Harold Whitman smiled and didn’t mind. At that moment, his wife called from inside the house, “Husband, breakfast is ready.”

Harold Whitman responded, then turned to Logan Whitman and instructed, “Kid, if you can’t hold on, just come out!” With that, he stepped into the house. Not long after, an angry shout came from inside: “Why is it all porridge? I’m not drinking water today, not drinking porridge, in short, I’m not drinking anything…”

After a while, Harold Whitman called out to Logan Whitman from inside the house again, “Kid, that’s long enough, come out.”

The courtyard was silent.

Harold Whitman walked back into the yard, holding a bowl and looking puzzled. Suddenly, he cried out in shock as a rice bowl let out a piercing whoosh, flying from Harold Whitman’s hand and smashing into a large vat. With a thunderous crash, the huge vat was shattered into pieces by an ordinary rice bowl, and the medicinal wine inside exploded upward like a blast, splashing everywhere. As soon as it hit the ground, it started to emit gray smoke with a scorched, foul stench. Even a fool could see how extremely toxic this vat of medicinal wine was.

Logan Whitman’s body had gone limp; at some point, he had already fainted, yet he was still biting his lip tightly.

Harold Whitman stomped his foot in anger, pried open his mouth, and stuffed a pill inside. Then he turned and roared at his wife, “Quick, bring the bamboo needles!”

……

The Wen family’s detoxifying bamboo needles were slightly thicker than embroidery needles, with hollow shafts. Harold Whitman’s fingers moved like the wind, so fast that his actions were a blur. In moments, thirty-six clear, emerald-green bamboo needles were stuck all over Logan Whitman’s body. Then, various medicinal powders were injected through the hollow needles. At last, Logan Whitman groaned, his eyelids fluttered open, and there was a trace of undisguised pride in his eyes: “Uncle, I soaked long enough, right…” He still didn’t know he’d just made a round trip to the gates of hell. If Harold Whitman hadn’t inherited the true Wen family skills, his life would have been forfeit.

Harold Whitman wiped the sweat from his forehead and cursed angrily, “Long enough, my ass! The longer you soak in this medicinal wine, the worse it is. After soaking, you must immediately practice martial arts, or the poison will burn your meridians—if you survive, you’ll still be a cripple! Beginners who can’t stand the pain must crawl out right away!”

“Huh?” Logan Whitman exclaimed with feeling, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

While busy pulling out the bamboo needles, Harold Whitman spat, “I kept telling you to crawl out if you couldn’t take it, did you think I was talking nonsense?”

“So now…”

“If you don’t practice, soon you’ll be a cripple, good for nothing but farting!”

Only then did Logan Whitman cry out, jumping up from the ground as if shocked by electricity: “Then let’s hurry and practice! Practice… what?” After hearing his uncle’s words, he felt his skin, muscles, and blood vessels all tightening, as if they’d burst at any moment.

Harold Whitman didn’t waste any more words. He took out a thin booklet and tossed it to him: “Follow this boxing manual and practice!”

Having soaked too long and been poisoned, Logan Whitman now understood how dire the consequences could be. He took the little booklet, which was only a dozen or so pages, and without another word, struck a pose and started practicing. On the very first move, he smashed his face hard into the ground.

The second move, he landed heavily on his back—right on a stone under his tailbone. Logan Whitman let out a miserable scream, struggled to his feet, and flipped to the third move in the manual, looking at his uncle with a wry smile: “Uncle, is this book… misprinted?”

Logan Whitman’s talent wasn’t the best among the Wen family juniors, but he’d been toughened with medicinal wine since childhood and trained extra hard, so his foundation was solid. His reflexes and strength were already decent, but following this boxing manual, he couldn’t manage a single move.

Simply put, every move in this manual was about how to fall to the ground—and how to fall hard.

For example, the first move required leaning the body forward while stepping backward in a nine-palace pattern and swinging the legs back; the second move was to channel all your strength into your right fist and smash it into the ground, while simultaneously jumping up with both feet.

The later moves were even more bizarre. After glancing at them, Logan Whitman felt that unless he had a seizure, he’d never be able to pull off such complicated actions. Especially the moves on the last few pages—no need to try them, just looking at them you could tell something was wrong. Martial arts are about whole-body coordination, but these moves required hands, feet, shoulders, and knees to all do their own thing: left shoulder drawing circles, right shoulder bobbing up and down; left palm in a Tai Chi pose, right fist like a black tiger’s heart strike; left leg in a split, right knee curled up like an old tree’s roots…

Seeing him still babbling at death’s door, Harold Whitman grew anxious and scolded, “Open your damn eyes and look—is that book printed? It’s handwritten by our ancestors!”

At a critical moment, Wen family’s uncle cracked a cold joke.

Logan Whitman gave an “oh,” knowing the boxing manual itself wasn’t wrong—at least, his uncle hadn’t given him the wrong book. As for whether the content was correct, he reserved judgment.

Volume One: Breaking New Ground

Chapter Four: The Wrong Fist

Logan Whitman, looking like someone with cerebral palsy, struggled to throw himself around. Under Harold Whitman’s guidance, he focused solely on practicing the first move, pouring all his strength into every action, ensuring that every tumble was as brutal as possible.