After Transmigrating into a Lame Refugee Girl, I Changed My Fate with Traditional Kites

I'm an inheritor of the intangible cultural heritage of kite-making. I opened my eyes to find myself a refugee girl fleeing famine. My brother was covered in blood, carrying me as he fled among the crowd. He said, “Close your eyes and I'll bury you by the roadside.” But ahead were bandits who killed for a living, and behind us were soldiers conscripting men. Everyone said there was no way we'd get out. I took apart a broken umbrella, split the bamboo ribs, and tore strips from a blood-soaked shirt to make the kite paper. That night, when the wind rose, three ghost-faced kites soared over the mountaintop. At the sight of them in the firelight, the bandits fell to their knees, crying that the mountain god had shown his power. When soldiers blocked the roads, I sent kites carrying messages over the mountain ridge. Three hundred refugees took a detour in advance and made it out of the dead end alive. At last, they understood that the things flying in the sky weren't toys. They were eyes, paths, and lives. In troubled times, everyone says commoners are like grass. But I was determined to use a single string to pull every life on the verge of being cut short back from the brink.