With My Pocket Dimension and My Parents’ Inheritance, I Thrive in the 1970s

> When I transmigrated into the body of a martyr’s orphan, the neighborhood office was pressuring me to go to the countryside.

> “Your parents are both dead. You have to answer the call and help build up the rural areas!”

> I lowered my head and dabbed at my tears, then turned around and pulled out my mother’s work ID from the research institute.

> Under policy, a martyr’s child could take over a parent’s job.

> That very day, I moved into the institute’s residential compound and fried steak and pot stickers with supplies I’d stockpiled in my pocket dimension.

> The neighbors peered through the crack in the door and drooled. “What a bourgeois lifestyle!”

> It wasn’t until the director slammed the table and said, “The materials her parents gave their lives to protect are worth enough to feed ten of her!”