Travel through famine years and awaken a post-apocalyptic survival system.

Suburbs of Beijing, winter of 1961.

The snow fell heavily, the snowflakes pressing down densely, covering the roofs of the adobe houses like thick white quilts.

The earth was covered in a blanket of silver.

Inside the mud-brick house.

The mud-brick walls were blackened by the smoke from the stove fire, and the cracks were stuffed with rags and old newspapers.

Dim light shone through the paper windows, and several strings of dried chili peppers and garlic braids hung on the window frame. The kang mat was worn smooth, and the rolled-up edges revealed sorghum stalks underneath.

A sickly teenager lay on the heated kang (a traditional Chinese bed-stove).

"Ouch! My head hurts!"

Zhao Qingsong was awakened by a severe headache.

He opened his eyes, and his vision was blurry for a while before it became clear.

Above them were dark beams, and the thatched roof had several gaps through which the hemp stalks and mud could be seen.

Beneath him was a hard earthen bed covered with a rough straw mat, which made his back ache.

"Where am I? This isn't a hospital!"

Zhao Qingsong instinctively tried to sit up, but felt a wave of dizziness and had to lie back down.

His last memory was of blinding headlights and the screech of brakes—he was hit and killed by a car that ran a red light on his way home from get off work.

But now, he is neither in a hospital nor does he seem to be in any modern place.

The air was filled with the smell of firewood, mildew, and some indescribable bitterness.

The interior was terribly sparsely furnished: a wooden table with peeling paint, a few rough earthenware jars, yellowed newspapers pasted on the walls, and a few farm tools piled in the corner.

The windows were made of paper, which rattled loudly in the wind.

"Qingsong! You're awake?" A hoarse female voice suddenly rang out.

Zhao Qingsong turned his head and saw a thin, middle-aged woman walking quickly towards him.

She was wearing a patched blue coarse cloth dress, her face was sallow, and her eyes were sunken, but at this moment her eyes were glistening with tears of surprise.

"Mother... Mother thought you wouldn't wake up..."

The woman's hand trembled as she stroked his face; her palm was rough like sandpaper, yet it carried an incredible warmth.

Zhao Qingsong was stunned.

He didn't know this woman at all, but she clearly treated him like her son.

What's even stranger is that she was speaking Mandarin, but with a heavy northern accent.

"What...what's wrong with me?" he asked tentatively, his voice hoarse and unlike his own.

"Your uncle's son, Qingshan, knocked you unconscious. You were unconscious for two whole days!" The woman wiped away her tears. "If it weren't for your father borrowing some brown sugar from the commune and forcing it down your throat..."

Zhao Qingsong's brain was working at lightning speed.

Uncle?

Green Mountain?

These names are both strange and familiar.

He looked down at his hands—hands that belonged to a young man, with large knuckles, calloused palms, and grime embedded in his fingernails. These weren't his hands, at least not the hands of that 30-something-year-old programmer.

A terrible thought struck him: he had traveled through time.

"What's the date today?" he asked eagerly.

"April 17th, what's wrong?" the woman asked, looking at him with concern. "Is your head still hurting?"

"No, I mean...which year?"

The woman's expression grew even more worried: "1961, Qingsong, don't scare your mother..."

In 1961! Zhao Qingsong was struck dumb.

That was the year with the most severe natural disasters in the three years.

Suddenly, a slight throbbing pain shot through his head, and a memory slowly seeped into his mind.

Half a day passed.

Zhao Qingsong realized what was happening.

he……

It really was time travel.

We also figured out the situation.

He then let out a wry smile.

In his past life, he was a science and engineering student who settled in Kyoto after graduating from university and bought a house with a loan.

Although there is pressure, life is going okay.

Others might want to time travel, but he really doesn't!

Having a deep understanding of history, he naturally knew the general direction of history: there would be no private economy for a long time to come.

He didn't even have a chance to show his skills.

He actually traveled back to this era?

What a pity!

He was picky in his past life, and by the time he was over thirty, he was still unmarried and unable to find a wife to carry on his family line.

Fortunately, there's still the eldest child at home.

I don't know how much compensation I can get.

He sighed.

These things are no longer his concern.

Lost in thought, I heard a commotion outside.

"Zhang Xiulan! Come out here!" a rough male voice roared.

The mother's face turned deathly pale.

She quickly wiped her hands and whispered to Zhao Qingsong, "Lie still, Mother will go check on you."

Zhao Qingsong—now he had no choice but to accept this name. He forced himself to sit up and looked out through the crack in the door.

Three men were standing in the courtyard. The one in the lead was about forty years old, burly, and had a fierce face.

Two young men followed behind, one with a smug look on his face, and the other looking somewhat timid.

"Boss Zhao, what are you doing here?" Zhang Xiulan stood in front of the door, her voice soft but firm.

"What are you doing here?" the burly man sneered. "Here to get Qingshan's employment certificate! I need to report to the steel factory tomorrow; how can I get there without it?"

"That's Qingsong's spot!" Zhang Xiulan suddenly raised her voice. "Dad said before he died that it was for the second wife's family. Qingsong has finished junior high school; it's his turn!"

"Bullshit!" the boy shouted. Zhao Qingshan stepped forward. "My father is the eldest son, so the spot naturally goes to the eldest son's family! Grandma has already agreed, so what are you second sons?"

Zhao Qingsong's brain was rapidly piecing together the information.

In such a long time, he has learned everything from the merged memories.

My grandfather saved a leader at the steel factory before he died, and in return, he got a job opening.

Grandpa had three sons: Zhao Tiezhu (the eldest son), Zhao Jianguo (the second son), and Zhao Gensheng (the youngest son).

The spot was originally promised to the second wife because "he" had completed junior high school and was more educated than Zhao Qingshan from the first wife. However, his grandfather passed away a few days ago, and just after the seventh day memorial service, the first wife, together with his grandmother, snatched the spot. In the ensuing argument, they even knocked the original owner unconscious and killed him, which led to his transmigration.

Zhao Qingsong touched the back of his head and found a lump the size of an egg.

He smiled bitterly, "To be hit by a car in modern society and beaten to death by my cousin in the 60s, I'm just incredibly unlucky."

"Stop arguing..." a weak voice came from inside the house.

Zhao Qingsong then noticed that there was another person lying on the earthen bed in the next room. It must be the body's father, with a sallow complexion and coughing incessantly.

"Zhao Lao Er, what are you pretending to be dead for?" Zhao Tiezhu sneered. "Hurry up and hand over the proof, or I'll force you to take action!"

Despite saying that, Zhao Qingshan still went inside.

I searched the house thoroughly.

Finally, I found a yellowed piece of paper.

Zhang Xiulan, using her last bit of strength, said, "This was left to Qingsong by your grandfather; it has Qingsong's name written on it!"

"Hehe, Grandpa's not here, the steel factory only recognizes Grandma, I'll report for duty tomorrow!"

A surge of anger ignited in Zhao Qingsong's chest.

Although he had only just transmigrated here, this blatant bullying aroused his anger.

He tried to rush out, but found himself so weak that he couldn't even stand up straight.