What An Ning handed over was, once again, an utterly ordinary notebook of plain white paper.
It was very thick, made from what looked like the paper of six or seven notebooks bound together with string.
The writing was pressed so forcefully into every page that it nearly tore through the paper.
Whenever a page was turned, the paper rustled loudly. The writing was pressed so deep that as your fingers brushed against the raised indentations, it felt as if you could read the words with your eyes closed.
"How long did it take you to write all this?"
Director Zhao took the notebook with both hands. Its significance was immense.
Although he hadn't yet verified the authenticity of its contents, he subconsciously wanted to believe it.
"It was alright. I just wrote a little whenever I had a free moment and thought of something."
An Ning didn't give a specific timeframe. Instead, she stared at Director Zhao and suddenly asked a question.
