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

The stakes in these chapters are *insane* and I need to talk about why. On the surface, this is a matchmaking story. But read between the lines and it's a survival thriller. Xu Yao walks into Liang Zhicheng's house knowing he's dangerous, knowing he might try to drug her, knowing her father is essentially selling her. And she goes anyway. Why? Because the alternative is staying in a rural village with no prospects, raising a traumatized child alone, and watching her father continue to exploit everyone around him. The most terrifying conflict isn't even the obvious one with Liang Zhicheng—it's the one happening at the dinner table back home. Xu Weidong's behavior is so casually predatory. He's not forcing her; he's *guiding* her, flattering her, making her feel like this is her opportunity. 'You've been so good to me'—when has he ever been good to her? The original Xu Yao would have melted at those words. The transmigrated Xu Yao sees right through it but plays along anyway because she needs this connection to survive. And Xu Jia'an? His conflict is the most heartbreaking. He's caught between wanting his mother to stay and knowing she'll leave. His internal monologue at the end—'I'll tie you up and drag you back'—is the kind of dark, twisted love that comes from extreme neglect. He'd rather have her trapped beside him than free without him. What kind of world makes a seven-year-old think that's the only way to keep someone?

I keep coming back to that scene where Xu Jia'an smashes the lock with an axe. The author literally writes: 'In the past, there was Chenxiang splitting a mountain to save his mother. Now, there's Jia'an breaking a lock to free his mother.' This is not accidental. This is the author winking at us, saying PAY ATTENTION. Chenxiang splitting the mountain is a famous Chinese folk tale about filial piety—a son who literally tears apart the earth to rescue his imprisoned mother. By invoking this, the author is placing Xu Jia'an in that same mythic lineage. But instead of a mountain, it's a door lock. Instead of magic, it's a child's small hands swinging a heavy axe. The domestication of the myth makes it more powerful, not less. And the lock itself—what does it symbolize? Xu Weidong gave the keys to his niece but not to his wife and daughter. The lock represents exclusion, betrayal, the literal barrier between father and children. Breaking it isn't just practical—it's symbolic liberation. Then there's the household register, which becomes this recurring motif throughout the chapter. It's supposed to represent family unity, but instead it becomes the document that proves the family is already fractured. When Xu Yao flips it open for her father to read, she's holding up a mirror to his choices. The pinyin Xu Jia'an learned by overhearing village kids—that's another symbol. Knowledge as survival. He didn't go to school, but he learned anyway. He turned scraps of paper and fragments of song into a tool. That's the whole story right there: making something from nothing, finding power in what others discard.

There are so many layers to this chapter that I keep going back to. Let me just dump my thoughts and see what sticks. The first thing that grabbed me was Xu Jia'an carrying that 'huge ragged cloth bag' of cardboard, telling his mom 'I can pick up trash to feed you.' This kid is five. FIVE. And he's already shouldering the economic survival of the household. The author keeps emphasizing how poor they are — the missing sole on his shoe, the dirt on his face, the fact that he's been scavenging like a grown man. But then there's also this recurring motif of replacement and identity. Yao keeps thinking about whether Xu Weidong was 'replaced at the core by someone else,' and she herself is a transmigrator who took over someone else's body. The whole story seems to be asking: what makes someone who they are? Is it blood, or is it the choices you make? Then there's the deworming candy — this tiny little symbol of how the world tries to 'cleanse' you, to get rid of the parasites inside you, but the real poison isn't in the candy, it's in the circumstances. Jia'an assumes the candy is poison because his entire life has taught him that things that come from adults end in pain or death. He's seen children die. He doesn't trust the world. And yet Xu Yao, despite not having that 'instinctive maternal love,' chooses to scrub his back, teach him tic-tac-toe, and stay. She says 'I'd never give you anything dangerous' and means it. The paper mill waste he scavenges, the ' Pagoda Candy ' that Yao remembers from her own childhood, the fact that both of them are somehow displaced versions of people who came before — it all connects. This story isn't just about surviving poverty. It's about whether you can build something real when everything around you feels like it was never meant for you in the first place.

"When someone's overly nice for no reason, they're either a thief or a schemer. There's no free lunch in this world." Xu Yao says this line and immediately the book pivots from domestic survival drama to something with actual romantic tension. That's the kind of pacing control I respect. Let me break down why this section works so well structurally. The author opens with what could have been a throwaway comedic scene—Ji Changyu trying to interact with Xu Jia'an and getting middle fingers and insults in return. But instead of dwelling on it, the narrative moves. It moves to the bookstore, moves to the black market, moves to neighbor interactions, moves to a heartwarming moment of Xu Yao teaching Xu Jia'an, and THEN—BAM—it cuts to Ji Changyu's perspective and the whole emotional temperature of the book shifts. The pacing between the two POVs is what makes this section sing. Xu Yao's scenes are warm, grounded, slightly comedic—selling chickens, dealing with nosy neighbors, bonding with her brother and son. Ji Changyu's scenes are tense, emotionally charged, building toward that glass-shattering moment. The contrast between these two tracks creates a rhythm that's almost musical. You get a breath of warmth, then a spike of tension, then warmth again, then more tension. It's the narrative equivalent of heartbeat monitoring. And the chapter ends on what I can only describe as a masterclass cliffhanger. Xu Jia'an, this kid who has been established as sharp beyond his years, asks: "Mom, tomorrow makes a week. Will you call him?" His eyes are described as "black and bright, carrying a hint of aggression—like a little beast ready to pounce." The reader is left wondering: will Xu Yao call Ji Changyu? What will happen when they finally meet? And what is that kid plotting? The transition from the domestic scene (eating chicken, teaching lessons) to Ji Changyu's world (drinking with Han Gaoyi, dealing with his mother) is handled with a simple "Meanwhile—" that works perfectly. It's unpretentious and effective. The author isn't trying to be fancy with the structure; they're just telling the story and letting the parallel narratives do the work. One thing I want to praise: the Li Wenhui confrontation scene. It could have been a drag—a long, angry exchange with neighbors. But the author keeps it tight. The kid drops the bomb about the childless daughter-in-law, Li Wenhui makes her proposition, Aunt Wu shuts it down, Xu Gang splits a brick, and Li Wenhui scurries away. Six beats, no fat. That's how you pace a conflict scene. The only moment that felt slightly rushed to me was the transition from Xu Yao's teaching scene to the chicken-eating scene. It moved fast, almost too fast. But honestly, in the context of the chapter's overall pacing, it works as a brief pause before the emotional crescendo. This author understands that pacing isn't about going fast or slow—it's about knowing when to accelerate and when to let the reader breathe. And this section is a textbook example.

Let me just say this upfront: the stakes in this chapter are SO high and the author knows exactly how to keep you hooked. On the external level, Xu Weidong is in police custody facing eight to ten years for trafficking women. If his house gets confiscated and his assets seized, the entire family — Yao, Jia'an, Liu Mei, the kids in the second branch — are suddenly destitute. The villagers are already whispering about how he did it for his brother's family, not even his own kids. That rumor alone is a ticking time bomb because if it gets out that Xu Weidong tried to sell Yao, everything changes. But the internal stakes are what really get me. Yao is a transmigrator who landed in the worst possible body with zero resources, no family support, and a five-year-old she barely feels connected to. She explicitly thinks: 'Ending up in this world had been pure bad luck — my sports cars, villas, wineries, and male models were all gone.' And yet she's still fighting. She deliberately exaggerates the danger to get villagers to help search for Jia'an. She lies about not pressing charges to protect herself while keeping options open. Every move she makes is calculated survival. Jia'an's stakes are even more desperate. He's out there alone in town, picking up cardboard, completely unaware of kidnappers. When he goes missing, Yao — who admits she lacks maternal instinct — goes absolutely frantic. 'You nearly scared me to death.' The moment she finds him covered in dirt and he says 'Don't marry anyone. I'll take care of you,' the tension releases but immediately rebuilds because now we know how fragile their situation is. One wrong move and this whole fragile family structure collapses. And then there's the Zhang Yaowen subplot — his mother smeared Yao's reputation, Yao shut him down cold, and now he's left standing outside wondering if he'll ever see her again. Not the main conflict, but it adds this layer of social danger that could come back to bite her later. The author is playing 4D chess with tension here and I am obsessed.

Let me just start by saying: the stakes in this section are deceptively high. On the surface, it's a story about a woman selling chickens and a man who might be the father of her child. But underneath, everything is on the line. For Xu Yao, the stakes are survival and dignity. She's navigating a world that wants to crush her—neighbors who gossip, potential matchmakers who see her as a burden, a black market that could shut down if someone reports them. The chicken-selling operation is her family's financial lifeline, and she knows it. "We can't go too often. If we draw too much attention, someone will report us." One misstep and the whole thing collapses. And she's doing this alone, essentially, with her brother as backup and her son as her emotional anchor. The conflict with Li Wenhui and the neighbors raises the stakes from financial to social. In this community, reputation is everything. Being seen as a woman with a child out of wedlock, being pitied or mocked, being pushed into unwanted marriages—these are real threats. Xu Yao's frosty reaction to Li Wenhui's proposal isn't just pride; it's self-preservation. If she shows weakness, they'll eat her alive. For Ji Changyu, the stakes are equally high but of a different kind. He's discovering that he might have a son. The timeline matches. The boy looks a bit like him. And Xu Yao—the same woman who gave him that look, that earnest, searching look—has been living with this child, raising him, teaching him. The conflict here is internal: he wants to approach her, but he's also angry that she didn't recognize him, that she called him a bastard, that she seems to have moved on without a backward glance. "She said she can't forget her previous man, so she won't date me." This line from Han Gaoyi is the kind of misunderstanding that could destroy everything. Ji Changyu believes it. He feels rejected. And yet—he's also the one who said, almost to himself, "If you drive away my wife and son, you'll regret it." He's already imagining a future with them, even as he's convinced she doesn't want him. That's the conflict: his heart is already there, but his mind is full of doubt and anger. The external conflicts are mounting too. Ji Changyu's mother is actively matchmaking him with someone else, armed with false information about his "condition." Han Gaoyi is pursuing Xu Yao with the earnestness of a man who has no idea he's competing with his best friend. And Xu Jia'an—this kid who is clearly the most strategically minded character in the book—is quietly pushing his mother to call Ji Changyu, watching from the doorway like a little general surveying a battlefield. What makes the stakes feel so real is that every character has something to lose and everything to gain. Xu Yao could lose her brother's safety, her son's future, her hard-won financial independence. Ji Changyu could lose the family he didn't know he wanted. Han Gaoyi could lose the woman he loves. Even Aunt Wu is stakes-bearing—she's investing in Xu Yao's success because it reflects well on her own judgment and kindness. The suspense is maintained through dramatic irony. We know things the characters don't. We know Ji Changyu is probably Xu Jia'an's father. We know Xu Yao never recognized him because she didn't know who he was, not because she's hung up on an ex. We know his mother's misunderstanding about his fertility. And we're waiting for the moment when all this information collides and everything changes. The chapter ends with Xu Jia'an's question—"Will you call him?"—and the reader's answer is the same as it's been since the beginning: yes, please, call him, before someone else makes the call for you and everything goes sideways.

I need to talk about Xu Jia'an because WOW. This five-year-old child is the most manipulative little monster I have ever encountered and I am HERE for it. Let me walk you through what happened: Xu Yao was the one asking for praise, right? She was the one seeking validation. And somehow, some way, this tiny kid SWITCHED the reward system so that SHE ended up giving HIM kisses instead. She got outmaneuvered by a kindergartener. A FIVE-YEAR-OLD. And the worst part? She hadn't even lost the game! They tied! But somehow the punishment became hers. The author wrote it so perfectly—Xu Yao's internal monologue of pure disbelief, that smug little smile creeping onto his face. I was equal parts horrified and delighted. But then it gets SOFT. Like, actually soft. When he says 'I want a kiss' with those big dark eyes shining 'like wet glass as he looked at her, as pitiful as a puppy begging for scraps'—okay, I'm not crying, you're crying. And later, when he sighs softly because he still hasn't gotten his kiss, with his hands clasped behind his back and that serious expression? Xu Yao walks away thinking he's just being cute, but the reader knows. The reader KNOWS this kid is already plotting his next move. The mother-son dynamic between them is everything. He's fiercely loyal, almost obsessively so. 'Even if it meant relying on him until death, he didn't mind—on one condition: that Xu Yao never left him.' That line hit me like a truck. This child has already been through enough betrayal in his past life to know what it means to be abandoned, and Xu Yao is his anchor.

Okay so let me just say—this section of the plot is absolutely bonkers in the best way possible. The author has stacked misunderstandings like Jenga blocks and I am genuinely terrified and excited to see when it all topples. Here's what's happening: Ji Changyu finds out Han Gaoyi is pursuing Xu Yao, shatters a wine glass in a fit of something that is definitely NOT just brotherly concern, then rides home seething. Meanwhile, his own mother has been scheming behind his back, setting him up with a widow named Ai Hua, and accidentally blurts out that he can't have children—which is a complete misunderstanding on her part since he just doesn't care much for that sort of thing. She then decides to interrogate Han Gaoyi at dawn. Meanwhile, Xu Yao is just trying to sell chickens, teach a kid who turns out to be shockingly smart, and fend off neighbors who think she's a soft persimmon. And Xu Jia'an—oh, Xu Jia'an—is quietly plotting something with his eyes all dark and aggressive, asking whether she'll call his father tomorrow. The plot is moving on at least four tracks simultaneously and they're all converging toward some explosive collision. Ji Changyu thinks Xu Yao still loves her ex. Xu Yao thinks Ji Changyu is some scheming bastard who tried to hit a child. His mom thinks he's infertile and is trying to replace him with a widow. Han Gaoyi is hopelessly in love and about to become an unwitting pawn. And Xu Jia'an? He's the little strategist in the middle of it all, already calculating. "She said she can't forget her previous man, so she won't date me." — this line from Han Gaoyi is doing SO much narrative heavy lifting. It's the kind of line that the reader knows is based on a fundamental misreading of the situation, and that dramatic irony is delicious. What I love most is how the author uses Ji Changyu's mother as both comic relief and genuine plot accelerator. Her well-meaning but catastrophically wrong matchmaking is the kind of family interference that feels incredibly real. And the fact that she accidentally reveals what she thinks is her son's "condition"? That's not just a funny moment—that's a landmine planted for future conflict. When Ji Changyu finds out she told everyone he can't have kids, the fallout is going to be enormous. The plot also does something really clever with perspective. We get scenes from Xu Yao's world (the black market, the neighbors, teaching Xu Jia'an) and then cut to Ji Changyu's world (the drinking session, the mother's matchmaking, the shattered glass). These two worlds are orbiting each other and the reader is the only one who can see the collision course. That's classic romance-novel tension building, and it's executed really well here. My one small critique: the Li Wenhui subplot with the adoption suggestion feels slightly convenient as a way to establish Xu Yao's social standing and the prejudice she faces. But honestly, it serves its purpose— it makes Xu Gang's brick-splitting moment feel even more satisfying, and it gives Xu Yao a concrete reason to want to protect her brother and son from this world. I need to know what happens when Ji Changyu finally figures out that Xu Yao never recognized him because she genuinely didn't know who he was, not because she's pining for someone else. That reveal is going to be everything.