Not even a chicken could stop Mr. Ethan Clark’s incessant chatter. Who knew where he got such a penchant for lecturing? As he ate, he asked, “Where did this chicken come from?”

Samuel Foster had a nimble tongue and a special skill—he could gnaw on chicken bones without using his hands. He’d stuff the whole thing into his mouth, his cheeks bulging a few times, and after a crisp crunch, he could spit out a clean, intact bone.

He spat out a bone with a rough “puh,” and answered his master, “Stole it from the village up ahead.”

Confucius said, “Do not speak while eating, do not talk while in bed.”

The beggar’s chicken was, of course, delicious. Henry Carter was hesitating about whether to follow his master’s lead and tear off a chicken leg to eat, but after witnessing this scene and hearing the story behind it, Henry Carter resolutely pulled his hand back and silently gnawed on a rock-hard flatbread off to the side.

With someone like Samuel Foster, could any chicken he got his hands on possibly be refined?

From this perspective, even though Henry Carter was still young, his resolve and principles were already firmer than his blockhead master’s.

Mr. Ethan Clark was clearly not put off his appetite. Even as he chewed heartily, he managed to free up half his mouth to shake his head and say, “Taking without asking is stealing. How can a cultivator like me stoop to stealing chickens and dogs? Ah, what a disgrace. This must not happen again!”

Samuel Foster mumbled a response. The little beggar didn’t understand any of it and didn’t dare talk back.

“Stealing chickens and dogs is forbidden, but swindling and trickery must be allowed,” Henry Carter thought sharply to himself. Then he remembered the secret bit of tolerance he’d shown his master in the pouring rain earlier, and could only sigh inwardly with a touch of world-weariness. “Forget it.”

This fourth junior brother, Samuel Foster, had a small nose and eyes, and a bit of an underbite. His beady little eyes always glimmered with a sly, lazy cunning, making him quite unlikable.

Henry Carter was never pleased to see Samuel Foster. His looks were shabby enough, but on top of that, Samuel Foster held the title of “junior brother.” Anything with “brother” in it was hard for Henry Carter to feel good about. Still, he kept his dislike to himself, outwardly maintaining a not-so-smooth but friendly and gentle demeanor.

In the Carter family, new clothes went to the eldest brother, sweetened milk porridge to the youngest. Good things never came to Henry Carter; instead, he was always sent to do chores. Henry Carter was not naturally generous, so he harbored resentment, but the old scholar’s constant talk of “fatherly kindness, filial sons, brotherly love, and respectful younger brothers” had sunk in, so he often felt his resentment was baseless.

Such a young boy hadn’t had time to develop true forbearance. Henry Carter couldn’t be completely free of complaints, so he could only pretend to be. Now that he was in the sect, he still acted this way.

Since his master had gone back on his word and opened the closed door again, Henry Carter had no choice but to play the part of senior brother as best he could.

Whenever there was an errand to run, he, as senior brother, would do it. If there was food or drink, he’d let the master have it first, then the junior brother. This was never easy, so Henry Carter constantly checked himself to avoid losing his image of gentleness, respect, frugality, and humility.

Henry Carter often demanded this of himself—his father had been poor and wretched all his life, crude and irritable, and treated him badly. Henry Carter, having listened to the old scholar, didn’t dare openly hate his father, so he could only secretly pity him. In the dead of night, the young boy often thought he’d rather die than become someone like his father.

So this dignified gentleness was something he’d painstakingly built for himself amid confusion and hardship, and he would not allow himself to lose it, no matter what.

But Henry Carter soon realized that, though he did his part well, this junior brother really didn’t deserve any special care—not only was he unpleasant to look at, his temperament was also extremely annoying.

First of all, Samuel Foster talked endlessly. Before they picked up this little beggar, it was the master who did all the chattering. After picking him up, even Mr. Ethan Clark seemed quiet by comparison.

The little beggar, apparently inspired by the master’s lecture on “stealing chickens and dogs,” immediately made up a story about how he defeated a giant yellow weasel a zhang long and stole a fat chicken.

He told it with wild gestures and vivid detail, the plot full of twists and turns, all highlighting his own brilliance and heroism.

Henry Carter tried to question him reasonably, asking, “How could there be a yellow weasel a zhang long?”

Samuel Foster, feeling challenged, immediately puffed out his chest and retorted, “Of course it became a spirit! Master, can a yellow weasel become a spirit?”

The master, hearing the story about the weasel spirit, seemed to be struck by some word. His expression turned odd, as if he had a toothache, or maybe a stomachache. After a long while, he finally replied absentmindedly, “All things have spirits. I suppose anything can become a spirit.”

Samuel Foster seemed greatly validated, and with barely concealed pride, he lifted his chin at Henry Carter and said mockingly, “Senior brother, you’re just inexperienced. If people can cultivate to become immortals, animals can naturally become demons.”

Henry Carter didn’t reply, just sneered inwardly.

If a yellow weasel really were a zhang long, its four legs surely wouldn’t be enough. That long body would have to drag its belly on the ground to move.

Would a demon cultivator go through all that trouble just to end up with a tough, hairless iron belly?

What do demon cultivators get out of it? Henry Carter couldn’t understand, but he did understand what Samuel Foster was after.