Chapter 2: Still Have to Take the College Entrance Exam

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Liu Yimin was a transmigrator. He had no idea why, but he suddenly found himself transported to the year 1978. Before transmigrating, he had already been a manager at a media company, a mid-level supervisor—a position he had earned after ten years of relentless striving.

First, he had slogged through more than a decade of hard work to get into a run-of-the-mill university, majoring in Chinese Literature. Only after graduation did he realize that a degree in the humanities was practically worthless.

His parents, who had raised a university student with hopes of soaring success, were shocked to discover how pitiful his salary was. Yet, through perseverance, he finally secured a job at a media company.

After ten arduous years, he clawed his way up to a low-ranking leadership role. He had hoped that after ten years of striving, he could finally take it easy. But the younger generation was even more competitive than he had anticipated.

He had resigned himself to becoming a jaded office veteran, coasting through life. But his wallet hadn’t resigned itself, so he had to keep hustling...

He remembered that when he transmigrated, he had been reviewing scripts for short dramas repackaged for an American audience—titles like "Musk Falls for Divorced, Overweight Me with Three Kids, Trump Goes Nuclear with Jealousy," and "Menopausal Me Marries the Universe’s Youngest Billionaire CEO After Divorce"...

The scripts were packed with over-the-top drama and endless twists. He had read for hours, a wave of dark frustration rising in his chest until he blacked out.

Yet fate, as if feeling it had played too cruel a joke on him, granted him a modest background in this new world—a background so humble it was almost pitiable.

He was now the son of Liu Fuqing, team leader of the Third Production Team in Maiji Brigade, Shiling Commune, Ruxian County, Luocheng, Henan Province. Liu Yimin himself was a teacher responsible for both elementary and junior high Chinese classes at the brigade-run school.

When he awoke, he was lying in a hospital. The original Liu Yimin’s grades had been decent; he had just caught the reinstatement of the college entrance exam in 1977. Unfortunately, it snowed heavily on the morning of the exam. By the time he stumbled to the test center, he was too late to enter and missed the first subject, Chinese.

Overwhelmed by anxiety, he collapsed outside the exam hall—an experience that, oddly enough, the two of them now shared.

Could it be a case of body-swapping? Liu Yimin puzzled over this for a long while.

Militia and teachers maintaining order outside the county high school had bundled the original Liu Yimin off to the hospital. By the time Liu Yimin woke up, he had already missed the afternoon exams.

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Liu Yimin couldn’t help but sigh—if only he’d come to his senses sooner! With his own academic prowess, even with just the three remaining subjects, he could have secured a spot at university. After all, the 1977 exam questions were notoriously easy.

He had no choice: he must take this year’s college entrance exam. The return on investment was just too high; passing meant not only admission to university but also the coveted status of a state cadre.

“A blessing in disguise!” Liu Yimin tried to console himself, but his thoughts soon drifted back to his novel.

With the literary scene dominated by “scar literature,” he wondered if a work like “Mr. Donkey” could ever pass the censors.

He had chosen to write mainly to earn some money. Besides, writers held high status—unlike other jobs, which were both exhausting and thankless. Readers in this era were as devoted as celebrity fans of later years, flocking to meet authors and treating them like stars.

There was even a writer, once repressed in his youth, who, after finding fame, reportedly took more than twenty lovers. He once quipped, “Can you write good fiction if you don’t have scandals?”

There were many ways to make money, but for now, being a writer was the safest bet—offering both wealth and respect. Besides, he was a Chinese Literature major, well-read in the classics, fond of films, and occasionally wrote reviews.

With his memory and all the movies he’d seen, he was confident he could live comfortably—more than comfortably—just by wielding his pen in this era.

In this sense, transmigration wasn’t fate playing a cruel joke, but rather handing him a lottery ticket—and not a one-time prize, but a lifetime of wealth.

“Mr. Donkey” tells the absurd tale of teachers at a remote Republican-era school who falsely claim a donkey as a staff member in order to collect extra wages. To cover up the deception, they recruit a local coppersmith to impersonate the teacher when an inspector visits.

The teacher Zhang Yiman personally coaches the coppersmith in a few lines of English, and, combined with the coppersmith’s Mongolian, they manage to fool the inspector.

But worse trouble lies ahead: Mr. Ross is coming to inspect, marking the story’s turning point from comedy to tragedy.

On the surface, it’s an absurdist comedy, but at its core, it is a tragedy—one that cuts to the bone. It satirizes the indifference and selfishness of that society, showing how easily people betray their colleagues and abandon their morals for personal gain.

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He had watched “Mr. Donkey” at least three times, and its classic scenes never failed to amuse him.

“He actually bit my ear—why the hell did you bite my ear? Is an ear something you can eat?”

Lost in these thoughts, Liu Yimin arrived at the entrance of the Shiling Commune’s supply and marketing cooperative. The doors, painted green, were flanked by wooden banners reading, “Unified Purchase and Sale, Ensuring Supply.” More people bustled in and out than at the post office.

The cooperative wasn’t far from the postal agency; most of the commune’s main institutions and departments essential to daily life were clustered in this area.

The cooperative was much larger than the post office. Its two green doors stood wide open, with red slogans—“Unified Purchase and Sale, Ensuring Supply”—painted on the outside, and a red five-pointed star hanging above the frame.

Compared to the post office, the cooperative was a hive of activity. It was the only place in the commune to buy daily necessities, and all the villagers depended on it. Members came and went, and those who made purchases would leave with their goods held high, grinning with satisfaction as they admired their bounty before striding off in delight.

No sooner had he stepped inside than he heard the clamor—a middle-aged female shop assistant’s voice rang out, harsh and shrill, often punctuated by the sounds of things being slammed or thrown. The customers nearby dared not speak above a whisper, plastering on fawning smiles.

The cooperative held sway over people’s food, clothing, and shelter, which in turn made shop assistants among the most sought-after professions of the time. They also had first dibs on scarce goods, which fostered their air of superiority.

“Comrade, a pack of peach crisps, and a jin of sugar, please,” a woman holding a child said meekly.

“Here!” The shop assistant tossed the peach crisps to her before turning to fetch a brass scoop for the sugar.

The child in the woman’s arms greedily sniffed the aroma of the peach crisps, pawing at the packaging with eager hands, a thread of drool hanging from his lips until it finally dripped onto his mother’s clothes.