Ye Sheng returned to the hut. His entire body was filthy and smelly, but he did not dare to disturb Beauty Zhou. He entered the river alone to wash away the filth all over his body.
The river water was bone-piercing cold, but it was not a problem for Ye Sheng. The zhenqi in his body was like a furnace, burning fiercely.
After washing away the filth, Ye Sheng wore white clothes and stood there burning incense. He was in a trance. He spread out the white paper on the table, raised his brush, and was about to write.
But the moment he wrote, Ye Sheng saw that he did not grind the ink, and could not help but frown.
"Beauty Zhou, come over and grind the ink for me."Ye Sheng's voice was like a thread, spreading into the next room. Beauty Zhou, who was resting with her eyes closed, was startled awake.
"What? I am the son of a quasi-saint. You want me to grind the ink?"Beauty Zhou said in disbelief.