Logan Whitman exerted force, and immediately, his joints twisted as required by the boxing manual, breaking down into forces that were both tangled and twisted, yet completely opposite. Instantly, his body made seamless contact with the ground. However, after each such forceful fall, it felt as if the countless little knives inside his body diminished somewhat, replaced by a cold sensation that settled in his lower abdomen.

This falling went on for a full two days. By the time the dull knives inside his body had completely dissipated, Logan Whitman was covered in bruises, his face swollen bigger than a washbasin. If it weren’t for his solid foundation since childhood, he would have killed himself with these falls.

Logan Whitman pointed at his lower abdomen and exclaimed to Harold Whitman in surprise, “Uncle, there’s a cold lump in my dantian—is this... true qi?” At this moment, he was both shocked and delighted. The past two days had been pure torment, every inch of his body felt as if it had been trampled by a herd of elephants, but to actually accumulate any innate or acquired true essence, and in such a large chunk, was simply too fast. Logan Whitman couldn’t help but praise in his heart: the ancestral divine martial art truly lived up to its reputation.

Harold Whitman chuckled a few times, “Nephew, here’s the thing. Originally, after soaking in medicinal wine, practicing according to the boxing manual not only trains you for advanced poison crafting in the future, but also refines the poison in the wine for your own use. But you soaked for too long, and I used needles and medicine to remove the deadliest part of the poison, so the effect of the medicinal wine being refined into your body through the boxing practice is gone. Do you understand?”

Logan Whitman shook his head, pure and hopeless.

“In other words, these two days of tumbling, aside from detoxifying, were basically for nothing.”

“Then what’s that cold lump in my belly?”

Harold Whitman didn’t answer, just pointed to the outhouse in the backyard.

Logan Whitman clutched his stomach and groaned as he ran over, shouting, “Uncle, please bring me some paper...”

As that cold lump poured out, Logan Whitman felt a chill in his heart. In these two days, he had basically finished all the falls the whole village would take in a lifetime, and now it seemed it really was all for nothing.

Logan Whitman came out of the outhouse holding his stomach, feeling a chill from his throat to his navel, and asked with a bitter smile, “Uncle, this boxing technique...”

Harold Whitman cut him off with a laugh before he could finish, “Kid, the poisons of our Wen family aren’t just for poisoning others—they’re for poisoning ourselves too!” As he spoke, he suddenly flipped over in a strange posture, landing head down with his right palm lightly pressing on the ground.

A layer of clear, emerald green color instantly rippled across the ground, flashing and then disappearing.

Uncle casually picked up a stone chip and turned over the soil. Wherever the green palm force had passed, the earthworms underneath had all turned into shriveled, black, rock-hard sticks.

Logan Whitman swallowed hard.

There was a hint of pride in Harold Whitman’s eyes, clearly very satisfied with his palm strike. “Our Wen family’s ancestral ‘wrong fist’ fuses the poison from the medicinal wine with the meridians, not only strengthening the tendons and bones, but wherever the fist strikes, the poison accumulated in the meridians erupts as well! Whether you’re refining poison or fighting in the future, you can’t do without this ‘wrong fist’!”

Only then did Logan Whitman realize that this boxing technique, which taught people to slam themselves into the ground, was called ‘wrong fist.’

From then on, every day, Logan Whitman went back to his old routine from before he was twelve: every morning, he would strip naked and soak in the big vat of medicinal wine, no longer trying to show off. As soon as his body couldn’t withstand the poison’s corrosion, he would climb out and, under his uncle’s guidance, practice the boxing manual diligently. Logan Whitman had a stubborn and tenacious nature, gritting his teeth every day as he pounded the ground in his uncle’s courtyard.

The three old masters of the Wen family would occasionally come by to watch, then call over Uncle Harold Whitman, and the four of them would set up a table in the courtyard to play mahjong.

Once, Logan Whitman was lucky enough to witness Old Master Wen and Uncle Harold Whitman sparring with ‘wrong fist’ without using any poison power, just pure technique. The two of them looked like madmen on a sugar high, using their heads, hands, feet, elbows, knees, even their butts, backs, and teeth as weapons, attacking each other with a storm of blows from every part of their bodies. Each strike was so powerful it could split gold and crack stone. Their sparring was even more intense than a fight between ten or eight martial arts experts.

Only then did Logan Whitman realize that, putting everything else aside, just this boxing technique alone could turn one person into a whole crowd—a standard one-man gang-fighting art.

Logan Whitman gradually understood the key to training with the boxing manual. This technique twisted the body’s power, circulating the invading poison through the meridians, where it would eventually accumulate and settle.

When fighting an enemy, a punch would not only strike, but also spread poison.

Besides that, the boxing manual emphasized two things: balance and divided attention. To execute the moves, you had to split your focus across every joint in your body—fists, feet, shoulders, elbows all had to be commanded separately. You absolutely couldn’t rely on your body’s natural coordination, or you’d end up falling miserably.

Or rather, balance was for the sake of divided attention.

Harold Whitman once explained to him, “When the Wen family’s poison-crafting secret arts reach a high level, you have to use your whole body—hands, feet, everything. You’ll be refining hundreds of medicines at once, with over a dozen pots going at the same time. If you don’t master this boxing technique, even if you had three heads and six arms and martial skills that reached the heavens, you still couldn’t do it!”