Logan Whitman gave an awkward chuckle—this was something he’d come up with on a whim. His original thought was that those aphrodisiac drugs on the internet were getting out of hand, so he mumbled, “This medicine is for girls to carry with them. If they meet someone suspicious, they can just give them one... This medicine doesn’t really count as poison, I shouldn’t have used it for the exam.” His answer was innocent, but completely off-topic—he’d run from the equator all the way to Siberia. As Logan Whitman spoke, he somehow pulled out a carrot from who-knows-where, and was about to take a bite when he suddenly remembered he was in front of his three grandpas and uncle, so he hurriedly put the carrot away.

It was impressive—he’d been dragged out of bed and still managed to bring a carrot with him.

Grandpa Whitman suddenly spoke in a sinister tone: “Our Wen family refines the world with poison. Those ignorant outsiders all think poison is something that kills with a touch, but actually, poison follows the five elements and yin-yang. There’s no real difference between those who cultivate poison and those who cultivate the Dao. The kind of poison that kills with a touch is just a toxin, but something that makes you forget your troubles with a single bite—isn’t that also a kind of poison?”

Elder Whitman chuckled, “The Yang-Draining Pill caught your uncle off guard, and your way of refining poison into medicine fits perfectly with our Wen family’s ancestral teachings.”

Happiness always comes when you least expect it. No matter how innocent Logan Whitman was, he understood what they meant. He shot to his feet, eyes shining as he stared at Elder, so excited even his eyelids were twitching.

Elder Whitman burst out laughing. Without seeming to move, he was suddenly standing right in front of Logan Whitman, his old, withered hand gently patting him on the shoulder: “From today on, you are an inner disciple of the Wen family, and also a member of the Tuoxie Sect!”

Logan Whitman was both shocked and delighted, but when he heard the unfamiliar name ‘Tuoxie Sect,’ he couldn’t help but freeze, his eyes confused as he looked at Elder Whitman: “Broken Shoe Sect? Great Grandpa, this name...”

Senior Whitman and Harold Whitman smacked him on the back of the head and scolded, “What broken shoe! Our Wen family doesn’t do broken shoes! It’s Tuoxie!”

“Slipper Sect?”

“Yeah, Tuoxie Sect!”

Then the old man didn’t even bother checking the time. He set up an incense burner and ancestral tablet in the main hall and held an initiation ceremony for Logan Whitman. Logan Whitman respectfully kowtowed to the spirit tablet inscribed with ‘Seat of the Tuoxie Patriarch,’ and the ceremony was complete.

When Logan Whitman stood up again, the three old men and Great Uncle all looked at him differently than before. There was a deep sense of comfort and affection in their eyes that made Logan Whitman feel weak all over.

“Great Grandpa, our Sli... Slipper Sect...” The tablet was inscribed with winding ancient seal script, who knows how many hundreds or thousands of years old. Anyway, Logan Whitman couldn’t recognize a single character.

“Tuoxie Sect!” Old Mr. Whitman finally caught on to Logan Whitman’s odd pronunciation and corrected him with a laugh and a scold: “Kid, remember, it’s Tuoxie Sect!” He paused, then continued, “Our sect was founded during the Western Han dynasty and has been passed down for over two thousand years. Our founding patriarch was a man of great insight, and his name was Tuoxie.”

Logan Whitman thought to himself, shouldn’t the Wen family’s founding patriarch have the surname Wen?

“In ancient times, Shu was a wild and untamed land. Later, our patriarch came here, moved mountains and filled swamps, spread soil to make fertile fields, slew demons and eradicated evil, and civilized the barbarians...” As he spoke, Senior Whitman noticed Logan Whitman’s strange expression and gave an embarrassed laugh. Not even he believed this story, but that’s how his own father had taught him.

Senior Whitman coughed twice and got back on topic: “The patriarch arrived in Shu during the Western Han and took on three disciples. Before the age of twelve, all three learned the same skills—soaking in medicinal wine and practicing martial arts every day. At twelve, they each began their own training and were forbidden from seeing each other. The patriarch made it clear that after ten years, he would test their skills and choose one true successor.”

Logan Whitman nodded. That’s exactly how it was for Wen family disciples—from birth to twelve, every morning without fail, they’d soak in medicinal wine, then practice boxing with their elders. By their teens, they were all exceptionally strong and never knew what it was to be sick. After twelve, they’d take a poison manual and train on their own, with the adults not interfering at all. Add in the ten-year grand exam, and it seemed all these traditions came from the ‘Tuoxie Ancestor.’

Senior Whitman didn’t care what Logan Whitman was thinking and continued telling him about the sect’s history. These things weren’t exactly secrets, but only those who passed the ten-year exam and became sect disciples were qualified to know them.

Ten years later, the three brothers returned to pay respects to their master, each having mastered their own skills. Tuoxie was naturally delighted and praised them greatly, setting the exam for the next day. But that night, a sudden storm broke out, with thunderclaps that seemed to tear the sky apart. When the storm passed, the three disciples found their master was gone.

As for Tuoxie’s disappearance—whether it was divine punishment, thunder escape, ascension, or just accidentally becoming a lightning rod—no one knew. The master was gone, and when the three compared their skills, they discovered each had learned something completely different. The eldest was surnamed Wen and studied poison arts; the second was a Miao and practiced witchcraft; the youngest was surnamed Luo and learned the secret art of corpse manipulation.