After not speaking for decades, Xiao Feng couldn't be sure if his language ability had deteriorated.
However, he remembered watching a movie where a man and a cow lived on a mountain for many years, and when the man came down, he indeed had a language barrier.
If what the old man said was true, that no one had spoken to him for decades, it would be understandable if he lost the ability to express himself verbally.
However, this wasn't what attracted Xiao Feng the most.
What intrigued Xiao Feng the most was the pen and ink on the table. The ink wasn't the usual black, but an ink green.
In addition, the brush's hair and the texture of the paper were quite unusual.
Seeing Xiao Feng's confusion, the old man wrote: "The paper is made of sheepskin, the ink is made by me using bamboo leaves, once it dries on the sheepskin, the writing disappears."
Xiao Feng nodded in understanding, "May I know your honorable surname, sir?"
