Under the ancestors’ curses, there were a few more lines of small characters:

If you wish to use poison to attack the enemy, just pick any volume from the workshop and memorize it thoroughly.

If you seek to glimpse the secrets of heaven, Ancestors of the Whitman Family never summoned an immortal and escaped, nor achieved enlightenment to leave a legacy—what’s the use of chanting with your back turned?

Dumb as a pig—may you strive together with piglets and pig grandsons!

——Lance Whitman

Eli blinked her big eyes, stuck out her tongue, and giggled: “Lance Whitman the ancestor is really losing his temper.”

Logan Whitman rubbed his brow with a wry smile, faintly feeling that the name Lance Whitman sounded somewhat familiar, but for the moment, he couldn’t recall why.

But it seemed this ancestor had the same thoughts as him. When he first entered the mountains with his uncle, he’d asked almost the same question.

If it’s just to deal with enemies, with so many poison recipes summarized by the forebears in the workshop, learning any one of them would be enough.

But if you want to realize the lofty ideal of the Tuo Xie sect: to refine yourself into a cultivator who attracts lightning wherever you go, then these classics, aside from a bit of reference value, are basically useless. It’s like having a hundred students who failed the college entrance exam tutor a senior high schooler.

In over two thousand years, none of the The Whitman Family ancestors ever achieved true cultivation; the highest accomplishment was living to ninety-nine. The cultivation methods and poison recipes in the classics were basically on par with “walking a hundred steps after a meal.” But what comforted the The Whitman Family was that the techniques of Miao Bu Jiao and the Luo family of Wuyaling also seemed to be “walking a hundred steps after a meal.”

While he was lost in thought, the Buddha lamp bug suddenly called out to him again. Logan Whitman casually handed Lance Whitman’s notes to Eli, took down the ink jade incense burner, and reached in to play with the bug.

“Let me see what else ancestor Lazi cursed about,” Eli said with a smile, taking the notebook and flipping through it. She’d been with Logan Whitman for half a year and knew the Buddha lamp bug wouldn’t run out of the burner while playing, so she no longer avoided it. “Wow, this is really a mess.”

On the last few pages, there were scribbles everywhere. The good book had been turned into a big painted face by brushstrokes, with only a few words occasionally visible between the lines, barely connecting together. When Lance Whitman wrote these things, he was either extremely frustrated and kept revising, or he had Parkinson’s.

“Break… to… stand… poison veins form…” Eli Whitman tried hard to decipher the messy handwriting, silently reciting the insights left by Lance Whitman. The more she read, the more absorbed she became, her elegant brows forming a cute question mark.

Logan Whitman also leaned in, playing with the Buddha lamp bug with one hand while reading with the little girl.

After a while, the two youths let out a long breath at the same time, glancing at each other, their eyes full of shock and disbelief.

After his angry curses, Lance Whitman had messily recorded in his notes his method for using the The Whitman Family’s poison arts as a foundation to cultivate a supreme technique: first, sever your own meridians, disperse the accumulated toxins in the meridians throughout the body, and before the deadly poison corrodes the body, use the wrong fist to gather the toxins again, reshape the poison veins, and directly refine the deadly poison into your flesh!

Just as Logan Whitman was about to say something, his expression suddenly froze. This time, after the Buddha lamp bug rolled around in his palm, it didn’t jump back into the incense burner. Instead, it arched its plump body, inch by inch crawling out of the burner along his arm, curling up in the crook of his elbow, tilting its chubby head and swaying.

Volume One: Breaking New Ground

Chapter Eight: Recognition of Master

“When one day it’s willing to leave the incense burner along your arm, it means it has recognized you as its master…” The words once spoken by Senior Whitman Tunhai flashed through Logan Whitman’s mind.

The Buddha lamp bug’s sudden recognition of its master threw Logan Whitman into a panic, and he flung Lance Whitman’s notes far away.

Eli Whitman had long known the story of the Buddha lamp bug recognizing its master from the classics. She jumped up, clapping her hands and laughing: “Logan Whitman, the Buddha lamp bug has accepted you as its master!”

Hearing Eli’s voice, the Buddha lamp bug seemed to be provoked. Its plump body suddenly tensed, and it shot toward her like lightning! Logan Whitman cried out—this bug, revered as the king of insects for its deadly poison, was mostly violent in temperament. Though its poison couldn’t harm him, Eli Whitman was just an ordinary girl. If she was pricked by its stiff bristles, she would die instantly, with no chance of rescue.

The Buddha lamp bug was incredibly fast. By the time Logan Whitman reacted, it had already stuck to Eli’s fair forearm. Logan Whitman flew into a rage, his fist moving like the wind, smashing down at the little bug that had played with him for months. No matter how important the bug was, compared to the lovely Eli, it was nothing.

Eli’s face turned pale as she stared helplessly at the bug on her arm.

Just as Logan Whitman’s fist was about to smash the bug to pieces, a sudden, irresistible force surged from behind, yanking him backward. Logan Whitman didn’t know what was happening, but shouted, hugging his knees. In the instant his body was lifted, he bounced like a ball toward his unseen attacker. The strange moves of the wrong fist had become instinct—whenever attacked, he didn’t even need to think; he would naturally respond.

A cold snort sounded, one he’d become all too familiar with over the past few months.

Logan Whitman quickly opened up his body, twisting his legs with effort, and, under the powerful inertia, forcibly changed direction, tumbling awkwardly to the ground. Before he could get up, he shouted in panic, “Fourth Grandpa, save Eli!”