The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Chapter 163 Offending the Sage and Still Wanting to Leave!

"I heard they gave him a special meal today," another subordinate chimed in. "The people in the kitchen said so—butter, eggs, oysters, and wine."

"Ha," Vlbourne scoffed. "A liar, eating so well."

"I don't know how this guy managed to do it later. People outside were like madmen, always sending him money and food."

"Who cares?" Vlbourne interrupted him. "Anyway, what this guy has is the real deal."

The group walked forward laughing, their pace quickening considerably. Soon, Vurban turned around, walked to the kitchen door, and kicked it open.

The door slammed against the wall, bounced back halfway, and was then pushed open again by the person behind it.

The kitchen wasn't big, but the fire on the stove was burning brightly, and the water in the pot was bubbling away. The table was placed near the window.

A man sat with his back to the window, holding an oyster in his hand and pouring it into his mouth. On the table were buttered bread, eggs, and a glass of wine.

The man looked up at them, but his expression didn't change. He simply put down the oyster shell and picked up a piece of bread.

Vurban strode over, grabbed a wine glass from the table, and gulped it down. The wine dripped from the corner of his mouth onto the table.

After finishing his drink, he slammed the cup on the table, raised one foot and placed it on the table, leaning forward and getting close to the Eastern face.

"No need to ask any more questions," he said, waving a finger in front of Zhang Chang'an. "I can tell just by looking at your face that you're that arrogant Asian guy. What's his name again?"

He turned his head and looked at the people behind him.

"Zhang—Zhang something again?" The skinny man scratched his head.

"Who knows," another person said. "Eastern names are just hard to remember."

"Whatever." Vurban turned around and patted his chest. "Your own name doesn't matter anyway. Just remember my name, Uncle Vurban."

Zhang Chang'an tore open the bread and spread butter on it, his movements unhurried and deliberate.

"So," he said, "what do you want to do?"

Vurban bent down, his face so close that he could see the firelight reflected in the oriental eyes.

"Stop pretending with me." His voice was low, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth: "René is gone. I advise you to behave yourself and hand over everything you have now, including anything sent in from outside, to us."

He paused, then tapped his hand on the table: "If you know what's good for you, we might be kind enough not to hand you over to those Englishmen in Tower Three."

We don't like your Asian face. There are plenty of perverts over there who like your looks.

"Hahahaha—" he said, and the group of people around him burst into laughter.

Zhang Chang'an didn't even shake his head.

He picked up another piece of bread, tore it open, and continued to spread butter on it, his tone as indifferent as if he were simply saying that the weather was nice today.

"You all heard that, right?" he said. "Remember to write it all down, otherwise it'll be difficult to determine the sentence later."

Vorban frowned, his brow furrowing into a deep frown. He stared at Zhang Chang'an for two seconds, but couldn't discern anything he was looking for in that face.

There was no fear, no panic, not even a hint of tension. Just like what he had said earlier, it wasn't as important as the glass of wine on the table.

Furthermore, he had no idea what Zhang Chang'an meant by those words.

Of course, their specific intentions don't matter. Whatever he says, they came here to teach him a lesson.

"Stinky—" He had barely uttered that one word, and before he could even raise his hand, he heard a whooshing sound behind him.

Something slammed into the back of his head with such force that his entire face hit the table, his nose struck the wood, and a burst of soreness and pain exploded at the same time.

He rolled off the table, his knees hitting the ground, and he saw stars before his eyes.

"Hold"

He was cursing when he tried to get up by pushing himself up with his hands on the ground, and then a pair of boots came into view.

The boots were half-height with brass buckles, and above them were dark blue trouser legs, and above that was a waist protector that was half armor and half clothing.

guard.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when the second blow arrived. This time it struck him in the waist, sending him flying sideways and crashing into a chair in the corner.

He lay on the ground, hearing the chaos around him: the clanging of metal, the dull thuds of flesh being struck, and the screams of his men.

"Boss! Boss—"

'

The skinny man's voice came from a certain direction, then was cut off by a muffled thud.

Vurban gritted his teeth and tried to stand up, but one hand pressed down on the back of his head, forcing his face to the ground.

The cold stone slab pressed against half of his cheek as he watched the legs of his men swing wildly in front of him before collapsing one by one.

Some were pinned to the stove, some were thrown outside, and some curled up on the ground, covering their heads as they were kicked.

One after another, tall, heavily armed guards, who had somehow entered the kitchen, were grabbing the group and beating them mercilessly. Leading them was none other than Julian, wielding a sheathed longsword with exceptional ferocity.

Then, fists and boots came down from all directions, blocking his view.

Shoulders, back, ribs, thighs—he couldn't tell who hit him, or where he was hit; he only felt pain all over his body.

He turned his head, his gaze passing over the table legs and the messy treads, and saw Zhang Chang'an sitting at the other end of the table, putting a piece of buttered bread into his mouth and taking a bite.

His expression was exactly the same as before, without any change.

When Julian pulled him up from the ground, Vurban's face was swollen beyond recognition.

His nose was crooked to one side, and he had a gash around his left eye, with blood smeared across half his face. The five behind him weren't in much better shape either—

One arm was hanging limply, seemingly broken. Another was curled up on the ground, clutching his stomach, unable to get up.

The guards had already found some ropes in the kitchen and quickly tied these people up securely.

After doing all that, they kicked the man into a corner and made him squat there. The envoy turned around and looked at Zhang Chang'an.

"Mr. Zhang," he said, "what do you think we should do with these people?"

Zhang Chang'an was just taking the last oyster out of its shell when he heard this and looked up at him.

Julian hadn't actually received any instructions from the warden. From the special treatment he received last night to the current protection measures, it was all the guards' own decision.

Before Pierre was sent out to recuperate, he held Julian's hand and talked for a long time, repeating the same few sentences over and over again: "Mr. Zhang saved my life."

Julian knew nothing of Eastern sages or alchemy; he only knew that this man had pulled his brother back from the brink of death. That was enough.

"You've prepared a big meal for me again today, and you've also helped me with this kind of thing," Zhang Chang'an said. "Thank you for your hard work. How can I continue to trouble you guards?"

He placed the oyster shells on the table and clapped his hands.

"Okay, brothers, take the others back first. Based on what happened earlier, add the extra sentences that should be added."

As for him—”

Zhang Chang'an gestured towards the corner of the wall, where Vurban was squatting, looking up at them with a swollen face.

"I have something I'd like to discuss with this gentleman."

I'll finish my meal first, then take care of everything else, clean up, and go home by myself.

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