earned by the second branch belongs to the main household" is basically feudalism dressed up as family duty. But then there's the VIP card from Huichuntáng, which Liú Xiǎomǎn calls their "pass into the mountains, and also our protective charm." This is brilliant symbolism — the very system that exploited them (the apothecary trade, the merchant class) becomes the tool that frees them. And the back mountains? They represent everything the village fears — danger, wolves, bears, the unknown. But Liú Xiǎomǎn reframes them: "That's because they went to the wrong places and didn't understand the rules of the mountains." The mountains aren't dangerous because they're evil, they're dangerous because most people are ignorant. Knowledge is the real power. The Hemostatic Vine itself is a symbol too — something valuable growing in the shadows, hidden among rocks and moss, waiting for someone who knows how to read it. Just like Liú Xiǎomǎn.

Let me just say this opening is MASTERCLASS pacing. Chapter 1 starts with physical pain—needles in the temples, ice cellar cold—and immediately drops you into disorientation. You don't know who this person is, where she is, or why she's coughing up blood. The author doesn't waste a single word on exposition. We learn about the mass grave, the broken hut, the starving family through Xiaoman's own sensory experience as she wakes up. Then the memory flood hits. Boom. Now we know everything: she's a modern agricultural scientist, transmigrated, stuck in the body of a fifteen-year-old girl who is about to die of pneumonia in a world without antibiotics. The stakes are established in one paragraph and they are IMMEDIATE. Twenty-four hours to live. That's the ticking clock. And then—the system activates. Just as she's about to give up, just as darkness is swallowing her, DING. The timing is perfect. It's not too early (she'd have no reason to care), not too late (she'd already be dead). Right at the moment of maximum desperation, the author hands her a lifeline. Chapter 2 shifts gears completely. Now it's not about survival against death—it's about survival against ignorance. The mother thinks she's a witch. The grandmother is plotting their demise upstairs. And Xiaoman has to navigate both threats while her body is still weak. The scene where she recycles the weeds and the points tick up—0.3, 0.5, 0.8—that's pure tension building through numbers. Every decimal point is a heartbeat. When she reaches 1.25 and exchanges for the antibiotic and porridge, the release of tension is so satisfying. And the chapter ends with Wang Jinhua complaining about feeding them, Elder Tian smirking. The antagonist is established, the threat is real, and we're left wanting more. Classic chapter structure and it works.

There's something deeply symbolic about this entire setup that I can't stop thinking about. The mass grave. That's where they've been dumped—literally next to a pit of the dead. The Liu family has declared these three social dead already. Elder Tian calls Xiaoman a 'jinx that killed her father' and treats them like they're already corpses. Being cast out to a mass grave is the ultimate symbol of being rendered invisible, worthless, disposable. But here's the thing: the things that grow next to a mass grave are weeds. Plantain. Dandelion. Things that everyone steps on, pulls out, considers trash. And yet—Xiaoman's system scans them and sees VALUE. 0.02 points per plantain. 0.01 per dandelion. These discarded, unwanted plants are literally what will save their lives. This is the thesis statement of the novel, I'm convinced. The system doesn't give her rare magical herbs or ancient treasures. It gives her the ability to see value in what the world has thrown away. And that's exactly what she is—a discarded girl next to a mass grave who turns out to be an agricultural scientist, someone whose entire career was built on finding value in plants that others ignored. The father's absence is another layer. Liu Shitou is dead—most likely. But Xiaoman uses his memory as a shield, a narrative device to protect her family from accusations of witchcraft. The dead father becomes a living protector through story. There's something powerful about a woman using the memory of an absent man to create space for herself to be strong. And the porridge itself—white, pure, steaming in a broken hut next to a mass grave. It's a symbol of civilization, of care, of something beautiful emerging from the most hopeless place imaginable.

Let me just say — the atmosphere in these chapters is INSANE and I need the author to write more descriptions like this because it's doing so much heavy lifting. First, there's the grain purchasing scene. You've got Liú Xiǎomǎn moving through Qīngshí Town's market, buying from over ten different shops, and the text paints this whole picture of her navigating curious glances, shrewd negotiations, and the physical weight of silver ingots. The detail about the evening sun stretching the streets "long and golden" while she hands silver to the cart drivers — that's not just pretty writing, that's her feeling a rare moment of control and security. The damp air of the waterfall cave fortress carrying "the unique aroma of grains" is such a specific, sensory detail. I could literally smell that place. But then — and this is where it gets devastating — she walks back into Liú Village and the moonlight is described as "spilling like mercury." Mercury. That's not a warm image. That's cold, heavy, toxic. And right there at the village edge, Third Uncle and Third Aunt are curled up on bare field ridges, still smelling of earth and labor. The contrast between the golden evening of her victory and the mercury night of everyone else's suffering is just... chef's kiss. And the exorcism scene at dawn? The copper gong from the east, the "indistinct, strangely intoned chanting" that sounds like "cold gusts of wind," the villagers trampling bare ground and raising dust while whispering — this whole sequence feels like a horror movie opening. The shaman in her tattered red-and-yellow robe with crooked talismans, the peachwood sword, the triangular eyes of Tián Lǎotài. It's theatrical but in the best way, like watching a bad play that everyone's taking way too seriously. Then the green ghost lights appear and everything flips. The atmosphere goes from oppressive to electric in one paragraph. I was literally sitting there with my phone like WHAT JUST HAPPENED.

Okay I need to talk about this family because WOW. The original Liu Xiaoman's relatives are literally the worst people I have ever encountered in a novel and I read a lot of trashy web novels. First, Elder Tian. This woman is not just mean, she is CALCULATING. She kicks out a feverish fifteen-year-old girl, her crying daughter-in-law, and a malnourished simple-minded boy to die NEXT TO A MASS GRAVE. Like, what is wrong with you? And then she's sitting up in the mansion cracking sunflower seeds while gossiping about whether they'll die from the cold wind. The audacity. The sheer unadorned evil of it all. And her children? Even worse in a different way. Wang Jinhua is sharp-tongued and cruel, actively enjoying their suffering. Liu Dashan is a coward who lets it all happen just to grab a tiny patch of land. And Liu Dabao—this spoiled cousin—who SPITS at them for fun. This isn't just a mean family, this is a family that has systematically stripped away any shred of humanity. But then you have the other side: Li Xiuxiu, the mother. God, she breaks my heart. She's scraping the bottom of an empty pot for bran, crying silently, and her first instinct when Xiaoman tries to save them is to beg their abusers for mercy. She's so weak, so broken by years of this treatment, that she actually thinks her daughter is possessed when Xiaoman produces food from nowhere. Not scared for her children—scared that her daughter might be cursed. And Liu Congming, ten years old, so starved his eyes are hollow, just repeating 'sister... hungry' like a broken record. He's not even a character, he's a symptom of how badly this family has been treated. The contrast between the two branches of the family is just... perfect. One side is vicious and greedy, the other is gentle and destroyed. I can't wait to see what happens when Xiaoman starts fighting back.

This section is a masterclass in pacing under pressure. The entire narrative is built around a countdown—"One month. She had only one month to prepare." That number hangs over every scene like a guillotine blade, and the author never lets you forget it. The opening is explosive. The system alert hits like a thunderclap, and we go from domestic squabbles to apocalyptic stakes in a single paragraph. This is the kind of opening that grabs you by the throat and doesn't let go. The information cascades "like a waterfall"—and honestly, that's exactly how the reader experiences it too. You're drowning in urgency right alongside Liú Xiǎomǎn. But here's what's clever: after this initial explosion, the pacing deliberately slows down. The scene where she draws the circle in charcoal on the floor, explaining the drought to her family using ant behavior—that's a quiet, intimate moment. It's the calm before the storm of action. The author understands that you can't sustain maximum tension for pages on end; you need breathers that still carry weight. Then the pacing accelerates again. The list-writing scene is rapid-fire—each item added makes Lǐ Xiùxiù's heart sink further. The calculation of cost ("at least a hundred taels of silver; to obtain everything could take several hundred") creates a new kind of tension: not just time pressure, but money pressure. Two deadlines now, both impossible. The Qián Zhǎngguì negotiation is where pacing really shines. It's not a single scene but a series of micro-tensions: the herb reveal, the proposal, the hesitation, the counter, the partial concession, the final agreement. Each beat raises the stakes slightly higher. When he says "this upfront payment... is quite a sum," you feel the risk. What if he walked away? What if she had to wait? The author makes you sweat through a conversation. The ending is perfect pacing. She gets the silver, feels the surge of power, steps out into the marketplace—and immediately the next phase begins. No celebration, no rest. Just "a new, larger, and more ambitious plan began to take shape." The story doesn't slow down; it just changes direction. And that's exactly what keeps you turning pages.

The stakes in this opening are layered like an onion and I am NOT okay. Layer one: Xiaoman is dying. Bacterial lung infection, high fever, hemoptysis. She diagnoses herself correctly—without antibiotics, she has maybe half a day. That's not hypothetical danger, that's a countdown clock ticking in real time. Every cough is a reminder. Layer two: Her family is starving. They have bran—literally the scraps nobody else wants. The mother is scraping an empty pot. The brother is so malnourished he's a skeleton. Even if Xiaoman survives her illness, they will die of hunger within days. Layer three: The grandmother is actively wishing them dead. Wang Jinhua is up in the mansion cracking sunflower seeds and saying they'll probably be blown to death by the wind. Elder Tian is smirking. This isn't neglect—this is murder by omission, and they KNOW it. Layer four: Xiaoman has no way to explain her powers. When she produces the antibiotic and porridge out of thin air, her mother backs away terrified and asks if she's possessed. In an ancient rural setting, that accusation could get her killed faster than any illness. She has to fabricate a story about her father sending it in a dream, and it has to be perfect because one wrong word and her family loses their only protection. What I love is how the author layers these conflicts so they compound. The illness makes her weak, which makes it harder to convince her mother, which means she has to use more energy on deception when she needs it for survival. The grandmother's cruelty means they can't go back for help. The starvation means even if she cures herself, the family is still doomed. Every problem has another problem behind it. And she's fifteen years old in a body that can barely lift her head. The tension is suffocating in the best way.

I need to talk about Liú Xiǎomǎn's relationship with her family because this is where the story earns its emotional weight. Up until now, we've seen her as this competent, system-powered survivor, but this section strips away the supernatural crutches and shows us what's actually driving her: love for her mother and brother. The scene where she sits them down at dawn is devastating in its simplicity. Lǐ Xiùxiù's face is "still anxious"—she's been carrying worry for who knows how long. Liú Cōngming has "trusting eyes." And Liú Xiǎomǎn, this kid who should be a kid, becomes the adult. She's the one drawing circles in charcoal on the floor, explaining droughts using ant behavior, holding their cold hands in her warm ones. The line where she says "We know this first, and that's our greatest advantage" gave me chills. That's not just plot exposition; that's a sister and daughter refusing to let her family drown in panic. What's interesting is how Lǐ Xiùxiù responds. She doesn't argue or dismiss her daughter. She goes pale, her lips move but no sound comes out, and then she just... accepts it. There's something profound in that silence. This is a mother who has probably been powerless her whole life, watching her daughter become the pillar the family needs. The power dynamic has completely flipped, and the author handles it without a single melodramatic word. Liú Cōngming's whisper—"Sister... does that mean there will be no water to drink?"—is the kind of line that haunts you. It's not fear of death; it's fear of disappointing his sister. That's character revelation in three words. And then there's Qián Zhǎngguì. Their relationship is purely transactional but layered with mutual respect. He's a cunning merchant who doesn't trust easily, and she's a peasant girl who can't afford to lose. The fact that he ends up impressed—"Girl, this upfront payment... is quite a sum"—shows how far she's come. She's not just surviving anymore; she's operating in the adult world of deals and contracts.

I need to talk about how this chapter sequence is structured because the pacing is actually really smart and I want to unpack why it works. It starts slow — almost too slow if you're not in the right headspace. Liú Xiǎomǎn is buying grain. Like, for a long time she's just buying grain. Ten shops, different items, careful calculations. But here's the thing: it doesn't feel boring because every detail is building her character. We learn she's methodical, she's strategic, she has an internal checklist, and she's preparing for something massive. The Fùkāng Grain Company manager's suspicious gaze adds a tiny spike of tension — will she get caught? But then she pulls out the silver and the scene resolves. Good. The pacing here is deliberate, almost meditative, like the calm before everything goes to hell. Then the transition to night is seamless. She's walking back, the mood shifts from golden to mercury, and suddenly we're in emotional territory with Third Uncle and Aunt. This is where the chapter could've dragged — it's basically a conversation scene — but the information drop about the shaman saves it. Third Uncle leans in, lowers his voice, and BOOM: new conflict introduced right when we needed it. And then the exorcism scene hits like a freight train. Dawn breaks, the gong sounds, the crowd gathers, the shaman starts chanting, and within paragraphs everything explodes into green lights and screaming. The author doesn't waste a single beat — Tián Lǎotài's desperation, the shaman's theatricality, the villagers' shifting reactions from curiosity to fear, all of it moves fast. The chapter ends mid-insult from Tián Lǎotài, which is a perfect cliffhanger. I immediately opened the next chapter. What I appreciate most is how the pacing mirrors Liú Xiǎomǎn's emotional state: controlled and steady during the day, unsettled at night, then fully in her element during the confrontation. The structure serves the character.

I need to talk about Liú Xiǎomǎn because WOW. The transformation in these chapters is not subtle and I am HERE for it. Remember how the text opens with everyone assuming she's dead? 'That sickly kid is probably already cold; we'll send the eldest to bury them first thing in the morning.' And then—CUT TO—she's eating pure white rice porridge. The contrast isn't just plot convenience, it's CHARACTER. This girl was playing dead to survive, and now she's not even pretending anymore. The scene where Wáng Jīnhuā kicks the door and Liú Xiǎomǎn 'completely shielded her mother and brother'—that moment says everything. She's fifteen, recovering from a near-fatal fever, and she becomes the protector overnight. The text literally says her gaze was 'calm and sharp—a stark contrast to the sickly, dying girl she had been just hours before.' And then later, Wáng Jīnhuā feels 'a bone-chilling cold from her fifteen-year-old niece. That gaze, that tone—no longer a sickly girl, but a vengeful spirit returned from the underworld.' I got chills. Actual chills. But what really got me is the relationship with her mother, Lǐ Xiùxiù. The mother's reaction to her daughter's recovered fever—bursting into tears, saying 'Shítóu has shown his spirit!'—it's so tender and heartbreaking. This woman has been broken by the family, and now she's watching her daughter become someone she barely recognizes. There's 'fear, unfamiliar awe, and relief' in her eyes. And Liú Xiǎomǎn protecting her mother from knowing about the vine? That decision to keep her mother 'timid nature' from worrying? That's love, not manipulation. The bond between them is the emotional anchor of this whole story.

Okay, let's talk stakes because this chapter is absolutely ratcheting them up and I am not okay. We start with the immediate, visceral conflict: Wáng Jīnhuā at the door, hungry and malicious, and Liú Xiǎomǎn having to protect her mother and brother with nothing but her words. The stakes here are survival—literally. If the aunt discovers the porridge and the medicine, they lose their only advantage. But Liú Xiǎomǎn wins this round through sheer verbal combat, and the text makes it clear: 'Liú Xiǎomǎn knew Wáng Jīnhuā was just the appetizer, a minor annoyance. The real final boss—Elder Tián—was about to arrive.' Then the stakes shift from defensive to offensive. Liú Xiǎomǎn decides they can't just wait to die. 'The porridge Father sent only sustains us for a while. We can't just wait to die.' This is the turning point where the conflict expands from 'survive today' to 'build a future.' The mountain sequence is tense not because of action, but because of the constant threat of failure—her body is still weak, the system gives disappointing results, and finding the vine feels almost miraculous. But the REAL tension comes from dramatic irony. We KNOW Elder Tián is plotting. 'When they're so hungry they crawl back on their knees, begging me, we'll see how I deal with them!' The reader is sitting there screaming at the page while Liú Xiǎomǎn walks into town thinking she's safe. She's carrying a treasure worth 'sky-high price' on her back, walking twelve kilometers, and the enemy is already sharpening their knives. The suspense isn't just 'will she succeed?'—it's 'how much time does she have before the storm hits?'