Viajando pelo Cultivo: A Pequena Sortuda Muda o Destino da Família de Vilões

The early summer night was cool, the sky deep into the fourth watch. In the small courtyard of the Jiang family in Qingshu Village, a sturdy woman dressed in coarse linen stood inside the spirit pigpen, holding an oil lamp. With one hand, she grasped a knife, and with the other, she mixed the lowest grade spirit plants into feed for a red-breasted spirit pig. Her knife landed steadily on the chopping board, splitting it slightly.

Cradled in her arms was a baby, drifting between sleep and wakefulness. The infant was only a few months old, yet lacked any infantile plumpness—dark-skinned and thin, a stark contrast to the fat pig happily munching feed nearby. Anyone might mistake the pig for the family’s child.

Before Jiang Haohao opened her eyes, the pungent odor of pig manure reached her nose. She frowned, struggling to open her eyes, and, as usual, began to wail loudly. Hungry, she cried for her mother to feed her.

The woman, hearing the cries, quickly set aside her work, gently patted her little bundle’s back, uttered a cleansing spell, and returned to the house to expertly lift her shirt and quiet the crying baby.

Confronted with the whiteness before her, Jiang Haohao, in her previous life a strong, modern woman, found herself resigned. People’s resilience is remarkable; after three or four months in this world, aside from the initial embarrassment of breastfeeding and the distress of soiled diapers, she had adapted well. Her routine consisted of eating, sleeping, and crying. Yet this body remained fragile—though born into a world of cultivation,