To prove himself, Old Man Bai took Zheng Fa and another into a separate room.
This room's door was closed all year round, and Zheng Fa had never been inside before.
It wasn't a large room, about ten square meters, and against the wall was a row of tall bookshelves with books placed very chaotically. On the floor and the chairs were also several books that were open halfway.
One could tell at a glance that this messy study belonged to the slovenly old man.
The only thing different was the desk by the window corner. Aside from a stack of thick paper and a pen holder full of pens, there was nothing else on it.
Most peculiar was that this stack of draft paper was piled neatly, looking like a block of tofu cut very smoothly.
"Is this your new book?" Tang Lingwu also noticed the pile of peculiar drafts.
Old Man Bai became modest: "It's just an idea of mine, been writing it for several years."