The ‘Ugly’ Girl of the 70s is Too Tempting: Two Big Shots are Fighting Over Her - Reviews

Let's talk about what Su Nuannuan is actually risking here, because it's more than you might think at first glance. On the surface, she's just trying to get her pension and household registration back from the Ji family. Simple, right? Wrong. She's a woman in the 1970s with no family, no status, and a system that can electrocute her if she fails a task. The stakes are literally life and death, wrapped in a package that looks like a petty revenge plot. When she threatens to expose Mrs. Ji if she doesn't get what she wants in four days, she's not bluffing—she's calculated exactly what will hurt them most. Take away their money, their coupons, their control over her identity, and watch them suffocate. But the real conflict isn't external. It's the war happening inside Ji Xiao's head. He's torn between duty and desire, between the woman he's supposed to marry and this sharp-tongued girl who kisses him like she's collecting currency. Every time he tells himself she's wrong, his body betrays him. Every time he gets angry at her, he's also terrified of how much he wants her. The bite mark on his neck is a physical symbol of this conflict—something he can't hide, can't explain away, and can't undo. And then there's the mystery of the two men from last night. Su Nuannuan has no idea which one she was with, and the System refuses to tell her. This is the ticking clock under everything—because if she finds out it was Ji Xiao, if she realizes she's been kissing the same man she was intimate with, the entire dynamic shifts. The conflict just got a whole lot more complicated. The author keeps raising the stakes with every chapter. Money, reputation, survival, identity, desire, mystery—it's all layered on top of each other, and nothing feels resolved. I'm invested.

"You kissed me, so I have to kiss you back to make it even." I am not okay. I am genuinely not okay right now. This girl walked into that car, deliberately didn't fasten her seatbelt, waited until Ji Xiao leaned over to buckle her in, and then—then—pressed her lips against his like it was just some transactional thing. Like she was returning a library book. "Here, your kiss back. You're welcome." And Ji Xiao? Oh, poor, flustered, internally-screaming Ji Xiao. His arms felt like lead. His heart was probably doing backflips. He's literally fighting with himself the whole time—every rational part of his brain is screaming that she's not the woman from last night, she's the wrong person, this is wrong—while his body is just... melting. And then she kisses him five more times in a row, collecting Luck Points like they're Pokémon cards, and he can't push her away. CAN'T. PUSH. HER. AWAY. The worst part is the subtext dripping from every line. She's using him for points, sure, but the way the narrative describes her—"her burning gaze falling on his lips," "a faint trace of a smile flickered in her calm eyes"—there's something there beneath the calculation. And he's not innocent either. He's remembering that kiss from the car, his throat going dry, heat spreading through his body. The tension between them is so thick you could cut it with a knife, and neither of them is even aware of what's actually happening. Also can we talk about how she literally calls him out on his neck bite mark? "Next time you sneak a bite, remember to wipe your mouth clean." I fell out of my chair. She sees it. She KNOWS. And he tries to play it off as a mosquito bite while fumbling with the gears three times. The man cannot drive to save his life right now.

Okay, first of all—20 Physique Points for staying overnight with Ji Xiao, and a Level 3 electric shock as punishment for failure? The system is absolutely deranged. I love it. It's like the universe's most passive-aggressive matchmaker. But here's what actually got me: Su Nuannuan's entire arc in these chapters is a masterclass in strategic patience. She's not just surviving, she's playing 4D chess while everyone else is still learning how the pieces move. The pension confrontation, the four-day ultimatum, the calculated kisses to farm Luck Points—she's methodically dismantling the Ji family from the inside while pretending to be a helpless little girl. And the best part? Ji Xiao has no idea he's being played. He thinks he's the one in control, but every time he leans in, she's already three steps ahead. The reveal about the bite mark on his neck? That's the kind of detail that makes you sit up and go 'wait, WHAT?' One moment she's thinking he's one of two mysterious men from that night, and the next—boom, physical evidence that she might have been intimate with him too. The plot is threading these revelations so carefully that I couldn't look away. Is she really after just the Luck Points, or is there something else driving her? And what happens when Ji Xiao finally figures out she's been using him this whole time?

The restaurant scene is one of the most vivid snapshots of this era I've ever read in a novel. Let me just say this: the prices on that blackboard tell you everything you need to know about the world. Stir-fried vegetables: 30 cents. Rice: 30 cents per half jin, but you also need grain coupons. A worker makes thirty-six yuan a month. Su Nuannuan asks for one thousand yuan. Do the math. This isn't just a number—this is an impossible sum that the narrator makes you feel in your bones. The state-run restaurant itself—empty at eight in the morning, one attendant who doesn't even bother looking up, the smell of a place that serves people who matter and people who don't. Chef Wang's plump hand pushing aside the kitchen curtain, his smile that dies the second he sees who's behind Ji Xiao. That single detail—his expression turning odd—says everything about how this girl is perceived. She's not just poor; she's *notorious*. The manic episodes, the biting. The world has already written her story before she opens her mouth. And then the supply and marketing cooperative—absolute chaos. Meat sold out again. People shouting. The salesperson's flat, exhausted voice. Su Nuannuan's panic attack in the car, fingers digging into the seat, cold sweat breaking out. The contrast between the noisy crowd outside and the suffocating silence inside the car? Perfect. You can feel her heart racing. The image of Ji Xiao coming back with paper bags, ears flushed red because it's the first time he's ever bought clothes for a woman—that scene is so specific and human. The author doesn't need a thousand words. Just one man walking fast, slightly unsteady, trying not to be seen. And then Su Nuannuan looking at his thin lips and calculating how many kisses equal one health point. The world feels real because the details are so grounded. Food stamps. Grain coupons. Military dependents. This isn't just backdrop—it's the cage she's trying to survive inside.

There's this one moment that's been haunting me since I finished reading. Su Nuannuan sits down to a meal and eats like her life depends on it—because it does. The narration is almost clinical: "Chopsticks moved swiftly across the table, the only sound the crisp clinking of utensils against bowls." No dialogue, no inner monologue. Just the sound of someone eating. And then Ji Xiao does something that completely recontextualizes everything. He takes her leftover dishes and pours them into his own bowl. Not a word. Just... eats what she left. The author writes it like a whirlwind sweeping away remnants. This man, a Regiment Commander, someone with power and status, finishes the food of the girl his family abused for eight years. I keep coming back to the orphan parallel the text draws: "In her previous life, she had been an orphan, never knowing where her next meal would come from, growing up hungry. In this life, she was also an orphan. Though she had a place to stay, she had never eaten a full meal in her life." Two lives. Two forms of hunger. The first was poverty; the second was something worse—having a roof but being starved anyway. The Ji family gave her a place to exist but never let her live. Eight years of being a "free servant." The food at that state-run restaurant isn't just food—it's the first time in her combined lifetimes that someone is *serving* her instead of making her serve. And the system's physical transformations? The chest developing, the skin clearing, the brown spots vanishing—that's not just a beauty upgrade. It's the body reclaiming itself. The original host's body was a site of neglect, and now every point she earns is a small act of resurrection. She's not just surviving; she's becoming someone the world can't ignore. The kiss scene is grotesque and hilarious and tragic all at once—she's counting kisses like currency, treating his lips like an ATM. But underneath the comedy, it's about agency. She's using the only tool she has to buy her freedom. What does that say about a world where a woman's body is the only thing she can trade?

"Don't argue with fools; don't fight with villains over right and wrong. Where's the money?" I need to just sit with this line for a moment. That is the most Su Nuannuan sentence ever written. She gets harassed by a random old woman, doesn't even engage, just deflects and pivots straight to business. The man walks up, asks about the confrontation, and her immediate response is "Where's the money?" She doesn't care about justice. She doesn't care about the drama. She cares about the thousand yuan in her pocket and the pension she's about to claim. This is a woman who has been through two lifetimes of suffering and has zero patience for nonsense. And Ji Xiao's dialogue? Perfect. "Stop. Apologize." Two words. That's it. He doesn't explain, he doesn't negotiate, he just commands and the old woman scrambles away. His voice is sharp, authoritative, but there's this underlying current of flustered confusion whenever he's talking to Su Nuannuan about anything personal. "You're so fierce with me. Why do you turn into a mute quail when you see outsiders?" He's genuinely confused by her, and that confusion is adorable. The banter between them is where the writing truly shines though. Her: "Weren't you the one who started it? Don't worry, I won't hold you responsible." His immediate reaction—veins bulging, voice cold, calling her shameless—shows exactly how much she gets under his skin. And then her parting shot about his neck mark? "Next time you sneak a bite, remember to wipe your mouth clean." She just dismantled his entire composure in one sentence. The dialogue never feels forced. Each character has a distinct voice, and the subtext is always louder than the actual words. That's skilled writing.

Let me just say this upfront: the stakes in this book are absolutely brutal and the author doesn't let you forget it for a single page. Su Nuannuan's health points are at 22. The system tells her flat out: three more episodes like the one in the restaurant and this body dies. Three. Not thirty. Three. And she's already had one from the forced task penalty, one from the crowd panic attack, and she's walking around with a heart so weak she can feel it giving out. This isn't a girl with a tough day—this is a girl holding onto life by a thread. The system's solution? Kiss Ji Xiao. Sixty-eight times. At twenty per day, that's four days of relentless, calculated intimacy with a man who already finds her annoying. And every time he gets closer to figuring out her game, the guard goes up. "I underestimated you." That line from him? Chilling. He's not just annoyed anymore—he's watching her. But the external stakes are just as real. The Ji family could destroy her. Mother Ji's hypocrisy is a live threat. Ji Chuan—the original host's obsession—is the ghost haunting every interaction. And Su Nuannuan's own past as an orphan, someone who's never had anything, makes every yuan and every health point feel like the difference between life and death because that's exactly what it is. What keeps me on the edge of my seat is how the author layers these conflicts. The system tasks create urgency. The body creates vulnerability. Ji Xiao creates tension—part protector, part obstacle, part unknowing benefactor. And Su Nuannuan's own mind? She's calculating, ruthless, and desperately afraid all at once. The kiss scene is the perfect example: comedy on the surface, survival underneath, and a growing danger that Ji Xiao is starting to see through her. She's playing a game where the board is her own body and the pieces are borrowed. How long can she keep winning before the house notices?

The pacing in this section is absolutely ruthless, and I mean that in the best possible way. Let me break down why it works so well. Chapter 13 starts with the system giving Su Nuannuan an impossible task—stay overnight with Ji Xiao or get shocked. Immediate stakes. Then it cuts to her changing clothes in a stifling car, the heat, the sweat, the red dress that makes her look like "a red flower on a lump of coal." You can feel the discomfort. You're sitting in that car with her. Then she steps out, and suddenly there's this whole scene with the old woman gossiping, the capitalist remarks, the social tension of the era pressing down on her. It's a breather moment, but it's also building the world around her. Then Ji Xiao appears. Protects her. Gets the money. And just when you think the chapter is going to settle into a calm negotiation scene—she pulls out the four-day ultimatum. The pacing shifts again. It goes from external conflict (the old woman) to internal conflict (her plan against the Ji family) to romantic tension (the car scene) all in the span of a few pages. The chapter ends on a cliffhanger that's almost too much—a mysterious man waiting in an alley, watching them arrive. Who is he? How does he connect to the two men from last night? The author just drops this and cuts to black, and I am NOT ready for the next chapter. What I appreciate most is how the author never lets the reader breathe for too long. Every scene has momentum. Even the quiet moments—the leaf on her shoulder, the sunlight on her face—feel charged with something unsaid. The structure is tight, almost claustrophobic in the best way, like the story itself is holding its breath.

Okay so this whole setup is absolutely wild. Su Nuannuan wakes up in someone else's body—this broken, malnourished girl who's been treated like garbage by the Ji family for eight years—and instead of getting any chill time to figure things out, the System immediately shoves a task in her face: agree to follow the army AND tell Ji Xiao to marry her, or suffer some unholy penalty. Like, bro, I just got here and you're already putting me through hell? But here's what I loved—the way she flips it. Instead of caving, she uses the system's own rules against the situation. She tells Ji Xiao she'll follow the army but only if HE marries her. That is such a power move. She basically turns a task she hates into a negotiation where she actually gains something. And then the money scene? Chef Wang's reaction when she asks for a thousand yuan plus food stamps—his face, the silent judgment, the assumption that she's just another foolish girl making outrageous demands. Meanwhile Ji Xiao just... agrees. No hesitation. That's the plot twist that hit me. He's not giving her money out of kindness; he's buying his way out of a problem. But the second she eats like she's been starving (because she has), something shifts in him. He starts serving her food. Actually serving her. And when she quotes "no talking while eating or sleeping" like she's scolding him? His iceberg face cracks. I literally gasped. Then the kiss scene—she counts them like she's buying groceries. One, two, three, four. Six times and he snaps. This woman is treating survival like a math problem and Ji Xiao is just... confused and furious and somehow also flustered? The plot keeps pivoting and I can't look away.