Logan Whitman didn’t have many people left behind him. Although the reference age requirement was above twelve, The Whitman Family disciples only began to learn the essentials of poison arts at twelve, and without several years of training, they could hardly achieve anything. A disciple like Logan Whitman, who came to take the grand exam at sixteen, was already considered quite young.

As with the previous two times, this decade’s The Whitman Family ten-year exam still saw no disciple able to meet the standard.

Elder Whitman sighed, “Young disciples, go back and practice diligently. Come back for the exam in another ten years. The older disciples shouldn’t lose heart either—you are, after all, the backbone of our The Whitman Family. This family business will eventually rest on your shoulders!” Although the old man spoke these words, his expression was still filled with unconcealable disappointment. After a few more perfunctory remarks, he waved everyone away.

Uncle Whitman and Grandpa Whitman exchanged a glance, their two sinister, icy gazes meeting in midair, stirring up a cold layer of disappointment.

That night, the The Whitman Family village was quiet, and everyone was in low spirits. After all, it had been thirty years since anyone from The Whitman Family had passed the grand exam. Only a few hot-blooded young disciples felt the eldest uncle’s standards were too strict, gathering together to grumble in hushed voices. Every household turned off their lights early, and the small mountain village sank into slumber under a slightly oppressive atmosphere.

At midnight, a thunderous roar suddenly erupted. Eldest uncle Harold Whitman howled in fury, kicking open the door to Logan Whitman’s house with a flying kick. He yanked Logan Whitman out of bed and cursed furiously, “You little bastard, what kind of medicine did you give me?!”

Logan Whitman looked at his uncle, still half-asleep. After a moment’s daze, he suddenly remembered what had happened and exclaimed with innocent delight, “The medicine worked?”

Logan Whitman’s father rushed over, hastily throwing on his clothes, and asked in confusion, “Big brother, what’s going on?”

“None of your business!” Harold Whitman grabbed his nephew and strode off. “Come on, you’re coming with me to see the family head!”

Volume One: Breaking New Ground

Chapter Two: Expanding the Path

Elder Whitman seemed not to have slept at all, sitting fully dressed in the main hall, smiling as he looked at Logan Whitman. “Boy, what medicine did you give your uncle to try during today’s grand exam?”

Uncle Whitman and Mr. Whitman sat on the other side, still ramrod straight, their cold, piercing gazes sweeping over Logan Whitman like two venomous snakes sizing up their prey.

Logan Whitman suddenly felt a bit nervous. He hurriedly knelt and paid his respects to the three grandfathers before answering respectfully, “It was Wangzai Mini Buns…”

Harold Whitman snapped irritably from the side, “Don’t mention your Wangzai Mini Buns—just say what medicine it was!”

Logan Whitman quickly nodded, “It was Wang… that flavor. I gave it a name myself: Xieyang Pill. Its effect is exactly the opposite of a virility tonic. After taking it, everything else is unaffected, except that one thing can’t be done. It’s made by mixing red scorpion tails with hen’s blood and monkshood ash, refining and frying them in an icy jade bowl, and finally using ginger powder to remove the smell…”

Elder Whitman didn’t listen to his rambling about the recipe at all. He glanced in surprise at the dejected Harold Whitman, then suddenly burst into a fit of wild laughter that would send even stray dogs fleeing. The old man wiped away tears as he laughed so hard his whole body shook, his trembling finger pointing at Harold Whitman: “This kind of medicine is perfect for you! Hahaha! With all those mothers-in-law of yours, even a good county magistrate got snatched away by them! Hahahahaha!”

Harold Whitman gave an embarrassed laugh, “Tonight, with my wife… no matter what, it just wouldn’t work. All three fathers know, we’ve been soaking in medicinal wine since childhood—our bodies are nearly immune to all poisons, and in that respect, we’re as strong as ever.” The children of The Whitman Family, from birth until age twelve, had to soak in medicinal wine prepared by their parents for half an hour every morning.

Elder Whitman looked proud, nodding repeatedly. There was a hint of excitement in Logan Whitman’s eyes as well. He hadn’t known that soaking in medicinal wine since childhood had this kind of effect, but then his innocent face flushed red.

Harold Whitman glanced at his nephew, and instead of anger, his eyes now showed a bit of appreciation. He continued, “During today’s grand exam, all the tricks the youngsters tried on me—poison pills, poison powders—I knew exactly what ingredients they used. None of those things would have affected that matter. After thinking it over, it had to be Logan’s medicine. Heh, this kid really got me. Not bad, not bad. But Logan Whitman, your medicine must have an antidote, right?” As he spoke, Harold Whitman nervously swallowed.

Logan Whitman quickly nodded, “There’s an antidote, there’s an antidote. It will wear off after thirty-six days. If you can’t wait, just hold your urine for twenty-four hours and the effect of the Xieyang Pill will disappear.”

Elder Whitman didn’t care about the antidote as much as Harold Whitman did. Instead, he asked Logan Whitman with great interest, “Boy, our The Whitman Family is famous for poison throughout the world. The secrets we pass down are all about using poison to fight poison. Why didn’t you, like the other youngsters, use poison in the exam, but instead made such a strangely effective medicine?”