"Toilet paper? What is that? I really don't know," the servant Paul Brooks, waiting outside, answered with great trepidation. He truly had never heard of anything called toilet paper—if he had, how could he dare disobey the young master's orders?

Peter Brooks almost burst out laughing in exasperation. No toilet paper? You can't expect me to use my clothes to wipe my butt, can you? But he was too embarrassed to raise his voice and let the whole household know, so he could only say a bit awkwardly, "It's the thing you use to wipe your butt."

"Oh, young master, please wait a moment, I'll bring it to you right away. I washed it last time and it's still drying over there," Paul Brooks replied, feeling rather pleased with himself—his memory wasn't bad, after all, and he could remember exactly where the young master's things were.

Hearing Paul Brooks's answer, Peter Brooks, squatting in the latrine and struggling with his bowels, stared blankly ahead, petrified on the spot...

A scene immediately appeared in Peter Brooks's mind: a little kid, after wiping his butt with a piece of paper, gently rinses the soiled paper in clean water, then treasures it by spreading it out to dry, ready to repeat the process next time...

While Peter Brooks was shuddering in disgust, a hand reached in from above the latrine door. In the hand was not the crumpled, oddly yellowed piece of paper Peter Brooks had imagined, but a square piece of cloth, about a foot wide. The cloth fluttered in the breeze, nearly brushing Peter Brooks's nose. "Young master, here you go," came Paul Brooks's ingratiating voice, drifting into Peter Brooks's ears.

Startled, Peter Brooks quickly shrank back. "Get that away from me!" he barked, and the hand holding the cloth instantly vanished, but the cloth itself drifted down helplessly to land right in front of Peter Brooks. It was impossible to tell what color it had originally been; now it was a grayish-white piece of linen, washed so many times it had lost all hue, just lying there in plain sight. "Oh my god, is this some kind of 'drop the handkerchief and find a friend' game?!" Simon Brooks, gripping the handrail by the pit, couldn't help blurting out a classic exclamation.

Perhaps, in history, the origin of the handkerchief evolved from things like this...

A quarter of an hour later, Peter Brooks finally managed to stand up, stretching his numb legs. He felt rather miserable—he hadn't expected that, even though this was the late Han dynasty, paper was still outrageously expensive. Forget using it to wipe your butt; even for writing or drawing, you had to consider how much money or silk you had to support such a luxury.

Fortunately, the Chen household was at least a wealthy family, and there were some sheets of paper in Peter Brooks's father's study. Otherwise, if Paul Brooks had to run out to buy paper before he could wipe, Peter Brooks's legs might have suffered from poor circulation, leading to hemorrhoids and a whole series of ailments from squatting too long.

Chapter 10: Occupational Habits

Beside him, Paul Brooks looked at the crumpled half-sheet of xuan paper in Peter Brooks's hand, his face twisted in pain, silently accusing Peter Brooks of not only being wasteful but also uncultured. "If the old master and the steward found out I let you waste paper like this, the steward would probably break my legs," Paul Brooks muttered, loud enough for Peter Brooks to hear clearly. But Peter Brooks couldn't care less; at least his own little butt was now clean and spotless, and that was the greatest victory.

"Why the long face? It's just a piece of paper. What, do you buy paper by the sheet or something?" Peter Brooks said carelessly, tucking the other half of the paper into his sleeve. Hm, one should never go into battle unprepared—now that he had paper in his sleeve, he wouldn't have to suffer such a scare again, whether it was for wiping his nose or his butt.

But the servant's answer was truly unexpected. "Of course we do! The price of paper is almost the same as cloth. A single sheet of Caihou paper isn't even worth a day's rations for me. In the household, aside from a few volumes of silk books and some Caihou paper copies the old master transcribed when he was alive, everything else is still written on bamboo slips."

"...Bamboo slips?" Peter Brooks was speechless. Hadn't it been over a hundred years since Cai Lun invented paper? Why was it still so expensive? And it was brittle and rough, even worse than the cheap pirated books in later generations. In modern times, high-tech products like computers were updated every three to five years, and their prices had gone from unaffordable to commonplace.

It seemed that in ancient times, people lacked the foresight and innovation for product quality and upgrades. Peter Brooks sighed to himself—when he had the time, he would have to make paper himself, at least to ensure his tender little butt wouldn't get scratched and bleed.

"So what do you usually do when you go to the toilet?" Peter Brooks asked curiously, cautiously taking half a step back, afraid the servant would whip out another piece of cloth and wave it in front of his nose.

This time, the servant didn't pull out a piece of linen, but instead shyly pointed inside the latrine. "In there, the third stick from the right is the toilet stick I use, also called a toilet tally."

"Toilet tally?" Peter Brooks's eyes rolled. He'd heard of counting rods in ancient times, and gambling chips, but he never imagined even butt-wiping tools would be called "tallies." Too curious, Peter Brooks couldn't help but peek inside. His face immediately turned pale—the toilet tally looked just like the wooden sticks used for ice cream in modern times, only longer...