The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Chapter 165 Zhang Chang'an's Scheme on the Champs-Élysées

Paris's neighborhoods are clearly defined. It's already difficult enough for ordinary people to make a living; many people never leave the same few streets they live on from birth to death.

But things were different during this time, in this era. To deliver gifts to the sage, many commoners and artisans began to roam the city. Even those who didn't know the sage were actively involved in various revolutionary endeavors.

The Seine, like the Thames flowing through London, bisects Paris in two.

The young man wasn't sure if there was coffee on the Left Bank; he only knew that where he lived was near the Right Bank, very close to the San Antonio district.

The Bastille is located in this area. The common people on this street are mostly workers or craftsmen, stubborn and radical, long accustomed to self-governance, with their own militia, and the revolutionary atmosphere is stronger than elsewhere.

To deliver supplies to the prison from here, you don't need to go through any particularly respectable places.

But he's different. He lives in the Bielf district, which is almost halfway across the city.

So he walked along the road by the Seine, crossed several bridges, and made several turns, and the scenery around him gradually changed.

The road has become wider and cleaner, and the buildings on both sides have changed from gray stone houses to mansions with balconies, carved railings, and velvet curtains hanging in the windows.

The smell of bread and river water in the air had changed, turning into an indescribable, slightly sweet aroma.

This is the Champs-Élysées.

Just like Westminster in London, this is a famous affluent area in all of Paris.

The young people here have slowed down their pace.

This street didn't seem to be in the same city as the one he lived on. The streetlights were made of copper, with one every few steps, and they were said to be fueled by phlogiston, illuminating the entire street like daytime at night.

The road surface was so smooth it looked as if it had been measured with a ruler, and the shop windows on both sides displayed things he couldn't name.

Occasionally, a horse-drawn carriage would pass by, its body gleaming, its horseshoes striking the stone slabs with a crisp sound.

He saw two pyrite lamps standing at the entrance of a mansion, their shades made of frosted glass and their bases engraved with patterns. The lamps were lit, and the blue flames were particularly striking in the twilight.

"The wealthy have possessed alchemical technology for centuries —"

The young man withdrew his gaze, lowered his head, and continued walking. He adjusted the bundle on his back, muttering to himself, "After so many years, we commoners finally have our own sage. I hope this sage from the East will be able to safely overcome this calamity."

As he spoke, he turned around and suddenly brushed past a woman.

The woman was wearing a plain-colored long dress with a large overcoat over it, and a hat with the brim pulled low over her head.

She was carrying a basket containing several gardening tools: pruning shears, a small shovel, and a roll of hemp rope, making her look like a gardener from some noble family.

He walked at a moderate pace, not even glancing at the young people as they passed by.

The young man didn't notice her.

He carried his bundle and continued walking along the Champs-Élysées, his figure gradually disappearing in the direction leading to the Bastille.

But the woman walked a dozen steps and then suddenly stopped.

She stood there, looking back. Under the brim of her hat, a pair of eyes were fixed on the young man's back, watching him cross the street corner, turn into another road, and disappear into the shadows of the buildings.

Then she turned around and stopped in front of an iron gate. The gate was larger than the storefronts of the shops on the street, and a lamp was lit on each of the stone pillars on either side, even though it was not yet dusk.

She didn't knock, but just stood at the door for a few seconds before the door opened from the inside.

The woman who opened the door was not very old. She was dressed in appropriate, even somewhat luxurious, home clothes, and her hair was neatly combed and quite elegant.

"Miss Isabella—Miss Ilan." She saw the person standing at the door and immediately showed surprise on her face, then hurriedly welcomed her in.

Isabella, carrying gardening tools, entered the room and handed the basket to the servant who came to greet her.

Here, she glanced back at the door one last time. The lights of the Champs-Élysées had already formed a thin line, and the young man's figure had long since disappeared in the direction leading to the Bastille.

As she turned around, her appearance under the hat was finally revealed, showing a head of neatly braided, reddish-brown hair pinned up at the back of her head.

The face beneath that hair looked to be in its early twenties, with fair skin, bright eyes, and an inexplicably noble appearance.

But the expression on her face was completely different from that of an ordinary noblewoman. She lacked the air of someone raised in seclusion, and she didn't have the affected maturity of someone who was forced into maturity.

Looking at Isabella on the street, his back was straight and his gaze was calm, making him appear exceptionally capable.

"The Eastern sage of the Bastille?" she murmured, as if talking to herself.

Then she turned around and followed the woman into the depths of the mansion.

Vurban was awakened by the pain in his face.

-

It was the kind of pain that felt like your whole face had been rubbed against a stone slab.

He tried to raise his hand to touch his face, but he couldn't lift it at all. He then realized that a thick rope was digging almost into the flesh of his wrist.

He glanced down and saw that his hands were bound tightly with complicated knots, far more professional than the guards from before.

He was suddenly startled, recalling his location and situation. He looked up and saw Zhang Chang'an standing by the stove, his back to him, holding a knife in his hand.

The fire in the kitchen had gone out, leaving only a few glowing embers in the stove, casting a dark red glow over half the room. Several bowls and an earthenware basin sat on the stove. Zhang Chang'an rubbed the knife against the sharpening rod a couple of times, then turned around.

Vurban shrank back, his back hitting the wall.

"What are you going to do?" His voice was weak, as if it were being squeezed out of his throat.

Zhang Chang'an didn't answer, but walked over with the knife in his hand, squatted down, and put the things on the ground.

The knife rested on the edge of the basin, its blade reflecting the red glow of the charcoal fire, flashing intermittently.

Vurban stared at the knife, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets.

He remembered the feeling of that hand pressing on his face, the force, and the oppressive feeling that he couldn't resist.

He had fought countless battles and stabbed countless people in his life, from Lyon to Paris, from the streets to prison, but he had never seen that kind of power.

Add to that Zhang Chang'an's strange expressionless state and this odd preparation work.

"Who exactly are you?" Vurban's voice shrieked. "Are you a cultist from the East?! You...!"