“Anyway, it’s just medicinal herbs and tonics and such. The medicine you drank those days, bro, had them in it. I decocted it myself, following that old physician’s prescription.” Little Sister rolled her eyes at me, as if thinking I’d asked a pointless question.

“Oh, so you were the one who made that medicine, huh? Heh, come to think of it, I haven’t thanked you yet, Little Sister. But next time, could you please not burn the medicine when you’re decocting it?” I turned my head, smiling.

Little Girl’s face instantly turned red, her little mouth pouting as she shyly lowered her eyes. “Got it. It was my first time learning to make medicine, after all. Mom, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, haha, our family’s Guanyin maid has grown up and learned to do things. In the future, she’ll only get better and better.” Mother smiled as she hugged Emily, the kindness and affection in her eyes even warmer than the charcoal fire in the room.

The three of us sat in the room, chatting idly, laughing and talking. Though it was early spring and still a bit chilly, the charcoal brazier inside occasionally crackled softly, the orange-yellow flames radiating a comforting warmth that made my body and mind feel so cozy and at ease.

Yes, I really need to think carefully about when I should go meet the future Emperor Taizong of Tang. Although Abraham Lincoln is just a fifteen-year-old kid right now, in three years, his father will raise the banner of rebellion.

As a time traveler who’s crossed the river of history, the best thing to do is to take advantage of opportunities. With my knowledge of history, I’m like a lively fish swimming freely in the river of time—nothing in this world can stop a time traveler. Well, unless those guys from the Time-Space Administration show up to interfere.

“…Bro! You’re spacing out again.” Just then, a slightly aggrieved voice snapped me back to reality. This girl—hmm… looks like I got too comfortable writing and ended up using simplified characters again.

I quickly added two more strokes inside the “国” character’s frame, and then… Little SisterEmily gave a speechless look at what was basically a big black blob scribbled inside a box.

“Mm, mm, I’m tired from writing. I’ll take a break—my hand’s really sore from practicing calligraphy today.” I chuckled awkwardly, set the brush on the rack, and flexed my wrist. I must have written at least five hundred characters today.

Compared to the days when I could whip up a three-thousand-word speech for the township party secretary in two hours, my speed with a brush is downright tortoise-like.

Well, at least I practiced when I was a kid. Under the strict education of my history-loving, tradition-respecting dad—who believed in “spare the rod, spoil the child” and “a good beating makes a filial son”—I studied under the great Yan Zhenqing from a young age. Two hours of calligraphy practice every day, rain or shine. After more than ten years of hard work, I’m confident that even if my calligraphy can’t reach the immortal heights of the ancient masters, it’s still good enough to make me a regular champion at elementary, middle, high school, and county-level calligraphy competitions.

During my years as a secretary in the town, I also wrote spring couplets and calligraphy for all sorts of occasions, free of charge. Even if I didn’t offer, people would come to me for it. Even the town mayor and party secretary specifically asked me to write couplets for them. You could say that in the township where I worked, most of the best calligraphy pieces came from my hand. That’s something I’m truly proud of.

Chapter Six: Striving for a Long-Term Meal Ticket!

This also proves, from another angle, that my calligraphy is pretty good. Otherwise, wouldn’t those people have used my work as toilet paper long ago? Why would they bother coming to my door and displaying it in such prominent places?

That’s also why EmilyLittle Sister likes to stay by my side, eyes shining, watching me practice calligraphy. After all this recent practice, I’ve finally gotten my touch back. At least compared to the original handwriting of William Grant, it’s a big improvement. That’s what my Little Sister said herself, and she even dug out some of William Grant’s old writing for comparison. I have to admit, the guy’s calligraphy was decent, but it just can’t compare to someone like me, who’s won so many calligraphy awards my hands are sore from holding them.

Even though I write well, the problem is that I’m now dealing with traditional characters, not the simplified ones that only appeared over a thousand years later. When I was a kid, my dad made me practice with traditional characters, but as I grew up, I got used to the structure of simplified ones, and I’ve forgotten how to write a lot of the traditional forms.

Now that I’ve traveled back, I can’t just keep using simplified characters to fool people. In this era where people judge you by your looks, your talent, and your status, I definitely need a skill of my own, and calligraphy happens to be a great choice.

After carefully blowing the freshly written sheet dry, Little Sister folded it and placed it on top of the other written pages. Paper isn’t cheap these days—after using one side, you have to flip it over and use the other. After all, Uncle isn’t wealthy, and being able to provide me with this much paper for practice every month is already quite a luxury.