Logan Whitman quickly agreed, holding his breath and focusing for a moment. Suddenly, with a furious shout, he leapt high into the air, every joint in his body twitching in a strange way. His fists and feet moved like the wind, and he spun rapidly around a tree as thick as two people’s arms put together, like a monstrous bird. The sound of blows rang out like popping beans, and with each strike, a layer of blackness spread, seeping into the giant tree after a moment. Before refining a poison of the five elements suitable for oneself, the poison power released from the Mistake Fist was just ordinary black. Harold Whitman cultivated wood-based poison power, so his was a flamboyant green.

A layer of withered yellow leaves drifted to the ground with the breeze after a moment. With his current Mistake Fist, Logan Whitman could only knock down these dead leaves. If he wanted to make such a thick tree wither completely in just a few punches, he was still far from it.

The three old men exchanged a glance of moderate satisfaction.

After a while, Logan Whitman finished his practice, looking anxiously at the four elders.

Old Mr. Whitman neither affirmed nor denied, chuckling as he directly instructed Harold Whitman, “Tomorrow, you take him into the mountains!” As he spoke, he stood up and ran to the bedside, rummaged under the bed for a long time, and finally pulled out a square redwood box. Smiling, he asked Logan Whitman, “Do you know what’s inside?”

Logan Whitman held back the answer “urn,” shook his head, but Henry Whitman was overjoyed at the sight of the box. He slapped his eldest nephew to his knees: “Aren’t you going to thank your great-grandfather?”

Inside the wooden box sat a jet-black jade censer, perfectly upright.

Logan Whitman’s eyes lit up, and he exclaimed in delight, “Black Jade Incense Censer!”

The incense censer was a household item all Whitman family disciples were familiar with. After lighting special herbs inside, it would attract poisonous insects nearby. After a fierce battle, the most venomous insect would linger inside the censer, making it the most convenient tool for luring and capturing poisonous bugs. However, ordinary disciples’ censers were mostly made of stone or bronze, with limited effectiveness in dispersing the herbs, making it hard to attract rare and highly toxic creatures. Even if such strange bugs were occasionally drawn in, they wouldn’t linger long, just circling once before leaving.

The black jade censer was different. Once the herbs were burned, ordinary bugs wouldn’t dare approach at all; only the most aggressive and highly poisonous rare insects would be attracted. Compared to ordinary censers, the former was a bear trap, while the latter was just a mousetrap.

Elder Whitman handed the wooden box to Logan Whitman: “As disciples of the Tuo Xie sect, we can’t avoid dealing with these poisonous insects all our lives. I’m giving you this censer—you’ll need it sooner or later!”

Logan Whitman was overjoyed and kowtowed. Harold Whitman, standing to the side, said with a hint of jealousy, “Grandpa, his censer is even better than mine!”

Elder Whitman shot him a sidelong glance: “Then ask Logan—if he’s willing to trade with you, I won’t interfere.”

Before Harold Whitman could speak, Logan Whitman let out a strange cry, hugged the black jade censer tightly, and dashed off, shouting, “Not trading, not trading, not trading!”

Volume One: Breaking New Ground

Chapter Five: Uncle

“Shuoshu? What does that mean?” Logan Whitman asked, chewing on a carrot, looking puzzled. With a backpack on his shoulders, he left the village with his uncle the next day, heading deep into the mountains. The ridges were rarely trodden by people, with no paths to follow, but after practicing Mistake Fist, the Whitman family’s inner disciples were agile and light-footed. Though the mountains were rugged and hard to traverse, for this uncle and nephew, it was no different from walking on flat land.

As they walked, his uncle told Logan Whitman stories of his own days studying the Whitman family’s medicinal arts.

Harold Whitman adopted a sorrowful tone, shaking his head and singing, “Shuoshu, shuoshu, do not eat my millet! For three years I have been your wife, yet you never cared for me…” The Book of Songs was a required subject for all Whitman family disciples from childhood.

Uncle hummed and sang the entire “Shuoshu,” then let out a long sigh. Suddenly, he put on a stern face and said to Logan Whitman seriously, “For us disciples of Tuo Xie, to graduate, we must complete a challenge set by our elders before we can use the Tuo Xie name outside. The test your great-grandfather gave me was ‘Shuoshu.’”

Logan Whitman chuckled, “Using the Book of Songs as the basis for a formula, that’s an interesting challenge?” Though he said this, he thought to himself that the Tuo Xie name was best avoided if possible.

Harold Whitman shot him a cold look: “Strange? You’ll see when the time comes. The exam topics are all over the place—you’ll have plenty to think about!”

Logan Whitman stuck out his tongue, then grinned, “So, what did you make back then… rat poison?”

After spending two years together day and night, Harold Whitman knew his nephew could be either exceptionally clever or incredibly silly. He shook his head and laughed, “If the topic is ‘Shuoshu’ and you just make rat poison, then what if the topic is ‘Papaya’? Would you make a breast enhancement cream? It’s not that simple. If I’d brought back a bag of rat poison, your great-grandfather would have beaten me to death! To complete the challenge, you have to solve the riddle first. ‘Shuoshu’ isn’t about rats—it’s about suffering! So I named my formula ‘Wushan!’” Harold Whitman was very proud of the formula he created for the challenge, and deliberately paused here, smiling slyly at his eldest nephew.

Logan Whitman immediately pressed, “Wushan? What does that have to do with shuoshu, or with suffering?” He wasn’t just making conversation—he truly admired his uncle and Elder Whitman’s skills, and was genuinely interested when his uncle spoke of his proudest moments.