Transmigrating to Farm: I Made My Way Starting With a Sprig of Mugwort

Jiang He was transported into the body of a poor girl in an ancient farming village.

Her father was dead, her mother had remarried, and all she had was a leaky shack, three acres of poor farmland, a scrawny eight-year-old little brother, and barely half a bowl of rice left in the jar.

She had no golden finger, no pocket dimension, not even a beginner's gift pack.

Squatting on a weed-choked patch of wasteland, she looked at the mugwort leaves crushed in her palm and thought: Fine, then. I'll rely on myself.