No one stays unlucky forever—except for Song Ruan.  

She had transmigrated.  

After enduring fourteen years of material hardship, she was discovered to be the true daughter swapped at birth. But when she returned home, her family still favored the fake heiress, forcing her to suffer another four years of emotional torment. She fought tooth and nail to get into a prestigious 985 university far from home, finally securing a hefty scholarship from the family trust fund—ready to spread her wings and soar freely.  

But just as she was about to taste freedom, she was flung straight back to the past.  

Song Ruan wiped her snot and tears as she delivered her own eulogy:  

Saved a kid in the middle of the road, got a funeral trumpet blown over me, a white sheet thrown over my face, and when I opened my eyes—boom!—the 1970s.

The 1970s—a time of scarce food, ragged clothes, and being the unloved, pitiful child of a family that couldn’t care less about her. Wahhhh! Heaven, are you kidding me?!

She had endured like a turtle hiding in its shell, on the verge of finally breaking free—only to get slapped back to square one?!  

She stared at the rough walls, her eyes flickering with frustration, but in the end, she didn’t dare ram her head into them.  

What if she really died this time? What if she didn’t die but ended up half-paralyzed, still stuck in this wretched era? Life was already hard enough—why make it worse?  

After a full day of chanting spells to herself (“hocus pocus, send me back!”) and taking two long naps with no success, she finally accepted her fate with bitter resignation. Wiping her tears, she absorbed the memories of the original owner of this body.  

Oh.  

Another unlucky little turtle, just like her—on the verge of breaking free only to be shoved back into the abyss.  

The original owner was also named Song Ruan, born in a small southern town to working-class parents, with two older sisters and a younger brother.  

Three girls and one boy—her parents’ preferences were obvious.  

By the time the original owner came along, her parents had already exhausted what little affection they had for daughters. And then came the “precious only son,” the long-awaited heir to the Song family name. Needless to say, the original owner’s life was miserable.  

She did the most work, wore the worst clothes, ate the smallest portions. Even her chance to attend high school only came because her grades were so outstanding that the principal, moved by her potential, paid her tuition out of his own pocket.  

To her credit, the original owner was resilient. Earlier this year, she had tested into the textile factory, securing a job. Now that she was an adult, all she had to do was marry a decent man and move out—finally escaping her family’s grip.  

But then, at the last possible moment, disaster struck.  

A jealous neighbor reported their family for being “unenthusiastic” about the Down to the Countryside movement!  

And it was true—they weren’t enthusiastic.  

The eldest sister, Song Ling, was already married and exempt.  

The second sister, Song Li, was nineteen, fresh out of high school but refusing to settle for any of the suitors introduced to her. She had been dodging the movement by staying home.  

The third sister—the original owner—had already gotten a job and even secured a permanent position. Only an idiot would give that up to go to the countryside.  

And the youngest brother? He had just started middle school—too young to qualify.  

But come on—it was 1975, not 1965! The Down to the Countryside movement had been going on for over a decade. Everyone knew it was all propaganda. Sure, they called it “rural construction,” but in reality, it meant backbreaking farm labor, shortages of everything—clothes, food, oil, salt. Plenty of grown men couldn’t handle it, either faking illnesses to return home or sneaking back to the cities. (There was one guy in the neighboring courtyard who came back looking like a skeleton held together by matchsticks!)  

No matter how much they resisted, once the Youth Office showed up at their door, the Song family had to send someone.  

Fearing she’d be forced to go, the second sister, Song Li, stole the family’s household register and preemptively signed the original owner up.  

By the time the notice from the Youth Office arrived, it was a done deal.

The original owner had been struck dumb by this thunderbolt from the blue.  

When she finally came to her senses, her parents informed her: We’ve already scolded your second sister, but what’s done is done—you’d better move on. Hurry up and hand your job over to her. No point wasting it.

Their so-called “solution” was pure favoritism, completely disregarding the original owner’s well-being.  

Furious, the original owner went on a hunger strike in protest.  

After a two-day standoff, Father Song claimed he had found her a way out: Marry Director Ma from our liquor factory. Get engaged first, and with some maneuvering, you can return to the city next year using marriage as an excuse.

Sounded great on paper.  

Bullshit!

Director Ma was pushing forty—short, fat, bald, with tiny eyes, a flat nose, pockmarked face, and yellowed teeth. He had two kids from a previous marriage that ended because of his domestic violence. Rumor had it his ex-wife only escaped by abandoning her children.  

Was this a ticket back to the city? No—it was a one-way trip to hell.  

And Father Song wasn’t doing this for Song Ruan’s sake. The neighbor’s report had spooked him—he was terrified his precious son, Song Jiabao, might get forced into the countryside next. This was all about securing Jiabao’s future: Director Ma had promised to reserve a job for him at the liquor factory.  

Honestly, Father Song thought, if Jiabao were just a little older, we wouldn’t even need this hassle—he could just take Third Daughter’s job outright!

But this arrangement wasn’t bad either. Second Daughter and Fourth Son could stay in the city, Third Daughter just had to endure a year or two before returning, and he’d gain Director Ma as an in-law. Not a bad return on raising her!

The original owner’s mental state collapsed. She continued her hunger strike.  

The whole family thought this was a fantastic deal and ignored her protests, telling her to stop being so dramatic.

A few more days passed—and then the original owner was gone.  

Now, she was left holding this dumpster fire of a life.  

She was about to be sacrificed for her brother’s benefit, her bones picked clean by her own family!  

Other transmigrators got god-tier starting setups—why was hers a death sentence from the get-go?!  

Out of all the one-in-a-million chances in life, she never won the lottery, but when it came to cosmic bad luck? Bullseye.  

Fuming, Song Ruan sat up, ready to punch the wall—then hesitated, not wanting to hurt her hand. Instead, she pulled an egg from her pocket and smashed it angrily against the bed frame.  

After a full day of fruitless struggling and waking up still trapped here, she had reached her limit. In a fit of rage, she’d boiled every single egg in the Song household.  

The original owner had slaved away her whole life, and even after getting a job, she was still treated like a cash cow. She deserved these eggs!  

And she was gonna eat them!  

This body was so starved for nutrients that even a plain boiled egg tasted like heaven. She devoured it in two bites, then stared wistfully at the bits of egg white still clinging to the shell.  

Still hungry…  

But that was already her eighth egg!  

Fragile, broke, weak—but with a bottomless stomach.  

How am I supposed to survive like this?!

Overcome with despair, she sniffled, tears plopping down as she wolfed down another egg. She tossed the shells under Song Li’s bed for good measure and cracked open the last one.  

“Wuuuuh… Why am I so unlucky? I just wanna go hooome…”