The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Chapter 151 The Most Outrageous Ancestor of the Eastern Sages

Zhang Chang'an was not surprised that alchemy truly existed in this world.

The previous whale oil technology was also an ancient, lost technology that transcended reality, but these alchemy techniques in Paris seem to be even more outlandish than essential oil technology.

They only used supernatural fuel over there, but here, alchemy itself is a form of magic.

Like alchemy in most works of art, Parisian alchemy also followed the rule of equivalent exchange.

To put it simply, this is about the conservation of mass; the amount of material you use determines the amount of product you get. You can't create a large amount of gold from a small amount of wood ash; you must exchange something of equal value for something of equal value.

However, just as whale oil has an astonishing total energy content and a high rate of energy release upon combustion, alchemy technology has a scientific underlying logic, but an unscientific process of implementation.

"You have discovered a secret of history:"

In Paris, only a small number of highly skilled alchemists at the Royal Alchemy Academy possess such formidable alchemy abilities.

However, with a complete transmutation circle drawn and some additional auxiliary materials added, a steel alchemist can instantly transform large quantities of scrap steel and even raw ore into refined steel.

Whale oil technology originates from an unusual energy source, while alchemy is an extraordinary industrial process that even modern technology cannot match.

"Time-space fragments +400".

95

Zhang Chang'an shook his head helplessly: "That warden last night must be a high-level alchemist. He could probably break my exoskeleton on the spot with just one tap. Also, that human transformation technique is too much of a counter to my physical abilities."

It seems that it's best not to act rashly until we have a solution or a clear understanding of the situation.

He sat on the stone steps, gazing at the garden before him and the idle prisoners around him, lost in thought: "However, apart from the technology tree, everything else here is pretty much the same as what I learned in the modern world."

Although the Bastille is a symbol of autocratic rule, its actual situation is quite different from the public's impression.

As a special prison for prisoners, most of the cells here are not in the dungeon, but have windows, stoves, and basic furniture such as beds, tables and chairs.

Some privileged individuals even had tapestries, dressers, velvet cushions, and even pets and servants.

The food was also quite good; the privileged prisoners could eat broth, beef, salad, fish, wine, fruit, and desserts.

Ordinary prisoners also received bread, vegetable soup, and salted meat.

Besides these, the library here has five or six hundred volumes, prisoners can communicate with the outside world and receive visitors. They can stroll in the garden, smoke, drink, and play cards; there is also a billiards table and a chapel, it is said.

All of these expenses were usually borne by the king and his family, with each person receiving three to nineteen livres, which was equivalent to several days' or half a month's wages for an ordinary person.

He just glanced down at Zhang Chang'an's tattered prison uniform and the worn-out blanket from last night. Clearly, those top-tier treatments had nothing to do with him.

Besides, what's the use of good treatment? Even if you give him the treatment of Louis XVI, he'll be executed in seven days, and all the good treatment will be for nothing.

So the key is to figure out the situation and find a way out as soon as possible. He pondered, his gaze falling on the groups of prisoners in the courtyard.

He didn't recognize any of these people. To be precise, not a single face could trigger Lan Gong's memories, indicating that none of them were acquaintances: "This is too strange. I haven't seen a proper timeline yet, and I don't even know what kind of person Lan Gong is."

He sat there, looking around, troubled by his inability to find a solution to the current situation.

The three burly men in prison uniforms who had been standing in the corner of the garden suddenly turned and walked towards him. The one in the lead had a scar on his face, walked with a swagger, and had an arrogant expression that clearly indicated he was there to cause trouble.

Seeing this, Zhang Chang'an raised an eyebrow: "Are you getting a little creeped out by my staring? I almost forgot about that. If Master Lan really doesn't have any connections or background, my arrogance this morning would indeed attract some idiots."

Zhang Chang'an was certainly not intimidated by these people, but he had no intention of making a move; he simply calmly looked up.

When their eyes met those people again, the three of them stopped in their tracks at the same time.

"Buzz!"

The leader's expression froze.

After Zhang Chang'an had just seen it, he felt as if he had been hit head-on by something, and then an immense pressure suddenly stopped him in his tracks.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but even moving his tongue and mouth was difficult.

The two behind him were in the same situation; before long, their legs began to tremble.

"The tactic of building up a fighting spirit is really quite useful. Although I haven't actually used it on any strong opponent yet, it certainly saves a lot of trouble. We don't know if fighting is allowed here or not, so doing this is just to avoid attracting the attention of those guards."

Zhang Chang'an was pondering when he suddenly heard a voice: "This—guy—" It was the leader's voice, broken and intermittent, like a curse suppressed in his heart.

Zhang Chang'an was taken aback, then realized that the psychic connection had been triggered.

After arriving at the Bastille, he hadn't seen a single ghost in this infamous prison, but unexpectedly, this ability could be used on humans first.

"What's with the arrogance? You've offended a noble lord, do you think you'll live for many more days?!"

"Damn it—why am I so afraid of him—does this guy really know some kind of Eastern sorcery?"

Zhang Chang'an listened, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth: "A noble sir? Did Lord Lan offend a noble and get imprisoned here?"

That makes sense. In this day and age, for a foreigner to be imprisoned in a place like this and even threatened with execution, it's likely only because they've offended some powerful figure.

As for "sorcery" —

Zhang Chang'an didn't hear the rest of the story in their minds, so he decided not to waste any more time with them. He immediately looked away, stood up, and dusted off the dust on his prison uniform.

The burly men were immediately freed and took a step back in unison.

Zhang Chang'an ignored them and turned to walk towards the tower entrance: "Time is of the essence. Let's look around elsewhere. If we still can't find anything to trigger the import, let's find some more books to read, and then try to make contact with the guards."

The tower's entrance is a worn-out iron gate, with most of the paint peeling off the frame, revealing the rust underneath.

Zhang Chang'an had just stepped inside and hadn't taken two steps when he saw someone walking towards him from the other end of the corridor.

He was a tall, burly man wearing a wrinkled gray prison uniform with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a section of his thick forearm covered in old-fashioned tattoos.

His neck was about the same thickness as his face, and he carried a round, buzz-cut head on his shoulder, with several old scars faintly visible on his scalp.

Zhang Chang'an did not retract his fighting spirit, but this person clearly did not react at all.

And at the same time, the ancestors' memories finally began to respond.

"René, nicknamed Ironhead, has been convicted of murder, robbery, and attempted escape. Although he works alone, he seems to be a prison bully—"

The sudden information surged through his mind.

He looked up and saw that the person in front of him was not intimidated by the fighting spirit. On the contrary, the emotion in his eyes was even stronger, as if he had been stimulated, and he quickened his pace towards him.

Zhang Chang'an had a better idea: "This guy has some cultivation background—it seems like we really have to fight?"

He slightly adjusted his stance, shifted his weight backward, and prepared to make his move.

That's when the person walked up to him and then "plop"!

The man knelt down straight in front of him, his knees hitting the stone slab with a dull thud.

Zhang Chang'an was stunned.

"Eastern Sage," the man raised his head, his fleshy face contorting into an awkward but seemingly devout expression, his voice booming like a church bell, "Please grant me your grace!"

While Zhang Chang'an was still in a daze, the dungeon import was finally triggered.

The patterns on the surrounding brick walls slowly twisted, forming the characters of the family genealogy.

During the Qianlong era, Zhang Lan, at the age of twenty-three, traveled to the Thirteen Factories of Guangzhou under the guise of a wandering alchemist. He was fluent in foreign languages, eloquent, and often used his magical arts of talismans and water to associate with foreign merchants. He also traveled westward with a French merchant ship, drifting 86,000 li (approximately 43,000 kilometers) to the port of Marseille.

During the reign of King Louis XVI of France, the Parisian nobility indulged in extravagance and adored mystery. Lan, with the air of an Eastern sorcerer, moved among salon banquets, creating water from ashes in paper, which he named "The Stone of the Eastern Sage."

Noblewomen flocked to it, believing they had encountered the true secrets of Eastern arts.

More than three years later, a countess fell ill with a chronic illness. Lan gave her talismanic water, but her condition fluctuated.

The lady became suspicious, and many nobles who had previously followed her in her spiritual practice also harbored doubts. Lan was thus imprisoned. The court convicted him of fraud and sentenced him to the Bastille, to be executed ten days later; this was now the third day.

>