The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Chapter 169 Sino-French Co-production: A Series of Poisoning Attacks on Iris

Earlier in the office, when he was negotiating with the warden, his eyes were very sharp, constantly probing and looking for a way to survive, but he was also determined in essence, and he was very confident that he could persuade the warden.

But that was different from his current reaction.

Zhang Chang'an's current firmness stems from a thorough and confident understanding.

"In our Eastern tradition," Zhang Chang'an said, "the ultimate goal of alchemy is to ingest the elixir of immortality and achieve a metamorphosis. In your terms, that's a purification process on the human body at the level of the Philosopher's Stone, completing the final transformation in cultivation. The two are based on the same principle, so I don't need to explain further."

He turned his head, glanced at the masked man, and then at the festering skin and dark red crystals on his body.

"But external alchemy, which involves ingesting external substances, is only one part of it. What you want is to complete the evolution of the Philosopher's Stone through the human body. The more important part is not the equipment or external catalyst, but the person himself."

Upon hearing this, the warden frowned, because this was precisely the problem he had been unable to overcome. The era had troubled him for too long, and even now, just mentioning it made him feel uncomfortable.

He understood this principle, of course. The human body itself contains a lot of impurities, and compared to the help of external forces and materials, self-cultivation makes it easier to digest these impurities.

Moreover, eliminating impurities is a necessary step; otherwise, even if the ratio of useful components in the human body to impurities is 70% to 80% to 1, the experiment will still fail.

"But your alchemy can't do that," Zhang Chang'an said.

The warden did not deny it.

He certainly knew that impurities in the human body should be removed, but their technique could not purify a person to the stage of imminent transformation while ensuring that the person was still alive, and then carry out the final transformation.

To put it bluntly, they are still better at dealing with inanimate objects. They can handle matter, like that day, turning that wanderer directly into a pool of wanderers.

However, it is not adept at dealing with living, breathing human bodies that are constantly generating new impurities. There are simply too many variables involved, far beyond their predictability and control.

Direct extraction would only cause the human body structure to collapse, turning the person into raw material.

So he has always treated people as raw materials, mixing them with other materials, catalyzing them, and producing reactions.

With the help of the materials he threw in and the machines, the impurities in the human body were burned off during the transformation process, and only the usable parts were extracted.

However, they have never been able to achieve 100% impurity removal. And this is due to the various rejection reactions from these impurities and the human body itself.

The amount of computation in the experiment is increasing day by day, but the results are decreasing day by day.

"Unless you can find someone who is willing to dedicate themselves and is only one step away from the final transformation, and you also need to have an insane understanding of their physical structure to find the most suitable way for them to transform, you can only keep piling on the materials."

As Zhang Chang'an spoke, he shook his head, turned around, walked to the blackboard, picked up the chalk, and wrote a long list of herbal names in the blank space.

Some are from the East, and some are Western alternatives that he found in the library these past few days.

That was his answer.

External alchemy, as a practice that involves applying external substances to the body, is characterized by the idea that simply taking medicine can erase any gaps in one's spiritual development.

Therefore, as long as enough herbs are provided, the experimental subject's own bodily response can simultaneously achieve a stable state and remove impurities.

After he finished writing, he also drew a picture below.

This diagram was the one that consumed the most of his time.

That wasn't a transmutation array, but a cross-sectional sketch of a device. The structure looked simple, after all, it was just a sketch, yet it was distinct and rather strange, at least to the warden.

It was a roughly circular metal cavity, molded as a single piece except for the top cover, without any extra seams.

The problem is that, despite this sturdy structure, there are several clearly visible openings. They are not valves, not pipe joints, but rather open vents that run from the outer wall all the way to the inner cavity.

The warden stood behind him, staring at the sketch, stunned.

"Is this a... stove?"

In the dead of night in Paris, even a fireplace to keep warm in the slums is hard to light. In the narrow alleys of the Saint-Antoine district, families huddle together in a corner wrapped in the same blanket to spend the night, the wind blowing in through the window feeling like knives.

But in the mansions of the nobility, lamps burned all night long. Even on nights without banquets or balls, the lamps still illuminated the entire residence.

The light leaking from the window shone brightly on the stone pavement, making it look as if it hadn't been cleaned during the day.

When the Marquis de La Motte stepped down from his carriage, the area in front of the Valier Mansion was already in complete chaos.

The servants huddled together from the gate to the steps. Some stood whispering to each other, some squatted in the corner wiping away tears, and several young maids hugged each other, their shoulders shaking with sobs.

The butler stood at the top of the steps and shouted a few words, but his voice was completely swallowed by the noise; no one listened to him at all.

-

The head maid, accompanied by several older female servants, weaved through the crowd, pulling and tugging at one another, barely managing to maintain order, though her face was pale.

Under these circumstances, the warden walked up the steps alone.

He was still wearing a dark robe, the patterns and designs of which were not particularly elaborate, and the material was not particularly luxurious; it was simply a clean black robe.

But when he stood on the steps, the whole cacophony seemed to be choked, sinking down layer by layer until only the distant, nasal sound of someone sobbing remained.

Those who had been whispering fell silent, those crouching in the corner looked up, and several maids parted their huddled group to glance in their direction. No one spoke, and no one moved.

Upon seeing this, the butler immediately ran down the steps, so fast that he almost stepped on his own robe.

He stopped two steps away from the warden, bent over, unsure of what to do with his hands, finally tucking them into his sleeves, his voice low and filled with fear.

"My lord, you've arrived. We are truly..."

"Let's go inside and talk."

The warden walked past him at a leisurely pace. The butler quickly followed, lagging half a step behind, his back still bent.

"When did the Marquis of Valier have his accident?"

"After I went to bed last night. I don't know the exact time, but the servant discovered it when he went in to add fuel to the fireplace. It was already..."

"Has the body been moved?"

"No, no. The physicians and alchemists in the manor have all come to look, but they only looked and didn't do anything. They've been waiting for you, sir."

The warden walked into the hall, where the pyrotechnic lights overhead illuminated the marble floor, casting reflections on the floor.

The walls on both sides are adorned with portraits of the Valier family heads throughout history, from the time of Charlemagne to the present, one after another, the eyes in the paintings seeming to follow the figures under the light.

The Marquis de Vallier was a true nobleman with a sword, unlike the later nobles who bought their positions and the newly rich. He was a true nobleman of France.

"The killer's identity has been confirmed."

Upon hearing this, the butler paused, lowering his voice even further.

"It was—the murderer, it must have been—our Madame Valier. She personally delivered dinner to the Marquis last night."

The bottle of poison was found in the fireplace in her room. The alchemist had already restored it, confirming it was the one that contained the poison.

Q

The warden neither stopped nor looked back.

Where is she?

"We've locked her up in the side hall. We didn't dare touch her, nor did we dare let her escape. We're just keeping her locked up, waiting for you, sir, to handle the situation."

The warden asked no further questions. The butler followed him through the hall, up the stairs, and down the corridor.

The further you went in, the heavier the air became, and even the light from the cadmium lamps seemed dull. The door at the end of the corridor was open, and two guards stood in the doorway. When they saw the warden approaching, they stepped aside.

The bedroom was large, with the bed in the center and thick satin curtains hanging on all four sides, which were gathered up and tied to the bedposts.

Marquis de Vallier lay awkwardly on the bed.

His upper body was slightly raised, his head tilted back, and his hands were digging into his throat, his fingers bent at an impossible angle, as if he wanted to pull something out of his throat before he died.

His face was bluish-purple, his lips were black, and there were traces of dried white foam at the corners of his mouth, which flowed down his chin and neck.

There was some on my neck too, wet, mixed with the white foam, reflecting the light.

Large, yellowish water stains, emitting a sour, rotten smell, wafted from his open mouth, as if he had vomited water for a long time before he died.

Its veins are black. Starting from the neck, they run down the collarbone, appearing as black lines under the skin, like the forks of a tree branch, stopping at the chest. They're also on the back of the hands, creeping up from under the nails to the wrists.

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