That rough, thick, perforated, earthen-yellow piece of hard paper was completely peeled off.

Su Shan held it up to his eyes, examining it against the dimming daylight.

The courtyard remained quiet, only a few distant barks of dogs could be heard.

After a long while, he, staring at the paper in his palm, a kind of unprecedented brilliance erupted in his muddy eyes!

He suddenly raised his head, his gaze sharp as lightning, shooting towards Su Ming, his voice hoarse, squeezed out from between his teeth:

“Xiao Ming… tell your father the truth.”

“This recipe… where on earth did you get it?!”

Su Shan’s voice sounded like two stones grinding together, each word hammering onto Su Ming’s heart.

The courtyard was deathly silent.

The evening breeze blew past, carrying the fresh scent of soil and vegetation from the fields, yet it couldn’t disperse the solidified, tense air in this corner.

Su Yang looked at his father, then at his younger brother, not daring to even breathe heavily. He had never seen his father with such a look in his eyes. It wasn’t the usual sternness, but a mixture of shock, suspicion, and a sharp glint he couldn’t quite understand.

Mrs. Chen and Wang Chuntao also sensed something unusual in the backyard and quietly walked to the doorway, not daring to get closer.

“Here it comes, the ultimate pressure test!” Lin Yu’s voice rang in Su Ming’s mind, tinged with the excitement of someone enjoying the show without worrying about the trouble. “Disciple, steady! Remember the script we rehearsed! Your expression must be innocent, your eyes sincere, your tone carrying a hint of that ‘I’m not entirely sure but that’s how it is’ kind of confusion! The Oscar is yours for the taking with this performance!”

Su Ming took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing his heart that was pounding like a drum.

He met his father’s gaze that seemed almost capable of seeing right through him, clenched his fists, letting the stinging pain in his palms keep him alert.

“Dad… I…” he began, his voice carrying the slight tremor expected of a young boy, yet not panicked. “Everything I said is true.”

“That recipe, I really found it in that bookshop in town.”

Su Shan didn’t speak, just stared at him, the embers in his pipe flickering, reflecting in his unfathomable pupils.

Su Ming knew simple repetition wouldn’t pass muster. He had to fill in the details, use countless seemingly real details to construct a lie that couldn’t be disproven.

“In the very back of that bookshop, in the corner by the wall, there was a pile of unwanted old books, covered in dust, some with their covers rotting away. The shopkeeper said those books were thirty wen each, pick any you like.”

“I was rummaging through that pile of books. There was one without a cover, its pages yellowed and brittle, crumbling at a touch. When I opened it, a folded piece of paper fell out from between the pages.”

As he spoke, he recalled the details Lin Yu had taught him.

“That piece of paper was even more worn than the jute paper we buy, its color similar to… similar to the dried paper on this door panel. The writing on it was in charcoal, very faded. I was just curious at the time, thought the material of the paper was strange, so I took a closer look.”

“It had some little figures drawn on it, cutting bamboo, smashing things, boiling in a big pot… I couldn’t even read all the characters, so I guessed and pieced things together, remembering a few key words, like ‘tender bamboo’, ‘plant ash’, ‘pounding’, ‘retting and boiling’…”

Hearing this, Su Yang couldn’t help but interject: “Yes, yes, yes! Dad, that’s exactly how Xiao Ming has been directing me these past few days! First cut tender bamboo, then smash it with the wooden mallet, then soak it in plant ash water!”

Su Yang’s corroboration made Su Ming’s account even more credible.

The sharpness in Su Shan’s eyes slowly receded somewhat, but his suspicion did not dissipate. He was a farmer who had dug his livelihood from the earth his whole life. He believed in sweat, he believed in the land, he did not believe in such windfalls.

“Which book?” he asked hoarsely.

“Don’t know the name, Dad. That book didn’t even have a cover, the handwriting inside was mostly blurred too, seemed like some kind of travelogue or miscellany.” Su Ming’s reply was flawless, an answer that left no evidence to trace.

Su Shan fell silent.

He turned the rough, earthen-yellow paper scrap over and over in his hand.

The paper was uneven in thickness, its surface so rough it could scrape off a layer of skin, with tiny holes and lumps of undispersed bamboo fiber.

But it was indeed a piece of “paper.”

It could bear ink and brush, it could record words, it could turn intangible thoughts into something tangible, something that could be passed on.

He knew his youngest son had always loved pondering strange and unusual things since he was little. Finding some odd recipe left by predecessors in a worthless, tattered old book… this matter… sounded bizarre, yet seemed to have a sliver of possibility.

Most crucially, a thirteen-year-old child, no matter how clever, how could he possibly fabricate a method for making paper out of thin air? This was the proprietary skill that the big workshops in the city relied on for their survival!

Thinking of this, the shock and suspicion in Su Shan’s heart began to be rapidly replaced by another, heavier, colder emotion.

It was fear.

He abruptly stood up, grabbing both Su Ming and Su Yang.

“Come, inside to talk!”

His voice was very low, but his movements were urgent, as if wolves were chasing him from behind.

Once inside, he immediately closed the door with a “creak” and bolted it.

Under the dim oil lamp, Su Shan’s weathered face appeared exceptionally grave. He scanned his family—his wife Mrs. Chen, his eldest son Su Feng and his wife, his second son Su Yang—and finally his gaze settled on his youngest son, Su Ming.

“What happened today,” he said, word by word, his voice pressed as if squeezed from his throat, “from now on, not a single word of it is to be spoken to anyone outside! Act as if it never happened! Those things in the backyard, burn them tomorrow morning! Bury them!”

“Dad! Why?!” Su Yang was frantic. “We finally managed to make it…”

“Shut up!” Su Shan growled in a low voice, making Su Yang shrink his neck in fright.

“Do you know what this is?” Su Shan raised the piece of paper in his hand. “This is something that can cost our whole family our lives!”

He panted heavily, as if he had been working a bellows for a long time.

“Don’t you understand the principle that ‘a man’s wealth is his own ruin’? A recipe like this that can turn worthless bamboo into money, if outsiders find out, do you think our family will ever have a peaceful day again?”

“The Village Chief in the village, the rich people in town, aren’t they all seemingly amiable, yet their hands are darker than anyone’s? If they knew we had this skill, would they politely come to discuss it with us, or would they sneak into our house in the middle of the night, steal the recipe, and then throw our whole family, young and old, down a well?”

Su Shan’s words were like a basin of ice water, pouring down from head to toe, making everyone shiver.

The excitement on Su Yang’s face instantly faded, replaced by belated fear. Mrs. Chen was even more frightened, her face pale, tightly clutching Wang Chuntao’s hand.

Su Ming’s heart also sank. His father’s reaction was even more intense than he had anticipated. He had considered risks, but his father was thinking of the catastrophe of extermination.

“Not bad, not bad,” Lin Yu’s voice sounded again, carrying a note of shrewd approval. “Your father’s political awareness is quite good. Not blinded by profit, thinking about risk control and crisis management first thing. He’s a qualified seedling for the ‘Way of Survival’, it’s just a pity he’s a bit old, otherwise he wouldn’t be bad to recruit as a protector.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep