Transmigrated in the 70’s: My Villain Son Picks Trash to Support Me - Reviews

Can we just take a moment to appreciate how well-written the dialogue is in this section? Like, I can tell who's speaking without looking at the names, and that's not always the case in novels I read. Xu Yao's voice is sharp, practical, and laced with this dry humor that comes from surviving hard things. When she tells Xu Jia'an her standards for a husband—"tall, rich, handsome, owns a car and a house, and both parents dead"—it's funny but it's ALSO a genuine expression of her worldview. She's not being sarcastic for comedy's sake; she's being honest about how impossible it is to find a good man, and she's deflecting the real question (will she remarry?) with humor. That's a very specific character voice, and it's consistent. Xu Gang is another standout. His dialogue is minimal but each line carries weight. "I ain't dead yet! You think you can bully my sister? Next time—woman or not—I'll beat the crap out of you." That's not just a threat; that's a character moment. This boy who was bullied for his face, who works hard, who loves his sister fiercely—he speaks in short, hard sentences because that's how he protects himself and his family. The brick-splitting scene doesn't need dialogue at all; the action speaks for him. Then there's Aunt Wu, who is honestly one of my favorite side characters now. "Look at your An'an, so skinny—I've already thickened my skin enough to steal his nutrition, how could I take your chicken too?" This is such a specific, colorful way of speaking. She's warm but also proud, generous but not charitable in a way that makes you feel small. She pays five yuan for a chicken that's worth 4.5 and calls it conscience. That's a whole philosophy in one sentence. Li Wenhui's dialogue is chilling in its casual cruelty. "Maybe you should just adopt Jia'an instead. That way Xu Yao won't have a burden holding her back from marrying again, right?" She says this half-joking, which makes it worse. It's the kind of thing a person says while smiling, testing the waters to see how much cruelty they can get away with. And then her matchmaking proposal—"My family has a younger brother. Proper city household registration, too. He's picky and still unmarried. I think you're acceptable"—is so casually insulting that it's almost comedic. Calling a woman "acceptable" like she's a used appliance. Han Gaoyi's dialogue is where the comedy really shines. The drunk friend trope is always fun, but this version is particular because he's genuinely sweet despite being a bit of a fool. "If I ever see that dog, I'll kill him with my own hands!" and then immediately after, Ji Changyu is the one who's actually angry about Xu Yao. The irony is delicious. And Ji Changyu—his dialogue is sparse, which is perfect for his character. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, it lands. "Who did you say you want to win over?" said after shattering a wine glass. Three lines of dialogue and a sound effect, and you feel the entire room temperature drop. Later: "Stop meddling. If you drive away my wife and son, you'll regret it." He says this while his mother has no idea he has a wife and son, which means he's either talking to himself or he's already imagining a future with Xu Yao so vividly that he can't help but speak it aloud. Either reading is valid and both are wonderful. The narrative voice itself is also worth discussing. It's close third person, bouncing between Xu Yao and Ji Changyu's perspectives, and it has this warm, slightly wry tone that fits the story perfectly. It's not overly literary or pretentious—it's the kind of narration that feels like a friend telling you a story. "The villain's son was like a sponge, soaking up knowledge." That's the narrator chiming in with an opinion, and it's delightful. One thing I want to flag: Xu Jia'an's dialogue is carefully calibrated to sound like a child who is smarter than his years but still a child. "Mom, will you get married?" asked quietly after his dramatic declaration that he'll never marry. The pause, the shift in tone—it's perfect. He's using his childishness as a weapon, and he knows it.

I need to talk about this one moment because I am NOT okay. Xu Jia'an calls her 'Mom' for the first time. FIRST TIME. After everything—the abuse, the neglect, the nights spent shivering in the rain—and Xu Yao just shows up with a bowl of water and stays up all night? The way the text describes his eyes: 'like obsidian washed with water,' 'like a lost fawn searching desperately for home.' I literally got chills. This is a kid who was taught that accepting kindness could get you killed, and yet here he is, running barefoot through the morning light toward the only person who's ever shown him warmth. And then Xu Yao, being Xu Yao, completely deflates the moment by launching into her ridiculous demands about a five-hundred-meter Simmons bed and ninety-nine male servants. Classic deflection. She's clearly uncomfortable with genuine emotion and covers it with humor. But the narration tells us everything: 'She hated sappy moments. Hypocrisy, she could handle—but exchanging true hearts? No thanks.' Oof. That hit hard. The most devastating part comes at the end when he says 'Okay, I'll wait for you at home' and the text reveals his internal monologue: 'Xu Yao, you'd better keep your word. If you lie to me, even if I have to, I'll tie you up and drag you back.' That's not a child's thought. That's someone who has been abandoned before and is already preparing for it. The fact that he's already planning to trap her if she leaves? That's not love—that's trauma wearing love's costume. And Xu Yao has no idea any of this is happening. She just thinks he's being obedient.

I need a minute. I genuinely need a minute after reading the deworming candy scene. This is the most heartbreaking thing I have ever encountered in a novel and I don't care who knows it. Xu Jia'an eats this little sugar cube, his stomach starts hurting, and his immediate assumption is that it's poison and he's going to die. Not 'mom I feel sick' — he neatly folds his pocket money and new clothes at the bedside, lies down with his hands on his chest, and says goodbye. He even asks her to keep his ashes with her so he can 'protect you forever.' A FIVE-YEAR-OLD who has apparently seen children die before and concluded that candy might kill him too. The fact that he thought 'better not to waste food' before putting down his chopsticks absolutely destroyed me. And then the reversal — Xu Yao realizes he misunderstood, tries to play along with the burial thing, and this kid's internal monologue is just 'of course she doesn't love me enough to even grant my last wish. Better to just die quickly. No one loves me anyway.' He turns his back to her and silently faces away. I was sobbing. This child has zero survival instinct because he genuinely believes he is unlovable, and the moment Xu Yao laughs and tells him he's just hungry — 'Yes — it did feel like hunger after all!' — the relief is so palpable you can feel it through the page. The tic-tac-toe scene after that? Pure comfort food. 'You're amazing. That's your reward — a kiss.' A five-year-old kissing his mom on the cheek after losing. I'm not crying, you're crying.

There's this one moment in chapter 40 that I can't stop thinking about. Xu Yao and Xu Jia'an are in the bedroom, the sky fully dark, and she lights a kerosene lamp to teach him pinyin. The whole scene just... glows. The author describes the dim light reflecting in Xu Jia'an's deep dark eyes, breaking into a thread of brightness. His lips curving into that sweet smile when he says 'Okay. You can count on me.' It's such a quiet, intimate moment between these two, and the setting makes it feel almost sacred. But then you have the contrast of the village scenes—the blazing sun when they're walking to the bus station, Liu Mei carrying that small bundle with unfocused eyes, the old house with its broken locks and scattered memories. The world feels so textured. You can smell the kerosene, feel the heat of the fire Xu Yao is stoking (badly, apparently), see the pinyin scratched into the ground in front of their door. The detail about the county town bus running only twice a day? That's the kind of specific, grounded detail that makes the setting feel real. You can't just hop on a bus whenever—you have to plan, to wait, to miss it and suffer the consequences. It adds this layer of constraint to everything they do. And the cowshed! Liu Mei considering living in a cowshed because 'at least it would save them some rations.' The poverty here isn't abstract—it's calculated, every meal weighed against survival. The author doesn't need to spell it out. The world speaks for itself.

Okay so let me just say—this chapter arc is *chef's kiss*. The whole setup with Xu Yao going to the county to meet Liang Zhicheng feels like a coiled spring. Every step she takes toward that meeting, the author keeps layering in reasons why this could go horribly wrong. First you've got her father's suspicious behavior, then the cousin's meddling, then the creepy stepson who literally says 'I don't want a stepmother' to her face. And then—BAM—the drug in the malted milk tin. I literally gasped. The author had me convinced this was just a matchmaking drama, then pivots into full survival mode. What's brilliant is how the original plot is subverted. In the source material, the public security officer saves her, right? But here, Xu Yao *knows* this might happen and comes prepared anyway. She's not relying on fate—she's using her knowledge of the plot as a safety net while still keeping her options open. That line where she says 'I want to report him!' and points at Liang Zhicheng? Perfect. She doesn't just wait to be rescued; she seizes the moment. The pacing is relentless too. Rainstorm → fever → medicine → morning porridge → cousin arrives → bike ride → county town → the house → the drug attempt → the arrest. It's one escalation after another with barely a breath. And the fact that her father literally *leaves* her there to get a report? That's the kind of detail that makes you want to throw the book across the room at Xu Weidong.

There's this incredible symbolic layer running through these chapters that I can't stop thinking about. Water and fire are everywhere. Xu Jia'an feels like he's being 'roasted over a fire' during his fever, and then Xu Yao brings him 'sweet dew'—water as salvation. But the original Xu Yao's rule was: 'without her permission, he mustn't accept things from anyone else, because the one offering might be the very person roasting him.' So water is both poison and medicine depending on who's offering it. That's the whole theme of this story right there—trust is the most dangerous thing in this world. Then there are the leather shoes. Xu Lanxiang tiptoeing around puddles, terrified of dirtying them, while Xu Yao strides through everything barefoot and unbothered. Those shoes represent everything Lanxiang has been given that Xu Yao never received—not just the shoes, but the father's favor, the opportunities, the careful coddling. And yet Xu Yao doesn't even notice the injustice. She just laughs it off and says she'll buy Lanxiang clothes from the deputy director's money. The ultimate power move: refusing to play the victim. And the boy's dark thoughts beneath that obedient smile? That's the recurring motif of the whole novel—the gap between appearance and reality. Everyone is performing. Xu Yao performs the shameless daughter. Lanxiang performs the grateful cousin. Xu Weidong performs the caring father. And Xu Jia'an performs the obedient child while secretly planning to kidnap his own mother if she tries to leave. The world of this novel is one where authenticity is a liability and performance is survival.

Can we just take a moment to appreciate how good Xu Yao's internal monologue is? Because this woman has NOTES. 'My son, the greater the ability, the greater the responsibility! If you ever become rich and powerful, don't forget your mom. From now on, I'll be counting on you.' — Said with a straight face, while lying in bed under a kerosene lamp, patting her five-year-old's hand. This is peak comedic timing. And then later, when she's talking to the police station auntie: 'Sorry, I wasted some time this morning moving the household registration. I missed the town bus and delayed you all from getting off work, didn't I?' With dried sweet potatoes in her pocket like some kind of political offering. The performance is Oscar-worthy. But the dialogue isn't just funny—it's character-revealing. Look at how Xu Yao speaks to her father when he comes out of the police station. She doesn't yell. She doesn't cry. She just... opens the household register and lets him READ it. The silence between them says everything. Xu Weidong's response is just two words: 'You mean it?!' That's it. That's all he has. After everything—the favoritism, the betrayal, the way he treated his own daughter—his entire emotional vocabulary collapses to disbelief. And Liu Mei? She's the perfect foil. 'Quick, go! Talk to him nicely, say some soft words.' Soft words? Absolutely impossible. The contrast between Liu Mei's submissive nature and Xu Yao's razor-sharpness is what makes their dialogue sing.

The opening scene of this chapter is absolutely cinematic. Let me paint it for you: midnight, torrential rain, Xu Yao drenched to the bone, pounding on a barefoot doctor's door. The doctor's first impression of her is brutal—'shameless and heartless, she beat her own son as if she wished he would just die.' And the text makes it clear this isn't just rumor; the rural folks genuinely believe she's worse than a tiger. But then she's standing there, desperate, asking for medicine for the boy she supposedly hates. The contrast between her reputation and her actions in that moment? Chilling. Then there's the morning after. The rain stops, sunlight filters through the window, and Xu Jia'an wakes up in Xu Yao's room—for the first time ever. She's never let him inside before. The detail about his clothes being hers, carrying 'the faint scent of soap,' is so quietly devastating. It's the smallest detail but it says everything about how far their relationship has come in one night. And the county town scenes! The Soviet-era residences, the two-story townhouses where only cadre families live, the public security officer jogging toward them during rush hour. The world feels incredibly lived-in. You can practically smell the dry tobacco smoke from Old Man Xu's pipe and feel the puddles Xu Lanxiang is tiptoeing around in her precious leather shoes. The author doesn't over-describe—it's all in the selective details that make you feel like you're actually there.

Let me just say this chapter had me gripping the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. The stakes here are layered in the best way. On the surface, it's about whether Xu Weidong gets released from police custody. But underneath that, it's about whether Xu Yao's family gets destroyed by their own relatives. And underneath THAT, it's about whether Xu Yao can finally break free from a father who has spent her whole life treating her as expendable. The second branch's betrayal is devastating because it's so calculated. 'Lanxiang is our brigade's golden phoenix—she can't be ruined by her uncle!' They're willing to sacrifice an entire family for one college admission. And the villagers? They agree. 'Compared to the second branch's bright future, the main branch's plight wasn't worth much.' This is the harshest truth the book has shown us so far—how quickly community solidarity dissolves when self-interest is involved. But what made me truly anxious was the police station scene. Xu Yao rushing there before closing time, knowing her father's life depends on it, with dried sweet potatoes as her only offering. The auntie's gossip, the slogan on the wall, the formal procedure—it all felt like a gauntlet she had to run. And then the release. Han Gaoyi waiting all day. The signature. The walk home. Every step toward that broken lock felt like a breath held too long finally being released. The tension never dropped. Not once. And when Xu Yao finally told her father to his face what his family had done, I swear I felt the air leave the room. This author knows how to build pressure and then—BAM—release it in the most satisfying way possible.

I keep coming back to the chicken in this section. Not just as a plot device—though it is that, generating nearly thirty-two yuan and becoming a bargaining chip with Aunt Wu—but as a symbol of everything Xu Yao is fighting for. These chickens represent survival, yes. But they also represent something deeper: the value of things that others dismiss. A hen that doesn't lay eggs is supposed to be worthless. Li Wenhui's neighbor calls it out in a sing-song voice: "a hen that doesn't lay eggs, eats like a hen that doesn't lay eggs." It's a cruel joke, but it's also a reflection of how the world sees Xu Yao—someone who doesn't fit the expected function, someone who is a burden, someone who shouldn't expect anything. But Xu Yao sees the value where others don't. She keeps the two chickens for nutrition. She offers one to Aunt Wu not as charity but as an investment in community. She cooks it and shares it with her children. The chicken becomes a symbol of her philosophy: nothing is wasted if you know how to use it, and dignity comes from resourcefulness, not from what society tells you you're worth. Then there's the brick. Xu Gang splitting a brick with his bare hand is one of those moments that stays with you. It's not just a display of strength—it's a statement. His father is described as "spineless and cowardly," and Xu Gang knows that in this world, if he doesn't show strength, everyone will treat them like prey. The brick-splitting is performative in a tragic way. He's performing masculinity and power because the world has told him that's the only language people will respect. His hand is reddened, he says he nearly ruined it, and Xu Yao promises him the drumstick. The sacrifice is real, and the reward is small, but that's the equation of their lives. The matchmaking subplot is rich with thematic material too. Ji Changyu's mother is trying to arrange a marriage based on practical considerations—her son can't have children, so a widow with a young daughter is "perfect." But the theme here is about how society reduces people to their functions. Xu Yao is being evaluated not as a person but as a package deal: country girl, has a child, has a disabled brother. Li Wenhui's proposal is essentially: we'll take what we can get. And Xu Yao's reaction—frost on her face, the silent fury—is a rejection of that entire framework. The most powerful symbolic moment, though, is Xu Jia'an hooking his little finger with Xu Yao's. "He was no 'burden.'" Three words, no dialogue, just a gesture. In a story full of people being evaluated for their utility, this moment is pure connection. It's the antidote to everything the neighbors and Li Wenhui and even Ji Changyu's mother represent. And the recurring question of identity—who is Xu Jia'an's father, who is Ji Changyu to this family, what role will each person play—ties into a larger theme about belonging. Xu Yao keeps saying she'll probably remarry because "I'll need someone to be with me, to rely on each other in old age." But the story is quietly building toward the idea that the family they already have might be enough, or at least that the right person will join them rather than complete them. The line "There's no free lunch in this world" that Xu Yao tells her son is both a survival lesson and a thematic thesis. Everything in this story is about exchange—chickens for money, favors for alliances, kindness for loyalty. But the story is also arguing that some things transcend exchange. A child's love. A brother's sacrifice. The unexpected collision of two people who keep missing each other.

Okay so let me just say this: the moment Xu Yao dropped that bomb about splitting the household register? I literally gasped out loud. Everything before it was building toward this, and I love how the author played it. The second branch was already painted as these greedy parasites—fawning over Xu Weidong when he was useful, then immediately trying to cut ties the second he fell. Classic. But Xu Yao? She didn't just sit there and cry about it. She turned their own cruelty into a weapon. Think about it: they wanted to split the family? Fine. But Xu Yao made sure it was FORMAL. On paper. In the household register. That's not just emotional manipulation—that's strategic brilliance. She basically said: you want to disown him? Then do it properly, and I'll make sure everyone knows exactly what you did. And then the police call comes in, Xu Weidong is cleared, and Xu Yao flips open that register right in front of him. The scene where his fists clenched and his veins bulged? Perfection. The plot didn't just resolve—it reversed so cleanly it was almost satisfying to watch. Also, the detail about the police station slogan 'Not a needle or thread shall be taken from the masses' while Xu Yao was trying to bribe them with dried sweet potatoes? That's the kind of dark humor that makes the plot feel alive. The author knows how to balance heavy drama with moments that make you snort-laugh.

Okay so I have to talk about Xu Jia'an because this kid is genuinely one of the most interesting characters I've read in a long time. On the surface he's this tiny five-year-old who picks up cardboard to earn money and says things like 'I'll get you one-eight-eight male models' when he grows up. Sounds adorable, right? Wrong. This is the villain son from the original timeline who 'manipulated events with cunning brilliance' without even going to school. The author drops this little bombshell at the end when Xu Yao realizes just how smart he is after he figures out tic-tac-toe strategy in four rounds. Four. Rounds. And she's thinking, what if he actually got an education? What if they went to college together? That line hit me like a truck because it completely reframes everything we've seen of this kid. And then there's the whole family dynamic with Xu Weidong. The villagers are out here gossiping that he probably went astray because of money for his brother's family, and Liu Mei just quietly accepts it. But Yao is the one who notices the real weirdness — 'unless Xu Weidong, like Xu Yao herself, had somehow been replaced at the core by someone else?' That theory is wild and I am HERE for it. The original Yao clearly had a different father figure before whatever swap happened, and the fact that Yao is piecing this together while everyone else is just mad about the scandal shows how sharp she is. Also can we talk about how Zhang Yaowen got absolutely friend-zoned? 'You'd better not, little brother. You're the brigade leader's son. I can't afford to reach that high.' Ouch. But honestly she's right — the guy is weak-willed and couldn't even stand up to his own mom. Not the partner material she needs right now.