42: It's a pity he's a bit old.

The rough, thick, yellowish-brown piece of hard paper, riddled with holes, was completely peeled away.

Su Shan held it up to his eyes, examining it against the dim light of the sky.

The courtyard remained quiet, with only a few distant barks of dogs audible.

After a long time, he looked at the paper in his palm, and an unprecedented light burst forth from his cloudy eyes!

He suddenly raised his head, his gaze sharp as lightning, shooting toward Su Ming, his voice hoarse as he squeezed the words through his teeth:

“Xiao Ming... tell your father the truth.”

“This formula... where exactly did you get it from?!”

Su Shan's voice sounded like two stones grinding together, every word hammering into Su Ming's heart.

The courtyard was completely silent.

The evening breeze blew through, bringing the fresh scent of earth and plants from the fields, but it couldn't dispel the tense air solidified in this corner.

Su Yang looked at his father, then at his younger brother, afraid to even breathe. He had never seen his father wear such an expression—it wasn't his usual strictness, but a sharp glint mixed with shock, suspicion, and a trace of intensity he couldn't understand.

Madam Chen and Wang Chuntao also sensed the strangeness in the backyard and quietly walked to the doorway, but dared not approach.

“Here it comes, the ultimate stress test!” Lin Yu's voice rang out in Su Ming's mind, carrying the excitement of someone who enjoys watching drama unfold. “Disciple, stay calm! Remember the lines we rehearsed! Your expression must be innocent, your eyes sincere, and your tone should carry a hint of 'I'm not entirely sure, but this is what happened' bewilderment! The Oscar Statuette depends on this performance!”

Su Ming took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing his pounding heart.

Meeting his father's gaze, which seemed ready to pierce right through him, he clenched his fists, using the stinging pain in his palms to keep himself alert.

“Father... I...” he began, his voice carrying the slight tremor appropriate for a youth, yet without panic. “Everything I said is true.”

“That formula is exactly what I found in that bookstore in town.”

Su Shan didn't speak, just stared at him, the sparks in his tobacco pipe flickering, reflecting in his unfathomable pupils.

Su Ming knew that simple repetition wouldn't suffice. He had to fill in the details, using countless seemingly real specifics to construct a lie that couldn't be disproven.

“Deep inside that bookstore, near the corner, there was a pile of unwanted old books covered in dust, some with rotten covers. The owner said they were thirty *wen* each, just pick whatever you wanted.”

“I rummaged through that pile. There was one book without a cover, its pages yellow 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 paper was even more tattered than the hemp paper we buy; its color was similar to... to the dry paper on this door panel. The writing on it was done with charcoal, and it was very blurry. I was just curious then, thinking the material of the paper was strange, so I looked at it a few more times.”

“It had drawings of little figures—cutting bamboo, smashing things, boiling them in a large pot... I couldn't read all the characters, so I guessed and pieced together a few key phrases, like 'tender bamboo,' 'plant ash,' 'pounding,' and 'retting'...”

Hearing this, Su Yang couldn't help but interject: “Exactly! Father, this is exactly what Xiao Ming has been directing me to do these past few days! First, cut the tender bamboo, then smash it with a wooden mallet, and then soak it in plant ash water!”

Su Yang's corroboration made Su Ming's narrative more believable.

The sharpness in Su Shan's eyes slowly receded, but the suspicion did not vanish. He was a farmer who had worked the soil his whole life; he believed in sweat and land, not in such heaven-sent opportunities.

“Which book?” he asked hoarsely.

“I don't know the name, Father. The book didn't even have a cover, and most of the writing inside was blurred. It seemed like some kind of travelogue or miscellaneous notes.” Su Ming's answer was flawless—a statement that could not be verified.

Su Shan fell silent.

He turned the rough, yellowish-brown piece of paper over and over in his hand.

The paper was uneven in thickness, its surface so rough it could scrape off a layer of skin, and it still had tiny holes and lumps of undissolved bamboo fibers.

Yet, it was undeniably a piece of “paper.”

It could hold ink, record characters, and turn vague, ethereal thoughts into something tangible and transferable.

He knew that his youngest son had always liked messing around with strange and curious things. Finding some odd formula left by a predecessor in a dilapidated, unwanted old book... the matter sounded bizarre, yet there seemed to be a sliver of possibility.

Most critically, how could a thirteen-year-old child, no matter how clever, invent a method for making paper out of thin air? This was the core skill upon which the large Workshops in the city depended for their survival!

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

It was fear.

He suddenly stood up and grabbed Su Ming and Su Yang.

“Come on, let's talk inside!”

His voice was very low, but his movements were urgent, as if a wolf were chasing him.

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

Under the dim oil lamp, Su Shan's weathered face appeared exceptionally solemn. He glanced around at his family—his wife, Madam Chen, his eldest son Su Feng and his wife, his second son Su Yang—and finally settled his gaze on his youngest son, Su Ming.

“What happened today,” he said, word by word, his voice squeezed from his throat, “Starting now, no one is allowed to speak a single word of it outside! Pretend it never happened! Burn the things in the backyard tomorrow morning! Bury them!”

“Father! Why?” Su Yang panicked. “We finally managed to make it...”

“Shut up!” Su Shan roared, making Su Yang shrink his neck back in fear.

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

He gasped for breath, as if he had been pumping a bellows for a long time.

“Don't you understand the principle of 'Owning a Treasure Invites Disaster'? If outsiders learn about a formula that can turn worthless bamboo into money, do you think our family will be able to live peacefully?”

“The Village Head, the wealthy people in town—who among them doesn't look friendly on the surface but is crueler than anyone when they act? If they knew we had this skill, would they politely come to negotiate with us, or would they sneak into our house in the middle of the night, steal the formula, and then dump our entire family down a well?”

Su Shan's words were like a basin of ice water poured over them from head to toe, causing everyone to shiver.

The excitement instantly drained from Su Yang's face, replaced by lingering fear. Madam Chen was even more frightened, her face pale, as she tightly gripped 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 the risks, but his father was thinking of the calamity of extermination.

“Not bad, not bad,” Lin Yu's voice sounded again, carrying the approval of a seasoned schemer. “Your father's political awareness is decent. He wasn't blinded by profit and immediately thought of risk control and crisis management. He's a qualified seedling for The Way of Cautious Survival, too bad he's too old, otherwise, taking him on as a Protector wouldn't be bad.”