After lunch, Zhou Caishi and Zhou Zihe were busy as usual.
It was still early.
Zhou Ang, at his desk, unpacked the things he had brought back from Chen Shi that afternoon.
The ink was fine pine soot ink, likely specially scented; not top-tier, but certainly something the Zhou Ang of the past couldn't afford. He held it to his nose and inhaled its delicate fragrance.
The brush was made of superior sheep hair, resilient and full of strength.
The paper was excellent Zhuchuan paper—fine, smooth, clean, and white, even with a subtle sheen.
The brush and ink were of high quality, and the paper was pre-cut, about thirty centimeters wide (one foot eight inches) and four feet eight inches long (estimated to be a little under a meter, around ninety centimeters), the so-called "eigh
