While everyone else transmigrated to ancient times, Lu Xiaoman transmigrated to a refugee trail in the 1970s. She had no food, no ration coupons, no household registration, and the charge of "speculation and profiteering" hanging over her head.
Fortunately, a junk-recycling bin appeared in her mind. It refreshed with new scrap every day: rusty hoes, chipped cleavers, broken iron pots. With a mere thought, they became as good as new.
But this golden finger had a peculiar limitation: it could refurbish inanimate objects, but not anything that could walk.
So by day, she swung a hammer and sharpened blades. At night, she "collected junk," hiding her secrets beneath the sparks from her hammer.
From the brigade repair station to the commune's general store; from being called an outsider to standing on the district's demonstration stage; from a leaky supply shed to the first black-and-white television in the village.
Lu Xiaoman held fast to three rules: keep the books aboveboard, let the money belong to the collective, and make a living with her skills.
With every passing year, the winds of the era grew warmer.
And her family's life grew more prosperous year by year.
Pretty good, written using AI