The summer wind brought with it a little heat when it blew through the room.
Sun Mo walked around the bookshelves and would occasionally take a book out and flip through it.
Meanwhile, Zheng Qingfang sat on his wooden chair as he stared unblinkingly at the manuscript on his hand. Subconsciously, his movements grew increasingly gentle, very different from his earlier absent-minded motions, like he was afraid to damage the manuscript.
Honestly speaking, when he first read the manuscript, Zheng Qingfang was filled with disdain. He felt that Sun Mo was talking big.
The paragraph was direct and accurate, but there wasn't any literary talent. To speak bluntly, it was written in vernacular.
But as he continued reading, he felt the story growing more interesting.
