Grandpa Whitman excitedly slapped the table: “Harold is right! What I value in this boy are exactly these two things. First, he has a pure character and never holds grudges against his own family. Since childhood, he never fought with other kids, and even when bullied, he didn’t take it to heart. Second, it’s his mindset. When it comes to poison skills, there are plenty of disciples in the exam who are better than him—he’d hardly stand out. So rather than that, it’s better to take a different path. Whether it’s sweet or salty, whether it harms the body or the mind, as long as it can take down the opponent, that’s true poison!”

Mr. Whitman let out a light snort: “What’s the use of a good heart if his talent is lacking… heh.” With that, he paused for a moment and looked up at the sky outside.

Thick black clouds were rolling in from afar, swallowing up the brilliant starry night in great swathes. The summer night, just moments ago twinkling with stars, was now suddenly filled with the oppressive sense of an impending storm.

“This storm—just with that child?” Mr. Whitman’s voice was very low, as if muttering to himself.

Senior Whitman didn’t hear what he said, and suddenly asked Harold Whitman an unrelated question: “How are Lao Jiu and Lao Shisan doing now?”

Harold Whitman smiled confidently: “Don’t worry, both Ninth Brother and Thirteenth Brother have been making steady progress. If there’s no scheming involved, the two of them together—I’m not even sure I could handle them.”

Grandpa Whitman nodded slightly, but for no reason let out a sigh: “That’s good, that’s good. Those two kids are in great physical shape, it’s just a pity their brains don’t work so well. But… maybe that’s for the best. By the way, how’s that other matter? Any movement from them?”

Harold Whitman shook his head: “Probably not time yet.”

Senior Whitman gave a wry smile: “That can’t be rushed either, let’s take it slow… Harold, that Xieyang Pill, you really couldn’t figure it out?”

Harold Whitman gave a chuckle: “If it were a deadly poison, it’d just be a matter of combining toxic properties—no matter how fierce, I could more or less gauge it. But something as underhanded as the Xieyang Pill, I’d never even heard of it, so I didn’t even think in that direction. Only found out at night…”

Second Master’s eyes, for once, flashed with a hint of a smile: “So did you hold it in for thirty-six days, or did you just clench your bladder for twelve whole hours?”

Harold Whitman hesitated for a moment, then gritted his teeth and said, “Held it in!”

Volume One: Breaking New Ground

Chapter Three: Medicinal Wine

What does passing the ten-year grand exam mean for a The Whitman Family disciple?

You can mobilize any family manpower at will—no Wen-named disciple may disobey.

You can use the family’s wealth as you please—just give the word, and a disciple in charge of money will pack up the cash and deliver it to you.

The The Whitman Family has been around for over two thousand years. There are hundreds of direct descendants alone, each one a living biochemical weapon with an ID card, and the accumulated wealth is beyond measure. To say they’re as rich as a nation is no exaggeration.

Right now, Logan Whitman’s status in the family is second only to the three heads of the household and Grand Scholar Wen Tunhai, but for now, he has no chance to enjoy any of this—he’s in big trouble.

Early the next morning, Logan Whitman excitedly ran to his uncle’s house. Harold Whitman, looking gleeful at his misfortune, pointed at a steaming hot vat: “Get in! From now on, come soak in the medicinal wine every morning!”

“Again?”

“Stop whining—there’s a reason for this arrangement!” Harold Whitman’s tone was stern, but his eyes couldn’t hide the satisfaction of sweet revenge. He didn’t even wait for Logan Whitman to take off his clothes—he just lifted a foot and kicked that innocent backside, sending Logan Whitman flying straight into the vat.

The medicinal wine was scalding hot, instantly enveloping his whole body. All thirty-six thousand pores of Logan Whitman let out a sigh of comfort. Following his uncle’s instructions, he sat quietly in the vat, waiting for the medicine to take effect. Based on his experience before age twelve, after soaking for an hour, a wave of heat would rise in his body, like a little mouse scurrying around his limbs and bones, making him feel numb and itchy. Then, a parent would fish him out, massage seven special acupoints along his body, and that hot little mouse would gradually dissipate, replaced by a burning energy and boundless spirit—he could run wild up and down the mountain all day without feeling tired.

But as he soaked, Logan Whitman started to feel something was wrong. The medicine seeped slowly into his body through his skin, but this time, it wasn’t a little mouse—it was little knives. Not just one, but thousands upon thousands.

Logan Whitman felt as if countless little knives were stabbing and slicing all over inside him, and they were the dull, rusty kind. The initial comfort was completely gone; every second in the vat felt as long as an hour. He gritted his teeth and endured for a while, but finally couldn’t hold on. Trembling, he let out a pained groan, opened his eyes, and looked at his uncle standing in the courtyard: “Uncle, that Xieyang Pill can be neutralized just by holding your urine for a day—I wasn’t lying to you…”

Harold Whitman was stunned for a moment, then spat and laughed: “Cut the crap, I don’t have time to mess with you. If you can’t take it, get out. This medicinal wine—only disciples of the Tuoxie Sect have the right to soak in it. Others wouldn’t get a drop even if they begged for it!”

Logan Whitman nodded vigorously, bit his lip, and said no more. Judging by his expression, he was ready to go all out against this vat of medicinal wine. Usually, he was the nice guy among his siblings, but once he got stubborn, not even eight oxen could drag him back.