Deep within Nine Peaks Mountain, there were vast stretches of primeval forest, without a trace of technological civilization. Along the way, Harold Whitman and his nephew chatted as they walked, drinking mountain spring water whenever they were thirsty. Before they knew it, night had completely fallen. Logan Whitman helped his uncle poison some wild game, and there they were—one a former county magistrate, the other a high school dropout—father and son grilling protected animals over a campfire, eating until their mouths were slick with grease.

After finishing the roast meat, his uncle tossed aside the bone in his hand and smiled at Logan Whitman, saying, “Kid, take out your black jade incense burner. I’ll teach you how to use it!”

Logan Whitman was overjoyed. He’d long wanted to try out the treasured incense burner, so he hurriedly and carefully took it and a bundle of herbs from his bag. Moments later, the herbs were lit, and a wisp of intoxicating fragrance quickly filled the air. The uncle and nephew scrambled up a tree, eyes wide, waiting for poisonous insects or strange beasts to appear by the light of the nearby campfire.

Harold Whitman, hiding not far away, still reminded Logan Whitman, “Ordinary poisonous insects are afraid of the scent from this burner. Only the really fierce ones dare to come. Be patient. If there’s nothing tough around here, it might be quiet all night.” He hadn’t finished speaking when a sudden whooshing sound shattered the mountain night’s silence—something was speeding toward them. Logan Whitman’s eyes widened with excitement in the tree, but he also felt uneasy. Judging by the sound, it definitely wasn’t an insect; it sounded more like a rhinoceros. If it really was a big brute and sat on the incense burner, the treasure would be smashed for sure.

The flapping, pounding footsteps grew clearer. Suddenly, Logan Whitman’s vision blurred, his pupils dilated, and he stared in disbelief at the clearing below.

What burst into the woods were two burly men.

Their faces were blank and dazed. As soon as they ran in, they cheered, completely ignoring the black jade incense burner, and instead lunged for the leftover roast meat by the fire, grabbing it and wolfing it down without caring if it was hot.

It was Logan Whitman’s first time using the black jade incense burner. Instead of attracting poisonous insects, he’d lured in two big fools.

The two men’s faces were so dirty their ages couldn’t be guessed, their hair and beards tangled into a mess. They squabbled over the fire, and in no time had eaten every last bit of the roast meat. Up in the tree, Logan Whitman suddenly cried out in alarm—he’d just remembered that the game he and his uncle had roasted was laced with the potent poison of the Wen family. They’d both soaked in medicinal wine and were long immune to the toxin, but for ordinary people, it was deadly.

Like a strange bird, Logan Whitman shot down from the treetop, lunging for the bones in the two men’s hands. “The meat is poisoned! Don’t eat it!”

“Someone’s trying to steal the meat!” The two big men glanced at each other and let out earth-shaking roars. Before Logan Whitman could get close, they’d already flanked him, swinging at him from both sides.

Fists, feet, elbows, knees, and shoulders all struck at once, the air filled with the sound of forceful blows. Each strike carried tremendous power. Logan Whitman was utterly shocked—these two weirdos were using the authentic Wen family’s “wrong fist” technique, and their skill was far deeper than his, almost on par with his uncle. He’d barely lunged forward before being “gang-beaten” countless times and sent flying. If he hadn’t soaked in medicinal wine since childhood and grown so much stronger in recent years, he’d probably be dead by now.

Luckily, the two big men hadn’t laced their punches with poison, or else Logan Whitman would be a goner.

Logan Whitman couldn’t defend himself at all, shouting in panic, “Don’t hit, don’t hit! The meat is mine, I’m from the Wen family…” Before he could finish, the two weirdos suddenly cried out in surprise.

“Seventh Elder, the meat belongs to him!” the first man yelled.

“Eleventh Elder, run!” the second man turned and bolted.

“Eighth Elder, wait for me!” the first man chased after the other.

“Third Elder, take the meat!” the second man shouted again.

“Fourteenth Elder, I’m full, let’s go!” The first man looked at the pile of bones by the fire, hesitated, but still ran off.

If you listened with your eyes closed, you’d think it was a whole group fighting over the meat.

Logan Whitman lay on the ground, feeling like all his bones were about to fall apart. After hearing the two weirdos call each other by those names, his brain started to ache.

Only then did his uncle Harold Whitman burst out laughing and jump down from the tree, calling out to the two fools, “Ninth Elder, Thirteenth Elder, don’t run, big brother is here to see you!”

Logan Whitman almost wanted to spit blood to express his admiration for the two men’s mathematical prowess.

The two fools were startled to see Harold Whitman jump down, but then cheered loudly, laughing as they rushed over, four greasy, dirty hands grabbing him in a tight hug, shouting and jumping.

His uncle didn’t mind at all, letting the two fools hug him, his eyes full of affection. He turned to Logan Whitman and smiled, “Kid, come meet your Ninth Uncle and Thirteenth Uncle.”

Logan Whitman staggered to his feet. When the two fools saw him get up, they yelped and tried to run again, but Harold Whitman was quick and grabbed them both. “No need to run, no need to run, the meat was roasted just for you!”

The two fools let out a long sigh of relief, stood shoulder to shoulder, bowed to Logan Whitman, and shouted in unison: