In the winter of 1976, the snow in Wulan Village was heavier than in previous years. Shen Hengzhi was wrapped in a tattered coat with exposed cotton wool, and was driven back to her parents' home by her ex-husband with a letter of divorce. The military marriage was terminated, but her household registration was still registered in the village - which meant that she could not receive even a pound of relief food. The stepmother locked the firewood shed door, and her love rival Zhao Cuihua blocked the entrance to the village and called her a traitor. Even the village party secretary hinted: "With your status, don't bring trouble to Wulan Village." In a desperate situation, Shen Hengzhi's fingertips touched the cold celadon fragment - the next second, she fell into a strange void. Surrounded by gray fog, there were several handfuls of moldy grains piled at the feet, and two lines of blood were engraved on the wall: "Profits from each transaction must be increased, and false declarations will eat up supplies." Trembling, she exchanged the last handful of wild onions for two kilograms of sweet potatoes, and the fog actually retreated a foot. Shen Hengzhi suddenly laughed: This space forced her to make money even if she died. While the villagers were still scratching their heads over half a pound of corn, she had figured out the fluctuation patterns of black market grain prices. From exchanging brown sugar for cloth coupons, to contracting out unsalable enamel basins from supply and marketing cooperatives, to building the county's first private clothing factory - every profit is feeding space, and every expansion brings her into contact with a larger business territory. But on the night she signed the lease for her first factory, a space alarm suddenly sounded: last month's batch of "off-the-book grain" was judged to be a false transaction, and the gray fog began to crazily devour the thirty tons of cotton yarn she had just stocked...
