Okay so this chapter had me absolutely losing it. Let me just say this first: the Gu family scene where Grandpa Gu drops the arranged marriage bomb on Gu Jingcheng is chef's kiss perfection. The way he just casually announces it like it's no big deal—"Once the Meng girl finishes her college entrance exams next year, you two will marry"—while everyone's sitting there sweating? I love how the author uses Grandpa Gu's cane striking the floor as punctuation for his rage. That sound alone tells you everything about the power dynamics in this family. But here's what really got me: the double rebirth setup. Meng Yu thinks SHE'S the one with past life memories, right? She's all smug, planning to marry into the Gu family, swindle Meng Yao's dowry, and then ghost with Song Wei. But then Meng Yao reveals she's also reborn and has been playing a completely different game this whole time. The line where Meng Yao thinks about Meng Yu's plan—"could Meng Yu, who had experienced Rebirth, actually get into university this time?"—and then her sneer at the end? I literally gasped. The author is setting up this beautiful cat-and-mouse game where both girls think they're the smartest person in the room. Also, the subplot about the Gu family's political danger is such a smart narrative layer. Grandpa Gu isn't just being a traditionalist jerk—he's actually trying to protect the family from potential confiscation by allying with the Meng family. That makes him way more complex than a typical villain. The author keeps pulling these threads and I'm just sitting here trying to keep up.
Okay so this chapter starts with something I absolutely loved—Luo Qingxu's song 'Know or Not' accidentally becoming an exam prediction tool for Chinese poetry recitation. The way the students flooded the comment section treating it like a wishing well is genuinely hilarious and brilliant storytelling. It's not just a plot device for popularity; it's a clever commentary on how youth culture and education intersect in unexpected ways. And then the numbers—top spot on the July New Song Recommendation Chart, surpassing 'Divination' to hit third on the National Trend Music Chart, even squeezing into the annual chart at 198th. This is the kind of underdog breakthrough moment that makes you want to cheer. What I found really satisfying is how Han Changsheng's realization about her contract situation sets up the next conflict—she's not even under the creative department's management. The plot is layering these organizational obstacles on top of her artistic victories, which keeps things moving. Then there's the Xie Jiayin subplot, which is basically a heist mission—convincing an A-list artist to participate in a 'kids program.' The reveal that Xie Jiayin was actually swayed by the Tourism Administration's call for submissions, not just Luo Qingxu's charm, was a nice twist. It kept me guessing about who was pulling whose strings.
I need to talk about the visual storytelling in this chapter because it is immaculate. Let me start with the opening image: townspeople with green veins surging violently under their skin, bleeding from seven orifices, limbs flailing. That's not just body horror for shock value—that's the vine making a physical statement about what it does to human bodies. You can SEE the parasitism. Then the Soul-Devouring Demon Vine itself. "Its crown was lush and vast, blocking out the sky. Twisted vines covered the tree, thick and flourishing." The fog drifting through the forest under a night sky, the green lights growing denser, the barrier shining so bright sparks would erupt. And then the sword diving downward with two heavy thuds. The physicality of it—all of it makes you feel like you're standing in that forest. But the most cinematic moment has to be the illusion sequence. The thorny shrubs, the two blood-covered children running, the narrow mountain path, the hidden cave. When young Chu Zilan turns around and Ding Li realizes what she's seeing—that moment of recognition hits like a visual punch. And then the space twisting, the compass appearing above Xiao Wenjing's palm, the entire scene shifting again. The author moves between these settings with such confidence that you never lose your bearings, even when the geography is intentionally disorienting.
I keep coming back to the sensory details in this section. The sachet itself—styled after mountain cherry blossoms, coarse stitching, rich fragrance—is such a tender, human object in the middle of all this political maneuvering. It's the kind of detail that makes you feel the weight of what's being lost. Luo Fu spent her afternoon skipping her nap to make this thing, and then it gets intercepted and redirected like it's contraband. The contrast between the intimacy of embroidery and the coldness of household politics is heartbreaking. Then there's the night scene where Luo Fu goes to Madam Cui's courtyard. She's in her sleep clothes, hair loose, being led through the dark by a lantern carried by Ren Dong. The imagery of her walking half-dressed at night to meet her aunt—who is about to redirect her entire future—creates this eerie, almost gothic atmosphere. The fact that Madam Cui is fully dressed and receiving her at this hour signals urgency, but also power. She's in her domain, on her terms. And the household architecture matters more than you'd think. The multiple gates, the gatekeepers, the layers of maids who control what passes through—this isn't just set dressing. It's a physical manifestation of the social hierarchy. Shang Lu can't just walk a gift to Pei Ji's messenger; she has to navigate a maze of authority. The world feels lived-in because every space has rules, and breaking those rules has consequences.
"What's wrong?" He stretched out his long legs, nudged the foot of her chair lightly with his toe, then leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. Tilting his head, he looked up at her with a crooked grin. I am literally not breathing right now. Su Yundai cried watching Wei Lin lose. CRIED. And the way he responded—so gentle, so teasing, asking what's wrong when she's sitting there trying to hide her tears—that moment is everything. But then Shang Beize is watching from the shadows, towel over his eyes, and his internal monologue is just pure agony. He thinks about how he would have cupped her face and kissed her tears away. KISSED HER TEARS AWAY. Meanwhile she's massaging Wei Lin's calf with this look of heartache and Shang Beize is literally clenching his fists until his veins pop. The love triangle isn't even subtle anymore. And the worst part? She still hasn't told Shang Beize that she and Wei Lin aren't related by blood. She's protecting him, or maybe she's scared of what he'll think. Wei Lin plays along, saying things like "to her, me losing is no different than losing herself"—which is sweet but also kind of cruel because it reinforces the sibling illusion. I'm emotionally compromised.
I need to talk about how the author builds this world through the most unexpected details. Let me start with the ancestral hall bathroom situation. The barefoot doctor checking on the injured parents, the brigade leader delivering grain, the public latrine with its own set of unwritten rules—human waste being valuable, everyone trying to keep it at home for their private plots, the brigade leader unable to enforce compliance. This is worldbuilding at its finest. The author doesn't pause the story to explain the economic system. They just show you two girls waiting at a toilet entrance, overhearing the unwritten rules of a society through casual narration, and suddenly you understand an entire rural Chinese commune economy. Then there's the mountain pool where Yuya catches fish. The water, the waiting, the mosquitoes, the burlap sacks filling up with wild greens. You can practically feel the humidity and hear the insects. And the market scenes—the morning rush versus the empty afternoons, the leftover corner spots, the vegetable auntie who sells both morning and evening because her creaky bones can't handle square dancing. These details don't just decorate the story. They create a lived-in world that feels like it exists beyond the pages. The grain and oil shop where Yuan Zhiqiang works, the supermarket Lin Xiaohe visits alone, the mountain paths the girls know by heart—every location has texture. The author isn't just writing a story set in a time period. They're reconstructing an entire ecosystem of daily life where every object (a jar of honey, a bundle of wild garlic, a can of something from the city) carries the weight of scarcity and value. This is the kind of worldbuilding that makes you want to live in the story, even if living there would be incredibly hard.
Let me just say: the pacing in these chapters is sneaky good. You start in a lab. Chu Xuan is planting rapeseed, dealing with earthworms, applying fertilizer. It's slow, methodical, almost boring. And then—boom—the United Government Emergency Affairs Department is reading his paper. Three days later, he's defending in front of an international panel with representatives from all Five Permanent Members. That transition is wild. The author doesn't waste time on the bureaucratic process. We get: paper forwarded → minister reads it → 3,215 astrophysicists receive it → conclusions compiled → defense scheduled. Three sentences, maybe four, and suddenly Chu Xuan is a national-level emergency plan contributor. The speed is almost comical, but it works because the story has already established that Chu Xuan's knowledge is essentially pre-loaded in his brain. There's no "he studied hard for this" montage. He just knows it. The defense scene itself is structured like a proper academic grilling—15 minutes of presentation, then an hour of questions. The author could have rushed through it, but instead we get the detail about the panel lineup (one from each Permanent Member), the Principal's internal conflict, He Shuli's worry. It breathes. Then after the defense, the pacing drops again. Chu Xuan goes home, the System gives him the fortune update, and we get the United Government's response to the paper—the trajectory adjustment, the 60,000 kilometer radius increase, the decision to abandon multiple slingshots. It's a lot of exposition, but it's necessary exposition. The story is wrapping up the Jupiter Crisis thread and moving back to Chu Xuan's personal growth. The only slight drag is the transition between the defense and the System notification. It feels a bit abrupt—Chu Xuan goes home, sighs, falls asleep, and then the alarm goes off. But honestly, that's probably intentional. The story is showing us that life goes on, even when you've just changed the trajectory of human civilization. You still have to sign in. You still have to do your daily tasks. The chapter endings are also well-timed. Chapter 13 ends with "the name of Chu Xuan as a genius was etched into the hearts of everyone present." Chapter 14 ends with the trajectory adjustment and the realization that they'll never need to ignite Jupiter. Chapter 15 ends with the rapeseed growing twice as fast. Each ending gives you a sense of closure while hinting at what's next.
Nice story make more. chapter and make more improve your chapter and novels good good make more story waiting for your story's and novel
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A rather spicy and feisty bit of a book with charecters that make you want to go back to church. but its still kinda fun to read i suppose. Will have to see how it goes.
I really must say, I have those two chapters out there and I can feel so many similarities with the mc and me. His life, his parents. Give this book a chance.
This is a great story. The mc Leon? A lot were put in his development despite me being just 4 chapters into the story. The world feels fresh, and unique. The narration is vivid, and well structured.