Transmigrating to Ancient Times: I Refuse to Trade My Sister for Two Sacks of Millet

The cold wind doesn't blow in. It seeps in.

Like countless tiny needles dipped in ice water, it silently slips through cracks in the cracked earthen walls, then pricks Yang Hui's exposed skin. He shuddered violently, his consciousness dragged back from a chaotic haze.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a low, dim ceiling made of crooked wooden beams and thick thatch. A few stubborn strands of cobweb dangled in the corner, trembling faintly in the draft. The stench of mold, damp earth, and an indescribable poverty filled his nostrils with overpowering force.