Traveling to Ancient Times to Become a Makeup Artist - Reviews

I am still not over Nie Qinghe's line to Qiuyue. Let me just quote it because it deserves to be immortalized: "Oh, Qiuyue the maid. Is that really you? I almost mistook you for some noble young lady. Why are you dressed like Miss Liu? Are you trying to be a poor imitation of her?" That is not a response. That is a declaration of war delivered with a smile. And the best part? Qiuyue couldn't even retort. She just stood there forced to smile like an idiot while Nie Qinghe absolutely dismantled her. The original owner would have apologized and taken it. This Nie Qinghe? She handed Qiuyue a verbal evisceration and then asked if she had a point. The dialogue between the Song women is equally delicious in its own toxic way. Eldest Aunt Song's voice is so distinct—she's loud, she's vulgar, she can't stop herself from revealing her true colors. "That girl is always clinging to Qingyuan. It's bad for his reputation. We should have done what I suggested long ago. See? A little scheme was all it took." She's so proud of herself! She thinks she's won. And Mother Song? Her dialogue is slower, more measured, which makes her somehow more terrifying. "It may have worked, but it's still a blow to our moral standing." She's performing modesty while being just as manipulative, just more refined about it. And then there's Mother Nie, who gets this one line that perfectly captures her character: "Always pretending to be so modest and kind," she spat. "Yet she lets a mere girl flaunt gold and silver right in our faces." That's not just dialogue, that's a whole worldview in one sentence. She sees through the performance immediately. The author's narrative voice is also doing a lot of work here. There's this dry, almost wry tone when describing scenes—like when Qiuyue arrives dressed to impress and the narration just casually notes she's trying to make Nie Qinghe's clothes look worse by comparison. It's observant without being preachy, and it lets the characters reveal themselves through their own words.

I keep coming back to the cooking scenes and what they represent, because this text is layered with meaning about food, power, and who gets to feed whom. Qinghe's cooking isn't just domestic — it's an act of defiance. In a world where every grain of rice and drop of oil is accounted for, where Mother Nie's heart physically aches at the sight of cooking oil, choosing to make something delicious is revolutionary. "I was going to crack an egg into it too, but I didn't dare, knowing you'd get a heartache over the expense." That line hit me like a truck. The egg she didn't add represents every pleasure this family has ever denied themselves. The poem referenced — "the one who wears the silk is not the one who raised the silkworm. The goldsmiths who crafted the finest jewelry could never afford to adorn their own wives and daughters in it" — this is the thesis statement of the entire novel. Labor, exploitation, the invisible hands that build wealth for others. It's not just about Old Madam Nie draining her sons; it's about a whole system that extracts from the capable and rewards the entitled. Xiaoli's declaration that he'll earn a xiucai degree isn't just ambition — it's the family's only hoped-for escape route from this cycle. But the text is already showing us how that dream was weaponized against everyone else. The fourth uncle's "education" consumed half their estate and produced nothing. So who gets to study? Who deserves to? These questions are simmering under every scene.

"I'm speaking to you, Mrs. Zhang. You really should dress up more. When we go out, it's not just about us—we're representing our husbands' faces, after all." I literally gasped when I read this. Madam Fang's voice is so distinctly her—condescending, performative, and completely unaware of how ridiculous she sounds. The way she frames it as a public service, like she's doing Mrs. Zhang a favor by criticizing her, is so perfectly middle-class ambition. And then Madam Zhao's response is just as good: "Will you be hiring Madam Wen to accompany you to the garden party in a few days, then? I heard she only goes out with the nobility now, and her fee is ten taels of silver per trip." This is the verbal equivalent of a backhand. Madam Zhao isn't just disagreeing—she's exposing the lie with a question that sounds like small talk. The dialogue here operates on two levels: the surface conversation about hairstyles and prices, and the underneath war about social standing. What I also love is how the narrative voice contrasts with the dialogue. The narrator occasionally drops these dry observations like "Nie Qinghe silently did the math. One mace of silver was a hundred copper coins. It seems being a hair-stylist is quite a lucrative trade." This deadpan internal commentary from Nie Qinghe gives us a grounded perspective amid all the performative nonsense. The dialogue never feels expository. Even when the author is world-building—explaining the pricing of hair-styling services, the social calendar of festivals—it comes through character conversation naturally. That's skilled writing.

I need to talk about this dinner scene because honestly it wrecked me in the best way. On the surface it's just a family eating soup, but underneath every line is a loaded gun waiting to go off. Qinghe cooking for her family — that alone tells you so much. She's been reborn into this body, and the first thing she does is take over the kitchen because her mother's cooking is terrible. There's something so tender about that, like she's trying to rewrite history one meal at a time. The dough-drop soup isn't just food, it's love language. And then the father comes home. "His back was now slightly hunched, and his large hands were rough, covered in scars and calluses. Yet he still cut the figure of a handsome middle-aged man." I literally gasped. This man is broken by his own mother and he doesn't even know it. Qinghe sees it clearly — "He was so thoroughly controlled by his mother that he was like the Monkey King trapped in Buddha's palm, unable to stir." And she's already calculating how to deprogram him. That's not just plot, that's a daughter watching her father slowly disappear. The way Mother Nie deflects every compliment — "My eldest daughter made it" — that's a woman who's been squeezed dry for decades and has forgotten how to receive kindness. But then Father Nie says "Your cooking has really improved" to his wife, and she shuts him down so coldly. Oof. These two are trapped in a cycle neither of them can break. Xiaoli declaring "I want to study!" and Father Nie immediately trying to assert authority only to be dismantled by Qinghe in one sentence — that moment where her confidence vs his hollow traditionism played out? Chef's kiss. She's not just surviving in this family, she's trying to save them all from themselves.

Okay so this chapter is basically a masterclass in how to build tension without a single punch being thrown. Let me just say — the plot here is quietly devastating. You've got this multi-generational family drama where the real battlefield is the dinner table, and honestly? I was more invested than in most wuxia fights. The main thread is Father Nie being trapped between his mother's emotional blackmail and his own family's suffering. But what I love is how the author layers in subplots — Nie Qinghe's scheme to get Xiaoli educated, Nie Honghua's firebrand rebellion, Mother Nie's simmering resentment. All of these threads are pulling in different directions, and the reader is literally on the edge of their seat wondering: will Father Nie finally break free, or will he crumble again? The plot twist that hit me hardest? Nie Qinghe revealing she can already write the characters her brother learned. That moment when she scratches them into the dirt and her father is speechless — that's the kind of quiet victory that makes you want to scream. The author doesn't need dramatic reveals; the tension comes from watching a smart daughter strategically dismantle her grandmother's control one conversation at a time. And the pacing? Chef's kiss. The chapter starts with the family confrontation, moves to Father Nie's private reckoning, then ends with Mother Nie's raw monologue. Each section raises the stakes. By the time we're at the end, I genuinely didn't know if Father Nie would finally stand up or just mumble something conciliatory. The author leaves it hanging and I was NOT READY.

I need to talk about Father Nie and Mother Nie because honestly they are the most realistic couple I have ever read in this genre. Most novels give you either a toxic marriage or a fairy-tale perfect one, but these two? They are just... trying. Father Nie's internal monologue when he decides to take on more work absolutely wrecked me. He compares himself to his brothers toiling in the fields and thinks, what's an extra hour at night? What's a little fatigue for a man? And then he reaches out to massage his wife's acupoints because Physician Jing said she must keep massaging them. That's it. That's the whole romance. No grand declarations, just a man who is exhausted and worried and still finding ways to be tender. And Mother Nie! She goes from angry and worried to this soft daydream about being called Madam when Xiaoli passes the exam. The way she playfully punches her husband and calls him a flatterer before breaking into a giggle — you can feel the warmth between them. They are poor, they are stressed, they are arguing about tuition costs like any normal couple, but they are a team. And that's what makes their relationship so devastating because you know how hard they are fighting and how little they have. The cousin dynamic is also fascinating. Two years ago when Old Madam Nie came to stir up trouble, the cousin publicly defended the second branch. She risked everything. And now Nie Qinghe is trying to help her cousin see that she has options beyond being a tool for the old woman to hoard wealth. It's this slow-building sisterhood that doesn't get enough attention in these stories.

I keep coming back to the image of weaving in this passage and I think it's the central metaphor for everything happening. Silk shoes, embroidery, fishing nets — all of these are forms of women's labor that have been devalued and hidden, and yet they are the very things that sustain this family. Mother Nie weaves silk shoes all day, her body aching, her eyes strained from years of embroidery. She is the invisible engine of their household. But when Nie Qinghe suggests adapting the crochet technique from fishing nets, something shifts. The mother says I only ever learned it one way — I never thought to adapt the method. And Nie Qinghe replies that in some places you can just weave by hand and press it tight with a ruler, and for certain parts you can even use a crochet stitch. This is literally about breaking tradition, about seeing possibilities where others see only one correct way. But it's also about Qinghe bringing her modern knowledge into this world and finding creative solutions. She's not just surviving — she's innovating. She sketches new patterns, suggests asking the Embroidered Apparel Pavilion if they'd accept this style. She's thinking like an entrepreneur, not just a laborer. And then there's the jewelry shop scene where Qinghe analyzes the social hierarchy through consumption patterns. The truly wealthy don't shop — they commission. The middle class browses with guilt and excitement. The poor can't enter. She identifies her target market not by wealth but by aspiration. This is a woman who understands that value is constructed, that status is performative, that the rules of this world can be learned and navigated. The recurring motif of threads — silk threads, hemp fibers, the threads of family obligation, the threads of social class — all of it comes together. These women are weaving their own destinies, even when the world tells them their only value is in their labor.

I need a minute. I need a whole minute because the emotional whiplash in these chapters is absolutely vicious and I am not prepared. Let's talk about Nie Qinghe's transformation, because wow. The original owner of this body loved Song Qingyuan with this desperate, all-consuming intensity that honestly read as codependency. She skipped meals, she worked herself sick, she let people walk all over her—all for a guy who couldn't be bothered to visit. And when Nie Qinghe takes over, the first thing she does is stop. She just... stops. She looks at the fabric Song Qingyuan's family sent and she says no. Not dramatically, not with a speech, just quietly, firmly, like she's finally exhaling after holding her breath for years. But here's what got me—the scene where she's making shoes for Nie Dali. The text says she used her embroidery skills to make locked seams that would last years. Years. She's putting that kind of care into something for her brother, something that will literally keep him warm, and she's doing it with this quiet intensity that replaced all that wasted energy she used to pour into Song Qingyuan. That's not just plot, that's emotional catharsis. And then there's the Song family's conversation, which made my skin crawl. They're discussing Nie Qinghe's future like she's an object to be traded. "Perhaps she could become his second wife later on"—said with such casual cruelty. And Mother Song actually considers it! She says it would be "the perfect solution for everyone." Everyone except Nie Qinghe, apparently. The fact that they're so comfortable discussing reducing a human being to a concubine while cracking sunflower seeds... I wanted to throw the book across the room. The emotional high point for me was when Nie Qinghe tells her mother she'll make them wealthy. Not because she's bitter, not because she's seeking revenge, but because she genuinely loves these people and wants them to have a good life. That's the kind of emotional honesty that makes you want to hug the character through the page.

Okay so here's the thing about this novel — it keeps catching me off guard with how emotionally precise it is. The breakfast scene in Chapter 8 is a masterclass in showing family love through food. Mother Nie makes salted vegetable noodles, no oil, coarse flour with a bitter aftertaste, and Nie Xiaoli eats it without complaint because he can finally go to school. Meanwhile nine-year-old Nie Honghua grumbles about it not being as fragrant as last night's dough soup and then declares she's going to become a head embroiderer at the biggest jewelry house in the Capital and earn three taels a month and make them all eat pig's head meat until they're sick of it. The family erupts in laughter. THREE TAELS A MONTH. This nine-year-old who is currently eating bitter flour noodles is already plotting her economic independence and her mother's response is to serve her an extra ladleful while jabbing her with a finger and saying she'll make her food so delicious it'll be dripping with oil. I am not okay. But what really got me was the quiet moment between Nie Qinghe and her cousin on the kang. Qinghe asks if her grandmother will force her cousin to return home, and the cousin just sighs and says what choice do we girls have? And Qinghe insists there's always a way as long as she wants it. That conversation is so heavy because you can feel the cousin's hope flickering to life after years of being treated like property. The original owner of this body felt suffocating guilt being a guest in someone else's home, but now Qinghe has found freedom and she wants that same freedom for her cousin. It's sisterhood as salvation and I cannot handle how tender that is.

I need to talk about how good the dialogue is in this novel because some authors in this genre just have characters speak in exposition, but these people actually sound like real humans. Let me just quote this exchange because it perfectly captures the voice of the whole family: Mother Nie: Complaining about the taste, yet you're the one eating the most. You'll have to earn a lot of money in the future and buy us big fish and meat. Then, your mother will make you food so delicious it'll be dripping with oil! Nie Honghua: Just you wait! I'm learning embroidery now, and I'll be the best of all of you. One day I'll become a head embroiderer at the biggest jewelry house in the Capital. I'll earn three taels a month, and you'll all eat pig's head meat until you're sick of it! The family erupts in laughter. This is a nine-year-old girl declaring her life ambitions and her mother responding with love and a promise of better food. The dialogue is natural, age-appropriate, and full of warmth. Honghua's voice is distinct — she's loud, ambitious, unapologetic. Mother Nie's voice is practical and tender. Even Father Nie has a distinct voice when he's whispering with his wife about tuition costs and they quickly run out of ideas and agree to ask around the next day. That's how real couples talk. And the narrative voice! The author has this wonderful dry humor woven into the narration. When Nie Qinghe thinks about her plan to fake being sick to send less money home and expose her grandparents, the narration just lays it out matter-of-factly. Old Madam Nie might have brainwashed him, but Nie Qinghe could slowly set things right. No moralizing, no dramatic music, just cold strategic thinking from a girl who has survived two years of emotional manipulation. The contrast between the warm family scenes and Qinghe's calculating inner monologue creates this incredible narrative tension.

The opening scene of this chapter is absolutely cinematic. Let me paint it for you: Mother Nie is waiting, the hours drag on, it starts raining, and she grabs a conical hat and paper parasol to go looking for her daughter. She arrives at the Prefectural Academy soaked to the skin. The image of this woman splashing through puddles in the rain, desperate and disheveled, while Mother Song sits at home completely unconcerned—that contrast is devastating. Then there's the clinic scene. Qinghe lying unconscious at the doorstep, covered in mud, her eyes swollen like peaches, her hair like "muddy, rotting straw." The clinic mistress describes how she had to help clean her up, and the detail that Qinghe's face was clean while her body was covered in mud is such a specific, visual clue that it does double duty: it tells us someone carried her there, and it paints this haunting image of a girl who fell into a pit but was rescued before the mud could reach her face. The worldbuilding here is woven into the physical details. The social hierarchy is embedded in the setting—the Prefectural Academy where Song Qingyuan studies, the clinic in the south of the city, the stone basin where Qinghe washes her face, the Niangniang Temple where Mother Nie plans to kowtow. Every location carries weight. The south of the city keeps coming up, and I get the sense it's becoming a symbolic space—where Qinghe goes when she's vulnerable, where she falls, where she's saved. The steamed egg custard scene is another moment of quiet domestic beauty. Mother Nie overcooked it, it's dry and unappealing, but Qinghe eats it with relish and offers to share. That's the kind of detail that makes a story feel lived-in. It's not about grand settings; it's about a mother's imperfect love expressed through a bowl of eggs.

"You're all grown up now, no longer listening to your mother." That line hit me like a freight train. Mother Nie snatches the shoes away to scrub them herself, and in that one gesture you see the entire relationship—this woman who has been silently fuming about the Song family, worried about her daughter's future, praying at temples, all while her daughter is still making shoes for the man who treats her like furniture. And then Qinghe says "Mom, don't worry. No matter how old I get, I'll always listen to you." But we both know that's not entirely true, right? Because the very next thing she does is casually drop the engagement bombshell. The mother-daughter dynamic here is so layered. Mother Nie has spent years feeling powerless—her daughter is obsessed with a boy who doesn't deserve her, the Song family is exploiting them, and she can't even voice her anger without seeming petty. When Qinghe finally says she wants to end the engagement, Mother Nie's reaction is almost comical: she starts pacing, looking for incense and candles, ready to kowtow a thousand times. This woman has been carrying this weight alone, and the relief is physical. But what's fascinating is that Qinghe isn't just doing this for her mother. She's doing it for herself. The original owner of this body was so naive, so devoted to Song Qingyuan that she'd sew until her fingers bled. The new Qinghe sees the exploitation clearly for the first time. And Mother Nie sees it too—"She's finally brought her soul back from Song Qingyuan." That line broke me a little. It's not just about the engagement; it's about reclaiming her daughter's identity. The Song family, on the other hand, is a study in entitlement. Mother Song didn't even ask if Qinghe was found after she was missing for days. Not one word. And they still expect her to make shoes. These people are monsters wrapped in scholar-family respectability.