The pile of scrolls lay across the wooden table, thick with knowledge and promise. John flipped through them, skimming page after page—and one thing became clear: he hadn't the slightest clue what any of it said.
The symbols danced like drunken worms on the parchment. Some looked like squiggly snakes, others like crushed insects. It was all gibberish to him.
"Ignorance is a headache," he muttered, squinting harder. "And the harder I try, the more it hurts."
He tossed the scrolls back onto the table in frustration, rubbing his temples.
He had the information—everything from this world's history to its cultivation systems—but what good was it if he couldn't read a single word? To an illiterate, knowledge was like a coconut in the hands of an ape. Useless. Mockingly useless.
"What a pain in my neck…" he groaned, reclining in the chair.
After a few moments of brainstorming, he made a reluctant decision.
