Li Zhiyuan pointed behind him with some puzzlement, but Zhu Yang didn't move. Instead, he slowly spread open his own belly with both hands.
Like a set of double doors, his chest unfolded, spilling a pile of books stuffed inside onto the ground.
Some remained relatively intact, while others had already turned to half mush.
The quality of these pirated books was indeed poor; once soggy, the ink stained the insides of Zhu Yang's abdominal cavity black, as if it had been smeared with a layer of soot.
Li Zhiyuan watched him with some incomprehension but soon, the boy understood.
Inside Zhu Yang's ribcage, still wedged between the bones, was a book.
This book was in great condition, its luster and texture still comforting to the touch, even after being submerged in water.
This texture, Li Zhiyuan was all too familiar with.
At home, he had books made of the same material—the Buddha Skin Paper Wei Zhengdao liked to use...
