I am a Primitive Man

“Paper is a great thing, a truly wonderful thing. It’s much better than clay tablets for writing and recording things. Not only is it faster to write on, but it also holds more information.”

After silently lamenting, Han Cheng began to defend the value of paper.

Aside from its use for wiping, paper was the undisputed ruler of the cultural medium for recording and transmitting knowledge before the advent of things like the Internet. It was the most suitable material for the job.

Whether hardened clay tablets or sheepskin and calfskin processed with alum, none of these could compare to paper when recording things and acting as a vessel for culture.

Even in the future, with the development of various electronic devices and the growing prevalence of digital reading, paper still holds an important place and cannot be completely replaced.

In the legendary story of Cangjie creating characters, the heavens and earth were filled with sorrow and terror, with ghosts wailing and gods weeping at the thought of humans about to gain the inheritance of knowledge and grow stronger.

Now, here he was in primitive society, having created paper—a medium that would play a huge role in advancing culture and passing down knowledge. Although the starting point differed, its importance had not changed.

It was fine that no one from heaven or earth, not even the spirits, reacted to this great invention, but why was there an ordinary person next to him shaking his head at this paper as if it were something insignificant?

After Han Cheng's words, the Shaman, who had been crouching and was still confused about the paper, became even more bewildered.

How could something like this be used to record things, and how could it be better than a clay tablet?

Seeing the Shaman's reaction, Han Cheng couldn't help but sniffle again. If that pen could write on the paper, that would be strange.

Han Cheng pointed to the stone stylus and shook his head. "That won’t work. You need a different kind of pen."

The Shaman scratched his head as if suddenly understanding, then stood up and hurried off.

Han Cheng was left staring in surprise. When did the Shaman become so quick-witted?

He’d barely said a word, and the Shaman was off, probably having thought of using a brush and ink just from a few words from him.

The Shaman returned quickly, holding the stone stylus and a stick for writing on a sand table and a clump of earth.

He returned to the paper, first using the stick to scratch on it, but the result was no better than the stone stylus.

He put both aside and grabbed the clump of earth, which, due to the paper’s thickness and roughness, left some marks on it.

The Shaman’s face lit up with surprise, thinking he’d found the right method. But soon, his face fell into a frown again.

The marks made by the earth clump rubbed off as soon as he touched them.

Han Cheng, who had been watching with curiosity, stood there gaping.

Seeing the Shaman with a furrowed brow, Han Cheng couldn’t hold back his laughter as he explained, “This won’t work either. We’ll need to make a new kind of pen.”

At that moment, some of the stone people gathered around. Their interest was piqued because he mentioned what he was doing to them when the Shaman went to get the writing stick for the sand table.

As one of the most learned individuals in the Green Sparrow Tribe, they were only naturally interested in such matters.

At this point, Han Cheng and the Shaman were scratching their heads, clearly puzzled about what this new type of pen Han Cheng had described would look like and how it should be made.

There was no shortage of materials for making a brush in the tribe, and Han Cheng’s gaze swept over the yard. His eyes quickly landed on the lazy Fu Jiang, lying on his back in the shade, half of his belly exposed as he napped contentedly.

Fu Jiang had become quite lazy lately, especially in the hot weather when staying in the tribe, and he enjoyed his naps with great comfort.

But today, Fu Jiang couldn’t continue his pleasant nap because Han Cheng was approaching with a knife.

Fu Jiang, who had been half-closed in blissful sleep, immediately sprang up from the ground at the sight of the knife-wielding Han Cheng, his eyes widening, his body crouching low, ready to flee.

Of course, he didn’t escape Han Cheng’s grasp, who pulled him back, scratching him for a while before using the knife to trim off some fur.

Afterward, Fu Jiang sat there, looking at the master who had walked away with a big smile. His face was dumbfounded as he stared at the patch of missing fur on his side. He seemed to be reflecting on the nature of his dog's life.

Was this how one should treat a dog? Dogs have dignity, too, don’t they?

After trimming Fu Jiang’s fur, Han Cheng quickly returned with the resin-laden stone.

Seeing the state of things, Han Cheng took the neat bundle of wolf fur and carefully tied it at the end with a thin rope. Then he inserted a small stick into the rope, twisting it a few times and tightening it so that it held securely.

At this point, the resin in the small ceramic bowl had already melted.

Han Cheng carefully dipped the tied end of the wolf fur into the resin, allowing it to soak, and then set it aside to dry as the resin hardened.

Taking advantage of this time, he went to the bamboo grove, broke off a few bamboo branches, and selected one with the right thickness. He cut it at the joint to form the pen shaft.

In a rush, he didn’t have time to carve or smooth the bamboo shaft, and since Han Cheng was only familiar with the process of making a brush and wasn’t a master of it, he didn’t put much effort into perfecting the details.

Given that this was the first new invention, it was understandable that it was rough around the edges.

Once the pen tip had mostly hardened, Han Cheng dipped it again into the resin, then carefully inserted the stiffened end into the bamboo shaft.

It wasn’t perfect, but the result resembled a brush and was made from real wolf hair, too.

If you don’t believe it, you could take a look at Fu Jiang over there, still dazed and sulking, pondering the meaning of life as a dog.

With the brush set aside to allow the tree resin to harden fully, Han Cheng made ink.

True to the simplicity of the primitive era, Han Cheng quickly gathered a small bowl of dark ink.

The ingredients for the ink were readily available—black soot from the bottom of cooking pottery and some finely ground charcoal.

Of course, this ink was no match for the ink from the future; even the worst, smelly ink would outperform it.

But he couldn’t improve anything in the rush, so this would have to do.

After waiting a bit longer, the brush was securely attached to the pen shaft. Han Cheng took a metal knife and carefully trimmed the uneven hairs of the brush, then stirred the not-so-great ink before dipping the brush into it. With a professional-looking motion, he scraped the brush against the edge of the bowl, cleared his throat, and began to write, pretending to get into the groove.