“Transmigrated into the '70s: The Rough Man's Little Sweetheart Cried Again” - Reviews

Fu Ting's parenting speech about wives is genuinely one of the best things this character has ever said, and I'm not even being sarcastic. The way he explains to little boys that "a man only has one little pee-pee, so he can only have one wife" is absolutely hilarious, but then he pivots to something actually profound: "Mama and Papa can't be with you forever. The only one who can stay by your side is your wife." This man can beat up a whole village with his words and also educate children like a gentle philosopher. The dialogue between these two is just *chef's kiss*. Jiaojiao's deadpan "No way. That's your cousin. You can't marry her" followed by Fu Ting's elaborate pe-peee explanation? Perfect comedic timing. And Shen Junmei's dialogue is equally distinct—her shift from smug accuser to desperate moral blackmailer ("family shame shouldn't be aired in public") to wailing victim is so naturally written. You can hear her voice changing with every line. Even the gossiping villagers have distinct voices. The old Grandma Xue's backstory, delivered through dialogue rather than exposition, is handled beautifully. The author's voice throughout is this perfect mix of sharp wit and genuine warmth. It never feels like the characters are serving the plot—they feel like real people who happen to be in a story.

The dialogue in these chapters is doing so much heavy lifting and I want to talk about how each character sounds distinct. Dabao is the most interesting case. He barely speaks, but when he does, it cuts. "Mama, my brother and I are used to the hard bedding, it's fine. You keep sleeping there." That's not just dialogue — that's a child who has spent so long trying not to be a burden that even kindness feels like a threat. His silence between lines is where the real writing is. The author doesn't need to give him monologues; the subtext does the work. Xiaobao, by contrast, is pure id. "Mama... you're a fairy..." "Xiaobao also wants to wait for Daddy to eat together!" His dialogue is short, breathless, full of excitement. He's five and the world just got better and he can't contain it. The contrast between the brothers in dialogue alone tells you everything about their personalities. Fu Ting's voice is rough but tender. "Jiaojiao, I bought four stools. Your skin is so soft, you should use the good one!" He can't figure out how to express care without it coming out slightly awkward. And then the lip scene — "No need." He catches her hand and licks the blood himself. Three words. That's all he says. But the action says everything. Gu Yun is comic relief but he's not one-dimensional. His suspicion about poison — "Did she say, 'Husband, time to drink your medicine'?" — comes from a place of genuine fear for his friend. He's been burned before. His voice is fast, chaotic, defensive, and underneath it all, he cares. And Jiaojiao's internal voice versus her spoken words is where the real brilliance is. She says "Brother Ting, lower your head" and then bites his lip. She says "No need, I've got a way" about money when she's clearly using her space. Her dialogue is often short, practical, sometimes flustered — but her thoughts are where the emotional depth lives. The gap between what she says and what she feels is where the story breathes.

The dialogue in this book is absolutely filthy good and I need to discuss it immediately. Jiaojiao's voice is distinct from every other character and it's because she's unapologetically direct. When she confronts Huo Yunshu after beating him up, she says: "Tui! Mangy dog, from now on, whenever you see me, you'd better steer clear. Otherwise, every time I see you, I'll beat you again. Got it?!" And when he doesn't respond fast enough, she kicks him again. The dialogue here is action. It's not just words—it's accompanied by physical comedy that makes the scene pop. But the real dialogue masterpiece is the confrontation with Ruan Xiaodie. Let's talk about this exchange: Xiaodie: "Cousin, we're all modern young women. We advocate freedom in marriage. I know you like Comrade Huo but feel too shy to admit it. I only helped say it aloud for you." Jiaojiao: "Hmph. Which eye of yours saw me liking that skinny dog Huo Yunshu?" The crowd: "…" Skinny dog? What on earth was that? Something edible? This is comedy gold. The narrative even includes the crowd's internal confusion about whether "skinny dog" is a food item. That kind of humor woven into dialogue is rare and effective. And then Jiaojiao goes on this absolute rampage of truth-telling: "Look at the clothes you wear, the things you use—how many of them weren't taken from me? How much money have you borrowed from me over the years? Have you ever paid it back? And your peeping-tom father who spied on widows bathing—wasn't it my father who bailed him out?" This is dialogue as warfare. Every sentence is a hit. She's not just defending herself—she's systematically dismantling Xiaodie's entire moral high ground in front of an audience. Fu Ting's dialogue is notably sparse but impactful. His line "For farmers, there's no ruined field—only dead oxen from overwork" carries so much character in twelve words. He's a man of few words, practical, grounded. When he says "Get lost. I've got a woman. I'm not gay—don't touch me!" to Gu Yun, it's funny but also tells you everything about his personality. Gu Yun is the comic relief voice—always saying the wrong thing, misusing idioms, being dramatically worried. His dialogue provides balance to the heavier scenes. The narrative voice itself has this wry, knowing quality. Lines like "Oh, a bitch really can't understand human language" and "Tell me, whose attitude is uglier here?" show an author who's clearly on Jiaojiao's side and isn't afraid to let the narration have personality.

This chapter is obsessed with what we give and what we take—and how those transactions reveal who holds power. The cured meat Huo Yunshu steals becomes a symbol of everything he thinks he deserves: wealth, status, a wife who serves him. But he's actually being played—Ruan Xiaodie is using his delusions to extract labor (washing clothes) and emotional labor (listening to his revenge fantasies). Meanwhile, Ruan Jiaojiao's cooking is a different kind of currency. She feeds everyone—the men, the children, even Gu Yun—and in doing so, she builds a network of obligation and affection that no one can steal. The maoxuewang scene is particularly rich: it's a dish made from pig intestines, humble ingredients transformed into something luxurious through skill. That's Ruan Jiaojiao's entire arc in one dish. The clothes-washing subplot is another layer—Ruan Jiaojiao used to wash Huo Yunshu's clothes with 'expensive soapnuts,' and now Ruan Xiaodie is doing it with nothing. The contrast shows how love and exploitation look identical on the surface but feel completely different. Even the children's 'wives' (Sister Douhua) are a symbol of how childhood fantasies mirror adult arrangements—marriage as transaction, as status, as something to be claimed. And Fu Ting's apology scene? It's about a man learning that power isn't taken—it's earned through vulnerability.

There's this recurring motif of food throughout these chapters that I can't stop thinking about. Braised chicken, chicken soup, roujiamo, meat-stuffed flatbreads — every meal is an act of love, and every meal marks a turning point in the relationships. When Jiaojiao makes food for Fu Ting, it's not just sustenance, it's her way of saying "I choose you." The fact that she tells him she's already eaten so he'll eat more herself — that's sacrifice disguised as deception, and it's heartbreaking in the sweetest way. But the food symbolism goes deeper. Shen Junmei's obsession with the stolen pork belly isn't really about meat. It's about what the meat represents: resources, attention, favoritism from the elders. The whole family dynamic revolves around who gets fed and who goes hungry. And then there's the bath scene, which I read as a cleansing metaphor. The boys have been dirty — not just physically but emotionally, carrying trauma from being neglected and abused. Jiaojiao scrubbing them clean, changing the water three times, is symbolic of her washing away their past. Dabao declaring he'll bathe every day from now on isn't just about hygiene, it's about reclaiming dignity. The sugar water before the bath — that's the first sweet thing anyone's given these boys without strings attached. And the nightmare Xiaobao has, where Jiaojiao transforms back into her cruel self, is basically the story's central fear made literal: that change is temporary, that abuse always returns. The quilt becomes a talisman against that fear. This book is really about whether love can be rebuilt from scratch, and every scene is dressed in symbols that reinforce that question.

I need to talk about the lip scene. The LIP SCENE. Chapter 5, where Jiaojiao bites Fu Ting's lip and it splits, and he just LICKS THE BLOOD off himself. I am not okay. This man is the fiercest in Shanjiao Village and he's over here getting flustered because his wife kissed him and now his lip is bleeding and he licks it like some romantic novel protagonist from the 19th century and I swear to god I squealed out loud. But here's what actually made me emotional — and I don't say that lightly — it's the sleeping arrangement scene. Jiaojiao puts the soft mattress for the kids and sleeps on the hard bedding herself. She says "You'll sleep where I tell you to sleep. No more nonsense." And Dabao's eyes well up. Xiaobao bursts into tears. Fu Ting wants to lift her up and spin her around. These people have spent SO LONG being treated like garbage that an act of basic decency literally makes them cry. "In our family, the most precious one has never been the sons—it's always been you." Fu Ting says this about his WIFE. About a woman who was previously lazy and wasted his money on another man. He says it without hesitation. Without condition. That's not naive — that's the kind of love that's been there all along, buried under years of resentment and misunderstanding. And Jiaojiao's internal monologue: "Through all those dreams, she had already fallen for him." She didn't transmigrate and then decide to love him. She came in ALREADY in love, which makes every gesture more painful because she KNOWS what she's fixing. She's not just improving their lives — she's healing the person she already cares about. The leek pancakes scene though — five palm-sized pancakes, golden and crisp, and she's bringing him lunch because she knows he won't come home for noon. She notices he doesn't drink water while working, so his lips crack, so she gives him sugar water because WHITE SUGAR IS PRECIOUS and he DESERVES IT. This is love language written in cooking.

"I like you sweaty and dripping, and… in every other way, too. However you are, I like it." I NEED A MINUTE. This line absolutely wrecked me. It's so casually devastating—the way Jiaojiao just says it like it's the most natural thing in the world, and Fu Ting immediately spirals into his own dirty thoughts. The chemistry between these two is not just good, it's *dangerous*. Like, I was blushing reading this. But what really got me wasn't even the spicy stuff. It was the hot water. Think about it—she prepared hot water for him to bathe in. In this time period, that's not a small thing. He's been washing in icy river water his whole life, and she notices. She just… takes care of him. And his reaction? He loves the clothes she laid out because they smell like her. That's not a domineering CEO trope, that's a man who's never been cared for and is completely overwhelmed by it. And then the scene where he comes home drunk and she sneaks into bed with him because she can't bear to leave him alone? His internal monologue: "If he could die in such tenderness, it would all be worth it!" I'm not okay. The way this author writes love—through small domestic details, through hot water and sun-warmed clothes and whispered threats about tanning their hides if the kids interrupt—this is the good stuff.

The scene where Shen Junmei is forced to eat pig slop in front of the whole village is one of those moments that just *sticks* with you. You can literally see it—the mischievous child bringing the basin, Shen Junmei's face as she realizes there's no way out, the way she starts wailing like a victim even though everyone knows she brought this on herself. It's visceral. The author doesn't need fancy descriptions; the image of a grown woman crying into pig slop while her son kicks her is enough to make you feel the humiliation. But then there's the quieter scene—the kitchen after everyone leaves, just Jiaojiao and Fu Ting. The contrast between the public spectacle and this private moment is everything. She's worried he hasn't eaten. He's too exhausted to care about food. And then he just… pulls her into his arms and breathes her in. No grand setting, no dramatic lighting, just a kitchen and two people who've had a long day. That's when the worldbuilding really shines—not in descriptions of the village or the era, but in the texture of daily life. The clay vats for bathing, the White Rabbit candy, the roujiamo, the noodle soup for breakfast. These details make the world feel lived-in. And that first snowfall? Xiaobao running in with candy? It's such a simple image but it carries so much weight after everything that's happened.

Okay so this whole pork belly incident is just SO satisfyingly set up. Shen Junmei accuses Jiaojiao of stealing, and instead of just defending herself, Jiaojiao turns it into a trap. She literally gets Shen Junmei to bet that she'll kowtow if proven innocent, and then—plot twist—the old Grandma Xue shows up with the pork as a gift. I literally gasped when Shen Junmei realized she'd been played. And then the punishment? Eating pig slop. Like, the same slop she fed the kids when they were babies. That's not just poetic justice, that's literary karma on steroids. But what really got me is how the author layers in the Zhaodi subplot right after the main conflict resolves. Just when you think the chapter is done, you get this devastating reveal that Zhaodi took beatings for Dabao and Xiaobao for years. It shifts the whole emotional weight of the story. And then Xiaobao's innocent "let's marry her" line? Comedy gold, but also kind of heartbreaking when you think about what she's actually been through. The Fu Jun reveal at the end is also a masterclass in dramatic irony. Fu Ting still admires his brother, but the narrator drops this hint about the original plot—affair, beaten eggs, all of it. We know the truth, he doesn't. That tension is going to explode later, and I am HERE for it.

I went from almost choking on my water to absolutely sobbing in the span of three chapters and I am not ready for this emotional whiplash. Let's talk about how the author handles the reveal. First, Shen Junmei comes in with this absurd request about drinking urine for fertility—completely ridiculous, almost comedic in its desperation. Jiaojiao's reaction is perfect, the near-choking, the internal monologue about wanting to slap her. It's dark humor, sure, but then the Old Madam Fu line about not letting outsiders drink her urine to protect the family fortune? That's when the humor dies and you realize this world is genuinely grotesque. Then Jiaojiao goes into that room with Zhaodi and the pacing shifts completely. The silence, the sewing, the repetition of "I want to make clothes for my husband" like a broken record. The author makes us wait, makes us feel the frustration, and then—"Second Aunt, my heart is bitter!" The release is so earned because we've been sitting in that tension the whole time. And the structure of having Zhaodi come out acting cheerful with Jiaojiao, playing along to fool Shen Junmei? That's the kind of twist that rewards careful reading. The pacing from despair to calculated performance in one scene is masterful. It also sets up this amazing dynamic where Jiaojiao then uses Shen Junmei's own hospitality against her—making her cook while they eat. The author never lets the story breathe too long in one emotional register.

This entire arc is about what women are expected to perform versus what they actually want, and the symbolism is layered in ways that kept me thinking for hours. The hair. Zhaodi's long black braid is described as "that symbol of vitality in rural girls." When Jiaojiao cuts it off, she's not just changing a hairstyle—she's performing a ritual. The old Zhaodi dies so the new one can be born. No more sewing clothes for the man who violated her. No more performing wifely duty for a family that sold her. The haircut is a declaration of war against every expectation placed on her body. Then there's the urine request, which is honestly the most grotesque symbol in the book. These women—Shen Junmei, Old Madam Fu—are so internalized the patriarchal system that they're asking to literally exchange bodily fluids to pass on fertility like it's a family recipe. And Old Madam Fu's line about not letting outsiders drink Jiaojiao's urine to protect the Fu family fortune? That's capitalism and patriarchy fused into one sentence. A woman's body is a resource to be hoarded or exchanged. But the most powerful symbol is Zhaodi's performance at the end. She comes out laughing with Jiaojiao, telling Shen Junmei she'll "give birth to a big healthy son and bring honor to the Fu family." Is she lying? Partially. But she's also weaponizing compliance. She's saying exactly what they want to hear while planning her escape. The smile on her face while she plots her freedom—that's the most rebellious image in the whole passage.

I stayed up way too late reading these chapters and I have thoughts about the pacing. Chapter 4 opens with domestic setup — the house, the cooking, the fish. It's methodical, almost meditative. You feel the rhythm of someone who has time to marinate and sauté and wait. This is the calm before the emotional storm of the family eating together. The chapter ends with Fu Ting rushing out to make stools and Jiaojiao just standing there going "...? Where are you going?" — a perfect comedic beat that undercuts the sentimentality right when it might get too thick. Chapter 5 is where the pacing accelerates. It opens with the stool reveal and immediately pivots to the sleeping arrangement, then to the next morning's leek pancakes, then to the lip-biting incident, then to Fu Ting walking down the road radiant with pancakes in his pocket and sugar water at his belt. The chapter is a series of escalating moments — each one slightly more intimate, slightly more tender than the last. And then Gu Yun appears and ruins the mood by being Gu Yun. His dialogue is pure comic relief, and it's NECESSARY. Without him, the chapter would tip into saccharine territory. Chapter 6 shifts gears completely. It starts with worldbuilding exposition about Gu Yun and Fu Ting's backstory — which could have been a info-dump but works because it's filtered through Gu Yun's chaotic energy. Then it moves to the pheasant hunt, the children's song, and ends on a HOOK: Huo Yunshu hearing the song and noticing Jiaojiao. The chapter doesn't resolve anything — it opens a new door. That's smart pacing. It gives you warmth and then immediately reminds you that the world is bigger than this family's little courtyard. The transition between chapters is also well-handled. Each one ends on a note that pulls you forward — whether it's a question mark, a romantic gesture, or a stranger watching from a distance.