A tiny makeshift stall stood in the wilderness valley, looking very strange.
"You... want to buy an umbrella?"
A slender little hand grabbed the oil-paper umbrella and wielded it like a weapon, making it whistle through the air. With a bang, the umbrella opened.
The paper umbrella was plain white. Though the sign's lettering was nothing special, the ink painting was breathtakingly divine. Once the pristine white umbrella opened, an ink wash painting came into view: dark ink depicted mountains and ancient trees, along with the most eye-catching feature—a five-story pavilion half-hidden beside the old trees, wisps of profound charm curling around it.
How had a country bumpkin kid from the wasteland ever seen such a treasure? Even the things he had gotten from looting corpses possessed nothing so miraculous.
Most wondrous of all, when the wind blew, the ink-painted ancient trees swayed with it, as though the ink had not yet dried and continually spread across the white paper before drawing back. The mountains were immortal mountains, thin mist carried in the wind, and clear clouds drifted over the ink mountains...
Before the skinny boy could see clearly, the paper umbrella snapped shut.
She casually set the umbrella back in place, spread her hands, and shrugged.
"I'm very sorry. Although you have many valuable things, you can't afford this umbrella."
When the paper umbrella was put away, the skinny boy grew anxious. Somewhere in the unseen depths, a voice told him that he absolutely could not miss this opportunity, or he would lose something.
So that thing was called an umbrella. He did not know what umbrellas were for, because his ancestors had long since forgotten what an umbrella was.
"I... I have lots of things, really lots..."
He hurriedly took out the dozen or so storage bags hanging