The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Chapter 158 Planning, Calculation, Alchemy, and Refining Pills

Because Zhang Chang'an saw this person, he forgot what Antoine hadn't finished saying and subconsciously wanted to get closer to see him more clearly.

"Mr. Zhang." But Antoine's voice came from behind at this moment, his tone a few degrees sterner than before.

Zhang Chang'an turned his head and saw Antoine standing in front of a door.

It was the room at the end of the corridor, which looked larger than the other cells. There was a bronze plaque hanging on the door, the words of which were already blurred.

“Now that you’ve reached this floor and seen these people,” Antoine said, “you should understand that even someone like you, who has offended the nobility and been sentenced to death, is fundamentally different from the people here. And that’s why they’re imprisoned here.”

He raised his chin and pointed to the door behind him.

"It's because the warden, Marquis de Lamot, has his office on this floor, and he alone intimidates all the prisoners on the floor."

Zhang Chang'an recalled their previous conversation and realized what he meant: "So, restricting exercise today was the warden's order?"

Zhang Chang'an understood.

"I'm sorry, but the warden has very tight control over the prison. Even if none of my subordinates leaked anything, he most likely already knows about what happened last night."

Antoine lowered his voice: "I blocked your movements this morning, and I brought you here now, all because of this."

"You saved Pierre, so I'm giving you a heads-up: be careful what you say and do when you go inside. Unless you want your sentence to be brought forward, or you end up like the other prisoners on this floor."

Although he didn't reveal any more information, Zhang Chang'an knew that given Antoine's personality, it was already quite remarkable that he would offer such a reminder at a time like this.

So he raised his hand, patted Antoine on the shoulder, and nodded in thanks.

However, he didn't say anything more, but calmly turned around, pushed open the door, and went inside.

The office was spacious, at least compared to other parts of the prison.

A large desk was placed in the center, with several thick books and a pile of scattered papers on it, and several instruments that Zhang Chang'an couldn't name next to it.

Bookshelves lined the walls, stretching from floor to ceiling, crammed with books and scrolls. A fire burned in the fireplace, warming the room but also filling the air with a dry, oppressive heat.

Marquis de La Motte sat behind the desk.

He was still dressed in the same elaborate black robe that night, somewhat like a Vatican garment. His tall figure was slumped in the high-backed chair, his fingers interlaced on the table.

The firelight from the fireplace danced across his face, casting stark contrasts of light and shadow on his stern features. His high-bridged nose, thin lips, and grey-blue eyes were half-closed, as if he were reviewing documents on a table, or perhaps a judge at work.

Zhang Chang'an stood at the doorway, looking at the scene before him, with only one thought in his mind—

"Plan is in place!"

"Zhang Lan," the warden said, his voice not loud, but exceptionally clear in the quiet room.

Judging from his appearance, he was only in his thirties or forties, but because of his stern voice, his actual tone was louder and more authoritative than he looked: "He came from the East, a wandering alchemist, fluent in French, who came with a French caravan and landed at the port of Marseille. He traveled in Paris for three years, frequenting aristocratic salons under the guise of an Eastern sorcerer, and was later imprisoned for fraud and executed after ten days."

He raised his eyes, his gray-blue pupils reflecting a cold, faint light in the firelight.

"Am I mistaken?"

Zhang Chang'an did not respond.

The warden leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers lightly on the table—the position up to last night.

Although he was reading out the charges, De La Motte's voice was incredibly firm, as if he were reciting an irrefutable legal text, which made people feel extremely oppressed.

"You did several things last night. You left your cell without permission, touched an alchemically injured person, and used unrecognized Eastern esoteric arts. Each of these is a capital offense."

Especially the last one —

He picked up a piece of paper from the table, glanced at it, and put it down again: "I know the nobleman you offended, Count de Montmorency."

Her estate, situated on the banks of the Loire River, boasted three castles, and its annual wine revenue was enough to support an army. Her Paris residence had thirty rooms, and twelve gardeners alone tended the gardens.

"In addition, her family controls a third of the iron mines in northern France and two royal goldsmithing workshops. Her husband is the King's advisor. Her uncle is one of the vice-principals of the Royal Academy of Alchemy, which is—my deputy."

The warden leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers lightly on the table: "You haven't offended an ordinary noblewoman. You've offended half of the alchemy industry chain."

Those grey-blue eyes stared straight at Zhang Chang'an.

"But you don't serve such people, yet you can heal the damage caused by alchemy with ashes and water. You treat the penniless poor in the slums."

The warden stood up, walked around the table, and stood in front of Zhang Chang'an.

Zhang Chang'an noticed that the man was about two meters tall, a full half-head taller than Lan Gong, who was already quite tall for this era. Now that he was standing in front of him, he was naturally looking down at him: "What I dislike most is people like you. Just like those revolutionaries in the city, full of ideals and self-righteous. You think you're doing good deeds? You're just scattering what should be used wisely into the mud."

You're not a fraudster; you just don't want to serve those in power.

"If that is the case, the previous accusation that you deceived the nobles with false secret arts will be overturned, and you will be replaced by a more serious charge of fraud and disobedience."

You might experience a more brutal death penalty as a result, or perhaps, your punishment will be brought forward.

He turned and walked back to the table, pulled a blank piece of paper from the drawer, and threw it on the table.

He paused.

"However, I am interested in what you have."

"Write it down," the warden said. "Write everything down clearly. I'll give you a quick death."

His intention was all too clear: he wanted to obtain the Eastern magic from Zhang Chang'an.

but----

Zhang Chang'an had anticipated all of this.

He had to admit that the warden's thinking was correct. As someone who possessed the Eastern magic passed down from his ancestors, he had discovered something from the day he finished reading those basic alchemy textbooks in the library.

Eastern alchemy and talismans are essentially very similar to Western alchemy.

Alchemy is the technology of disassembling, reconstructing, and reshaping all things. Whether it is drawing a transmutation circle or processing various raw materials, the core lies in changing the form and properties of things.

Isn't alchemy the same? Herbs, wood, metals, and minerals are put into the furnace, and with the help of fire, intention, and qi and blood, their essence is extracted, their properties and effects are changed, and finally, an elixir that can be integrated with a person is refined.

As for talismans, they are drawn with cinnabar and yellow paper, drawing upon the energy of heaven and earth. This is an extremely profound method, but at least the low-level talismans he is currently using, which do not require inviting gods to an altar and only rely on the symbols on them, as well as the special ink and yellow paper material, are actually quite similar in principle to alchemy arrays.

So after reading those books, he realized that if he wanted to learn alchemy, these Eastern magic spells would be his greatest asset.

He has the foundation to help you get started quickly, and he can also provide things that are not available in the alchemical system.

Therefore, all he lacked was an opportunity. An opportunity to get the warden to sit down and talk to him.

What right does a death row inmate have to negotiate with the president of the Royal Alchemy Society? You have to let him know that you have what he wants, and that it's not something he can just snatch away with a flick of his finger.

Last night was that opportunity. Pierre was injured in an accident during the warden's experiment. By using alchemy to save him, he essentially revealed his hand to the warden.

What hasn't been done yet is the other half of the process: proving one's value and irreplaceability.