The village chief and patriarch of Whitman Village, Old Mr. Whitman, had long been waiting on the stone terrace. Logan Whitman's eldest uncle, the former county magistrate Harold Whitman—who had lost his position due to his mother-in-law—stood respectfully before the old man.

Logan Whitman was both nervous and excited, and really wanted to eat a carrot.

Elder Whitman's gaze swept over the crowd, his eyes showing a hint of kindness. He looked just like an ordinary, benevolent old man. But when he wasn't being kind, a mere snap of his fingers could poison an entire chicken farm. In fact, the other two surviving elders of the The Whitman Family, Uncle Whitman and Mr. Whitman, seemed even more sinister, standing ramrod straight behind Elder Whitman like corpses ready to rise at any moment, their eyelids drooping and faces expressionless.

After a gentle cough, Elder Whitman's powerful voice echoed across the stone terrace: “March 26th is the day of our The Whitman Family disciples' decennial grand examination. As per tradition, all disciples under thirty may participate. This year, those who pass the exam will officially inherit the ancestral legacy and become inner disciples of our Jiuding Mountain The Whitman Family.” As he spoke, the old man's eyes crinkled with laughter.

The decennial grand examination was a family rule passed down through generations of the The Whitman Family, and it was the chance for young disciples of the Wen clan to leap over the dragon gate. Only by passing the exam could one inherit the extraordinary secret arts left by the ancestors and become a core member of the The Whitman Family. But everyone knew that this exam was extremely difficult to pass.

When the old man finished speaking, Uncle Harold Whitman stepped forward and shouted in a deep voice, “All disciples aged twelve and above, but under thirty, may participate. Use whatever means you have against me—poison, test drugs, anything. If you can stump me, you pass!” He spoke lightly, but not a single The Whitman Family disciple dared to relax. The last two exams, this former county magistrate had said the same thing, and as a result, there hadn't been a single new inner disciple in the The Whitman Family for twenty years.

Harold Whitman was a disciple who had passed the exam thirty years ago. From that day on, he became the only person in the Wen clan, apart from the three elders, to hold authority.

About a hundred young disciples of the The Whitman Family, lined up in order from oldest to youngest, walked up to Harold Whitman one by one. Logan Whitman was at the end of the line, inconspicuous and well-behaved. He was a pure-hearted youth, queuing up purely, waiting for a pure exam.

The first disciple bowed in salute, but before he could straighten up, a strange snake, pure white as jade with pitch-black eyes, suddenly shot out from his sleeve and lunged at Harold Whitman with a whoosh. Harold Whitman didn't even lift an eyelid. As the little snake shot toward him, it let out a shriek like a monkey's cry, its black eyes flashing with terror, its scales bristling. In midair, it twisted its body in a bizarre way and turned to flee, leaving a black streak on the ground as it went. The disciple cried out, “Xiao Bai!” and, forgetting the exam, turned to chase after it.

Harold Whitman snorted through his nose: “Eliminated! Treating a mongrel snake as a treasure—what a joke! Xiao Bai... hmph, do you think you're called Shawn Whitman or something!”

The second disciple also bowed. A layer of lurid green moss silently spread across the ground and quickly climbed up onto Harold Whitman. The disciple was both shocked and delighted, hurriedly fumbling for the antidote. But Harold Whitman gave another cold snort and stomped hard. The moss that seemed about to burrow into his skin instantly withered and fell away like bran: “Eliminated! Moss poison has some unique effects in medicine, but using it directly to harm an enemy is laughable and useless. When your poisonous moss climbs onto someone, they have plenty of time to stab you to death!”

The third disciple held up a pill. Without even asking, Harold Whitman tossed it into his mouth and chewed it up, then spat: “Eliminated! Black fox ear, moss salt, love bean—these three ingredients are fine, but the refining wasn't done right, the proportions are off, and you left out the most crucial strawberry leaf. Bah, it's disgusting!”

The fourth...

Every disciple who attempted the exam before him left in shame. By the time night fell, it was finally Logan Whitman's turn. He also held a small pill in his hand, white and looking almost ridiculously pure.

Harold Whitman still wore that look of disdain, didn't even ask, just picked up the pill and tossed it into his mouth. After chewing a few times, a trace of bewilderment finally appeared on his face. His sharp eyes suddenly narrowed, stabbing into Logan Whitman's eyes like icy needles: “You brat, this is a Wangzai Mini Bun! Get out!”

Logan Whitman had always been an honest youth in the family, cheerful all day long. When his siblings joked about him, he would laugh along and never took offense, so he was well-liked.

The other Wen disciples all burst out laughing. No one had expected that Logan Whitman, who usually loved eating carrots, would have such a sense of humor. Some clever youths were already secretly regretting it—if only they'd known their painstakingly honed skills were so useless, instead of being humiliated by their uncle, it would have been more fun to pull a prank with a Wangzai Mini Bun.

Logan Whitman shook his head at his uncle with a bitter face, but didn't leave: “It's not a Mini Bun, it's Mini Bun-flavored. It's medicine. You can't feel it now, but when the time comes...”

Harold Whitman impatiently waved his hand: “Get lost, next!”