Qu Weiwei felt as if her head were being hammered again and again, each strike sending waves of pain through her.
Enduring the pain, she forced her eyes open—only to realize she wasn’t in her dorm room.
Yesterday had been her twenty-third birthday. Her friends had celebrated with her in the dorm. Since it was a dormitory, they didn’t dare make too much noise, but there was still plenty of quiet fun. After blowing out the candles, they danced together. The dorm supervisor didn’t allow alcohol, so they could only drink soft drinks… but could soft drinks really make someone drunk?
Qu Weiwei raised her hand to rub her still-throbbing head—only to discover that her hand had shrunk. Her once slender fingers had become short and chubby, like those of a small child.
This realization stunned her.
She looked around again, confirming she definitely wasn’t in her dorm.
This was a strangely decorated room. She wasn’t lying on a bed, but slumped beside a table, as if she had fainted while eating.
The table was a small, delicate redwood table. The room itself was spacious, around forty to fifty square meters. Beside the dining area was something like a small sitting room, furnished with a classic vintage sofa set.
The material looked like genuine leather—probably quite expensive. Across from her lay a woman, face down, only her head visible, adorned with two gold hairpins.
Her hairstyle resembled that of an ancient noble lady. Behind a folding screen stood a large bed, along with a matching dressing table. The entire room was neat and spotless.
Suddenly, a flood of memories surged into her mind. The dull throbbing in her head instantly turned into unbearable agony, almost making her collapse to the floor.
Fortunately, the child’s memories weren’t too many—otherwise her head might have exploded.
The woman lying across from her was her mother, named He Youyou. But here, she could only call her “Concubine Mother.” Her philandering father had six concubines, and her mother was the fifth. Her maternal grandfather had once been the chief accountant of the Qu household.
Her father was the richest man in Pingcheng. It was now July 1949. Last month, after returning from Haicheng, her father had begun instructing the First Madam to pack their belongings.
The servants whispered that they might be heading to Hong Kong—or even abroad. Of course, such matters were never told to children, so the little girl’s memories only knew that they were planning to flee.
The First Madam, Zhang Sumei, was a jealous woman of average looks. However, she knew how to dress herself well, making her appear passable. Her natal family was powerful—some kind of official background, it seemed—and even her father had to be wary of them.
This time, Zhang Sumei had no intention of bringing along the concubines or the illegitimate children. The only things she wanted to take were the family’s wealth and her own son and daughter.
So, she had drugged the food.
Wait—Zhang Sumei, He Youyou, Qu Weiwei, Fifth Concubine…
Weren’t these characters from that Republican-era sweet romance novel “The Flower of the Factory”?
The female lead’s mother was named Zhang Sumei, and the heroine herself was Qu Qingqing—once the eldest daughter of Pingcheng’s richest family. But before liberation, the family’s wealth had been stolen by the Fourth Concubine and the steward.
Their plan to go abroad was ruined. They could only gather their remaining personal belongings, alter their identities, and move to a small town.
The story took place in a textile factory in that town.
Qu Weiwei’s name appeared in the novel only because the heroine, trying to please a little girl in the male lead’s family who was about the same age as her, mentioned her several times. But not as her half-sister—as her cousin.
In the story, that “cousin” and her mother died at this exact moment.
They were drugged unconscious by the First Madam, who then set fire to the entire mansion, burning them alive.
It was meant to fake their escape—and to take the family fortune. But unknown to her, the Fourth Concubine and her lover, the head steward, had already transferred the wealth.
After finally sorting out her thoughts, Qu Weiwei tried to wake her mother, who lay slumped over the table. As a five-year-old child, she knew she couldn’t survive alone outside this mansion—she could only rely on her mother.
Just as she was about to stand up and shake her awake, her vision suddenly went black.
When she opened her eyes again, she found herself in an unfamiliar place.
It was a small courtyard, enclosed by a simple fence. Inside stood a stone table and a well. In the left corner grew a grapevine trellis, while on the right stood a large mango tree.
The house inside the courtyard was a two-story wooden structure, with white exterior walls and a natural wood-colored front door.
Qu Weiwei walked inside and pushed open the door.
The first thing she saw was a modern floor-to-ceiling shoe cabinet, with a matching wooden bench beside it.
Further in was a living room of about forty square meters, furnished with a beige European-style sofa. A television, computer, and home theater system were all present.
To the left was an open kitchen, equipped with an oven, rice cooker, induction stove, refrigerator, dishwasher, food storage cabinet, and soy milk machine. There was also a door leading to a storage room.
Don’t ask how she knew—it was labeled on the door.
Curious, Qu Weiwei pushed the storage room door open.
Inside, instead of one large space, there were multiple small rooms. Each door was labeled with its contents: rice, flour, grains, oils, meat, eggs, fruits, vegetables, medicinal herbs—everything imaginable.
She opened the first room labeled “Rice.”
Inside, sacks of rice were neatly stacked—premium rice, japonica rice, pearl rice, and even long-grain wild rice. Each sack weighed at least fifty kilograms. There were also brown rice and black rice—every variety you could think of.
The entire room was filled with nothing but rice.
She exited and entered the next room labeled “Flour.”
It was arranged just like the previous one—neatly stacked bags of flour: white flour, whole wheat flour, cornmeal, high-gluten flour, medium-gluten flour, low-gluten flour. There was even cornstarch, potato starch, and sweet potato flour.
The sheer variety made her dizzy.
After inspecting two staple food rooms, she decided to check out the meat room—after all, she was a meat lover who couldn’t go a day without it.
Pushing open the door labeled “Meat,” she found shelves packed with fresh meat: pork, chicken, duck, goose, beef, lamb, rabbit, venison—even roe deer meat.
There were also wild boar and wolf meat piled nearby.
All of it looked freshly slaughtered, still bearing traces of blood.
On other shelves were cured meats—dried meat, salted meat, ham, sausages, and bacon.
Suddenly, she caught the rich aroma of braised pork.
Following the scent, she discovered rows of cooked dishes—basins filled with ready-made braised meat.
Her mouth instantly watered.
Author: Jun Yaling