Even someone as calm as Zhao Ming couldn't help but widen his eyes slightly, then he grabbed the paper back and examined it carefully.
The paper was slightly yellow and a bit rough, but it was indeed paper. He smoothed it out and gently rubbed it with his fingertip, feeling the fibers under his touch.
He got up barefoot, not bothering to put on the boots by his side, and slipped on wooden clogs as he walked out.
Zhao Hanzhang hurriedly got up and chased after him, "Uncle, Uncle, the snow is so thick outside, be careful not to catch a cold."
Zhao Ming returned to his study with the paper, poured a bit of water into the inkstone, and began to grind ink. After dipping the brush in ink, he lightly wrote the word "Zhao" on the paper.
The ink bled slightly but quickly stabilized. His eyes brightened, finally confirming that this was a piece of writable paper.
