In his previous life, Chen Mo had never practiced calligraphy.
Although he was taught when he entered the palace, he wasn't required to write very well. As long as he could recognize the characters and write them, it was enough.
At that time, his rank was low, and he wasn't a chief eunuch who needed to draft documents and announcements for the master. What he wrote only needed to be passable.
Let alone the art of painting and calligraphy.
Yi Yao, who was grinding ink nearby, widened her eyes: "Sir, is this poem... yours?"
Chen Mo shook his head, "Yaoyao, how is this poem?"
Upon learning that it wasn't Chen Mo's work, Yi Yao sighed in relief and said, "It's good, but sir, this poem is rebellious. If Your Majesty learns about it..."
Yi Yao didn't continue.
Chen Mo smiled, picking it up, and with a thought, a golden flame rose from his palm, reducing the rebellious poem written on the paper to ashes.
Yi Yao spread out another sheet for him.
