Hearing this, Logan Whitman finally couldn’t hold back any longer and interrupted, asking, “Is it our The Whitman Family, the Qingmiao of Qiniang Mountain in Shu, and the Luo family of Wuyaling in southern Sichuan!”

Senior Whitman nodded with a cheerful smile, looking good-natured, not really minding Logan Whitman’s interruption: “Wen does not mix with grass, Miao does not cross, and the ancestors who couldn’t die on Wuyaling are those three senior brothers. Patriarch Tuo Xie drew lightning and escaped…”

Logan Whitman noticed the other two grandpas and Senior Whitman and Harold Whitman all curled their lips together—drawing lightning and escaping, yeah right.

Anyway, the master ascended in a rather unconventional way. All three senior brothers believed they were the true heirs, but none dared to go against the master’s wishes and fight for supremacy. In the end, they agreed that whoever found the master’s whereabouts first would be the leader.

Of course, the master was never found, and the three senior brothers went their separate ways to cultivate. Although none of them ultimately achieved immortality, they each established their own sects, flourishing in Shu, and few dared to provoke them. The decennial grand examination became a shared tradition of the three families, even held on the same day: the anniversary of the patriarch being struck by lightning. All disciples who passed the exam considered themselves disciples of Tuo Xie.

The agreement between the senior brothers became an ancestral precept, turning into an innate but ultimately meaningless task for all descendants of the three families who passed the exam.

Excitement flickered in Logan Whitman’s eyes as he cautiously asked, “Grandpa, is our The Whitman Family’s cultivation method the art of reaching the heavens?” Like most disciples in the family, he had always thought The Whitman Family was a martial clan, with their ancestral poison arts passed down to this day, never imagining that the Wen family of western Sichuan had such a background akin to a cultivation sect. Of course, whether it was true cultivation was anyone’s guess—after all, that final lightning strike was quite bizarre.

Elder Whitman slurped his tea and answered a bit guiltily, “Of course! Our patriarch was a man who could reach the heavens with his arts, so the secret techniques he passed down are naturally ways to reach the heavens!”

With a snort, the always gloomy Uncle and Grandpa exchanged glances and both laughed.

“But…” Elder Whitman coughed and continued awkwardly, “In these two thousand years, there’s been no word of anyone from the Wen, Miao, or Luo families becoming immortals or saints, but the ancestral techniques are definitely sound. I suppose either our skills aren’t up to par, or we lack the great wisdom to suddenly comprehend the mysteries of heaven like the patriarch.”

The other two old men chuckled again.

Senior Whitman slammed the table in anger and pointed at his two elder brothers: “What are you laughing at? That’s exactly what our father told us back then!”

Mr. Whitman glanced at Logan Whitman and said calmly, “Becoming a saint through cultivation is just something to think about, don’t dwell on it too much. But working harder never hurts. Starting tomorrow, you’ll begin training with your uncle.”

Uncle Whitman also spoke, his voice as cold as ten-thousand-year-old black ice silver needles: “Listen well. Whether it’s the identity of Tuo Xie Sect or the secret arts you’ll encounter in the future, you are absolutely forbidden to reveal a single word to outsiders! Otherwise, according to the ancestral rules, you won’t even have a whole corpse left!”

Harold Whitman quietly added from the side, “In a few years, when your skills are accomplished, the family head will give you a test. Only after passing it will you be considered a true disciple, a real member of Tuo Xie Sect.”

A chill ran through Logan Whitman’s heart. He hurriedly knelt down, kowtowed, and made a pure vow. Then, in high spirits, he munched on carrots and went home to sleep. His father didn’t come to ask what had happened. The The Whitman Family was harmonious but had strict rules—whatever the family head said to his son, not even the boy’s own father could inquire about.

The conversation in the village chief’s house made every pore in his body open and close with joy. Being an inner disciple of the The Whitman Family, a member of Tuo Xie Sect, and the legends of cultivating to reach the Dao—all of this made Logan Whitman instantly find his dream.

After Logan Whitman left, the main house of Elder Whitman quickly fell silent. The three old men sat facing each other in silence, with Senior Whitman and Harold Whitman standing respectfully to the side. For a long time, no one spoke. Only Great Grandpa Whitman coughed occasionally—he had injured his lung meridian while making poisons in his youth, leaving him with a chronic cough that was never cured.

Finally, Old Mr. Whitman spoke, looking at his two brothers: “What do you think of this child?”

Uncle Whitman seemed unwilling to even respond to his eldest brother, so only Mr. Whitman answered, “Foolish. Only a bit better than those two in the mountains…”

Great Grandpa Whitman just smiled and said nothing, then turned to look at Harold Whitman, his gaze seeking his opinion. Harold Whitman thought for a moment before replying, “Among this group of children, Logan’s talent isn’t the best, but he’s honest and kind, always the good guy among his siblings. Besides, the way he thinks is also commendable!”

A trace of appreciation flashed in Old Mr. Whitman’s eyes: “His way of thinking—how so?”

Harold Whitman shook his head and smiled wryly: “The Xieyang Pill seems like child’s play, but for men, it’s actually a truly sinister thing. Of course, he didn’t mean any harm by testing it on me—at most, it was just showing off and joking. But in the grand exam, he was able to abandon poison and use medicine in a creative way to answer the question. For his age, that kind of thinking is already quite good, ha!”