Fleeing Famine with Eight Concubines

She transmigrated, her husband was dead, and at home there were eight concubines, a father-in-law, and four little brats. Three years of severe drought had left no harvest at all. The whole family had to flee famine. Su Zhuo expressionlessly pulled out paper and a pen. "Anyone who can cook, stand on the left. Anyone who can mend clothes, stand on the right." "The more work you do, the more you eat. The less you do, the last you eat." "Anyone looking to cause trouble can get out of the group right now." This wasn't inner-courtyard scheming. It was a KPI evaluation on the road to escape famine. Su Zhuo's golden finger was tiny: a one-cubic-meter space that randomly refreshed with modern junk every day. She had to lead this group of old, weak, women, and children out of a desperate situation. So what if she'd transmigrated? A workaholic could thrive anywhere. Grandma Su's Alzheimer's had reached the moderate-to-severe stage. She was confused more often than she was lucid. She had even forgotten her son and daughter-in-law, but still remembered to stock up on things for her little granddaughter. She stuffed all sorts of odd things into that old camphorwood chest. A maple leaf, a bag of apples, damp biscuits, broken toys... "This is for Zhuozhuo..." Blurb screenshot, 2026.5.22 Theme: