The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Chapter 148 The Bastille Doesn't Believe in Flags

Cold. That was the first sensation he felt upon regaining consciousness. It was a chilling cold that seeped into his very bones. The damp, cold air he inhaled was mixed with dampness, mold, and a faint, rotten smell.

Like his old rented room in the urban village, abandoned for many years, it might give people a certain feeling.

Zhang Chang'an opened his eyes and saw that it was pitch black all around. Only a sliver of pale light shone through an iron-barred window high above his head, barely outlining the contours of his surroundings.

This is a sturdy stone building. The walls, floors, and ceilings are all made of thick and huge stone bricks. The walls are inlaid with rusty iron rings, and the ground is pitted and uneven.

He rolled over and got up, and when he looked down, he saw the clothes he was wearing.

The prison uniform, made of coarse, grayish-brown cloth, was filthy and tattered, with the collar pulled back, revealing the skin underneath. On his feet were worn-out cloth shoes, the soles almost completely worn through. He stepped into the puddles on the ground, and his toes immediately felt a bone-chilling cold.

"So this is... a French prisoner's uniform from the late 18th century? As expected of France, even their prison uniforms have deep V-necks." He muttered to himself, his voice echoing in the empty cell.

Looking up, he saw that the cell was small; he could probably walk from one end to the other in three or four steps. The blanket that had been covering him was piled in the corner; it was a bit tattered, but at least it wasn't dirty or moldy.

In the center of the cell, a sliver of dim light shone down, casting a small patch of light on the floor. Beside the patch of light was a puddle of murky, dirty water.

Zhang Chang'an lowered his head, and his face was immediately reflected in the water.

He was a young man with well-defined features, high brow bones, a straight nose, and a sharp jawline.

He was a bit thin, but thin in a just-right way, not in a sickly way. Instead, it highlighted his melancholy and dejection, but it was precisely because of this that he had a strangely charming aura.

"So handsome!" Zhang Chang'an exclaimed sincerely.

He stared at the reflection in the water for a few seconds and confirmed it.

Their Zhang family genes are indeed strong, spanning hundreds of years, but every ancestor is quite similar to him, and the one in front of him is no exception. Moreover, although he is down on his luck, he is clearly the best-looking one among them: "I feel that I should be from the Lan family lineage."

He had only been observing for a short while when he heard a commotion outside.

Footsteps, shouts, the clatter of chains dragging on the ground, and someone shouting something rapidly, but Zhang Chang'an couldn't understand a single word.

"French —"

He realized this and immediately summoned the family genealogy.

Although the exchange page did not yet display the items available for exchange in Paris, it did show Zhang Lan's personal information and skill list.

And he was stunned after just one glance.

The skill list is longer than expected.

At the very top is [Proficient French], the highest level of language skill he has ever seen. It costs 100 shards to exchange for, but it doesn't matter. How can you survive in France if you don't know French?

Having traversed two or three fragments of time and space, he was extremely familiar with this situation. Each of these historical backgrounds was unique, and sometimes he had to make a purchase right away, acquiring more than just language skills, in order to seamlessly integrate.

Otherwise, why would he leave more than 1000 pieces of spacetime fragments unused?

However, after seeing the complete list of skills, Zhang Chang'an's pupils contracted slightly.

Although he hasn't looked at the details yet, the list of skills is quite long.

His ancestor's unique starting position clearly indicates he was no ordinary person.

Before he could take a closer look, the noise outside grew even louder, a cacophony of sounds mixed with the dragging of chains and the heavy footsteps of leather boots on the stones.

So he didn't hesitate any longer and exchanged for French skills first. For him now, not leaking information was the most important thing.

Outside, across the narrow corridors are large, multi-person cells. The Bastille has a bunker-like structure; the entire building is a huge ring with an open space in the middle and buildings surrounding it.

The interior structure is somewhat similar to this structure, with long corridors and cells on both sides.

What he's focusing on right now is the depths of the corridor between the cells.

"Go! Hurry up! What are you dawdling for!"

"Sir, I'm truly innocent, I—"

'

"Shut up and get inside!"

Zhang Chang'an walked to the iron bars of the prison cell and looked out.

At the end of the narrow corridor, several guards in blue uniforms and carrying oddly designed equipment were leading a group of people this way.

The group included people of all ages, some well-dressed and others ragged, all chained together and staggering forward.

Zhang Chang'an was no stranger to this. He had learned about the situation here in advance through his biography, and he had already brushed up on the history of this era.

At the end of the 18th century, France was under the oppressive rule of the infamous beheaded emperor, Louis XVI.

Of course, at this time, he had not yet been pushed onto the guillotine he himself designed; the Bastille was a microcosm of his autocratic rule.

Thinking about this, he breathed a sigh of relief after reviewing the restoration mission: "At first, I thought that this place was basically full of political prisoners. This ancestor must have committed some serious crime. But after learning more, I found out that it is actually a place that also imprisons ordinary criminals."

So, what threat could this Mr. Lan, as a foreigner, pose to French politics? He probably hasn't committed anything too serious. Besides, as a foreigner, he must have some underhanded tactics to deal with things, right? —”

"I'm not French! I'm Italian!" A shrill voice interrupted Zhang Chang'an's thoughts.

He looked in the direction of the sound and saw a short man in the group, dressed reasonably well, struggling, his face flushed red, desperately explaining, "Playing music is not illegal where I'm from! Who knew that music in France was a privilege of the nobility! I'm truly innocent!"

Before he could finish speaking, a guard rushed forward and struck him on the back with a stick.

With a muffled thud, the short man collapsed to the ground, unable to even scream, only able to convulse on the floor.

Another guard came up, grabbed his hair, and made him face everyone with his bruised and swollen face.

"Foreigner?" The guard sneered. "So what if you're a foreigner? You have no power or influence, you're not even as good as a Frenchman here. At least a local Frenchman has relatives and friends to help him out. You?"

He released his grip, letting the head slam back to the ground: "You'd better have some relatives or friends in Italy who are willing to come and bail you out."

After saying that, the two guards dragged the short man into the adjacent multi-person cell like a dead dog.

The iron gate slammed shut with a loud clang.

Zhang Chang'an stood in his cell, watching this scene, his expression gradually freezing.

What was he thinking just now? That outsiders are easy to run away from?

Easy my ass.

"That makes sense. These days, diplomatic immunity probably doesn't exist—if this ancestor really didn't have any connections here—"

He pondered, then subconsciously looked down at the cell he was in.

Alone, he looked up, a hint of expectation in his eyes: "Those are all multi-person cells outside. Is it because this ancestor is being held in solitary confinement because he knows some nobles or powerful people here?"

That's probably why I got into such big trouble and ended up in a place like this. Maybe someone will actually come and help me smooth things over—"

Just as he was thinking this, another person in the group started to struggle.

He was a middle-aged man who dressed fairly well, with a neatly trimmed beard. Although his jacket was dirty, the material looked expensive.

"I am a French nobleman!" he shouted, his voice brimming with unyielding arrogance. "I am Viscount de Laval! If you imprison me, the nobles I know will not let you get away with it!"

Then, the guard who had been there earlier turned around and walked slowly to the nobleman.

Raise your hand.

"Snapped!"

One slap. The nobleman was spun around on the spot and fell to the ground.

The guard crouched down, pinched his chin, lifted his face, and said, word by word, "This is the Bastille. Do you know who established it? His Majesty King Louis XVI. Do you know who the warden is? The Marquis de La Mothe."

He patted the swollen aristocratic face.

"Don't tell me you're a baron," he chuckled. "Even if you were a marquis like our warden, once you're inside, your title is meaningless."

After he finished speaking, he stood up and waved to the other two guards.

The nobleman was thrown into another large cell like a tattered sack.

Zhang Chang'an opened his mouth, then swallowed back the words that were about to come out: "Forget it, forget it—I won't think about underhanded tactics. Weren't the previous two instances just like this? The ones I entered were all in the early stages when the ancestors were down on their luck and didn't have much power."

Otherwise, why would they need me to save them from their predicament?

Having traversed so many ancestor instances—Military Chinese Arts, Eye of Killing Intent, Six-Gold Spear, No-Knife Take, Swallow Return, Exoskeleton—first, lie low for a few days, gather information, and then…

"I'm definitely going to escape!"

A loud shout once again interrupted Zhang Chang'an's train of thought.

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