The Whole Court Transmigrated, but I'm the Only One Writing Notices

Zhu Yunhua transmigrates and, on her very first day, finds herself owing twelve taels for grilled skewers. She pays off the debt, tweaks the chili sauce recipe, and helps every shop on the street get a new sign. When the censor comes to investigate suspicious slogans, she changes “probability” to “luck” and “positive review rate” to “word of mouth,” and escapes without a single penalty. The neighbors soon decide she’s the one to turn to: the cloth shop asks her to write its notices, the restaurant wants her to revise its menu, and even the vinegar shop asks what color ribbon to hang. On the second floor of the teahouse across the street, there’s a window with something different on its sill every day. The man behind it says, “My name is Zhao Heng, and this whole street belongs to me.” Later, she discovers that Old Zhou’s sauce recipe is thirty years old, her father mutters “food delivery” in his sleep, and Zhao Heng has been waiting for her for three years. Her notices spread from East Third Street all the way to the palace, and she goes from the street into the imperial court. The whole street is putting on an act, and she can’t stop writing either. From teahouses and restaurants to the imperial palace and court, not one person is a genuine ancient native.