The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Chapter 183 Mara's Fancy Ways of Death: Assassinating a Nobleman

Morel pointed to a small section of the newspaper: "It says here. In the first case where the murderer was caught, the bottle containing the poison was restored, and the stopper was engraved with an iris emblem."

It's unclear whether the killer left it intentionally or it fell accidentally. So, the people of tomorrow will call this organization "The Free Iris."

Zhang Chang'an narrowed his eyes slightly.

He quickly went through all the information he had just heard in his mind—

Marat's death was a historical event he could have known without needing newspapers or anyone else's description.

In late 18th-century France, during the 1890s, this was a rare major news event following the deaths of both King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette, and the reason for this death was this very person.

In this timeline, Mara, a member of the Jacobin faction, is merely a mouthpiece and voice for one of the three major revolutionary factions.

However, historically, after King Louis XVI was beheaded, France briefly fell into the hands of Lord Lafayette's constitutional monarchists.

However, they were also nobles, so they did not live long. During this period, the most radical revolutionaries, the Jacobins, eventually gained control of Paris.

The leader was named Robespierre, and Marat was his right-hand man. The conflict with the Girondins was far more complex than that.

As a relatively moderate bourgeois revolutionary faction, the Girondins behind the female assassin Corday were essentially his mortal enemies.

Because the Jacobins make it sound nice, calling themselves the voice of the workers and revolutionaries, but in reality, just looking at their methods, they are practically thugs.

Historically, after Marat's death, the Jacobins wanted to use his death as a pretext for propaganda, which resulted in the world-famous painting, The Death of Marat.

He lay in the bathtub, holding a pen and paper in his hand, on which was a petition to secure some child support funds for a widow and her orphan.

But this is actually quite different from historical fact.

As the newspapers reported, he agreed to meet the female assassin because she said she had a list of Girondins.

Given their methods, once they obtain this list, even if they are not in power in this timeline, these people are likely to meet a grim fate.

But this is historical information, and the truth of this era, which is not what he should be paying attention to now.

The problem is that, just like in history, Mara is dead, in the bathtub. The assassin is a woman named Corday, from a fallen noble family, who claims to be there to stop a greater carnage.

However, at the same time, he remembered very clearly that in the historical Marat's death, the murderer stabbed Marat in the chest, killing him instantly. But this Marat was poisoned. There was no such thing as the "Liberty Iris" assassination series in history. He had never seen any historical records of noblewomen poisoning nobles.

How did this organization come about? And what about those cases, especially the case of Mara's death?

He stuffed the last piece of bread into his mouth, chewing slowly, his eyes fixed on the newspaper in Morrel's hand, his mind racing.

The newspaper reports didn't match history. This indicated at least two things: first, the timeline of this Paris rift was more skewed than he had imagined; second, the seemingly unrelated events outside...

Marat's death, the series of assassinations of nobles, and the wanderers of the Palace of Miracles may very well be connected by some thread.

Morel read a few more lines, describing Corday's reaction after her trial.

She was said to be calm and composed in court. She briefly lost her composure after being sentenced to death, but quickly regained her composure and walked to the guillotine with more composure than most men.

"That woman is really bold," George muttered after hearing this.

Zhang Chang'an didn't respond. He leaned against the wall, staring at the small patch of gray sky in the courtyard, lost in thought.

Another night, the phlogiston lamps in the underground laboratory illuminated the crystals on the Iron Mask with a dark red glow.

Zhang Chang'an stood beside the machine, holding a syringe in his hand, the needle already embedded in the last piece of intact skin on the masked man's arm.

The medicine was slowly injected. However, the condition of the man in the iron mask who was receiving the injection was clearly worse than it had been twenty days ago.

The dark red crystals spread to the back of his neck and shoulders, and the crystals on his back even grew into the back of the chair, making it impossible to distinguish where the stone was, where the flesh was, and where the hard, cold-looking crystals were.

Because of this, the warden stopped having him moved to the cell on the ground. He was tied to this chair day and night, and even though the belt had been loosened, he couldn't get up.

When the needle was pulled out, the man in the iron mask was trembling slightly all over. It wasn't from the cold, but a persistent, uncontrollable tremor that seemed to seep from the very bones.

His fingers were curled up, his nails dug into his palms, and his knuckles were white.

-

This was certainly not because of the injected medicine, but simply because his physical condition had worsened, and trembling and pain were his constant companions.

On the contrary, after the medicine was taken in, the trembling gradually subsided, the breathing changed from rapid to calm, the rise and fall of the chest decreased, and the whole person seemed to be released from a taut string, but it was a very forced relaxation, and the tension was still there underneath.

Zhang Chang'an placed the syringe on the tray and looked down at the eyes on the masked man's face that were visible through the eye holes of the mask.

Those grey-blue eyes were half-closed, their eyelids twitching slightly, the focus in their pupils shifting for a moment, then coming back together, shifting again, then coming back together.

The medicine was taking effect, but his body had been tormented for too long, and he couldn't even relax properly.

Zhang Chang'an pulled over a stool and sat down. This had become a habit of his for the past ten days or so.

"That patch on your back has gotten even bigger today," Zhang Chang'an said calmly. "My skills have improved, and I can stabilize your situation now."

He sighed as he spoke, "But this thing is a double-edged sword. I can stay calm, but Dramert dares to push the experiment forward."

Your body is becoming increasingly distorted. If I push upwards further, and he pushes downwards further, half of the pain you experience is caused by me—I'm very sorry.

He paused for a moment: "Those elixirs based on herbs are all very mild in nature. But alchemy emphasizes the balance of the five elements. Even pure herbal elixirs will be tainted with some metal and fire energy during the alchemy process due to the furnace and fire."

"You have too much metal in your body; these pills can't be used all the time."

His meaning was clear. The increasing suffering the Man in the Iron Mask endured was partly due to him.

He couldn't relieve the Man in the Iron Mask's pain as he had promised, or even alleviate it constantly.

The crystals on the back of the masked man and the chair had grown together, and he couldn't even shake his head. But his eyes turned and stared straight at Zhang Chang'an.

"Mr. Zhang," he said, his voice still hoarse, but each word was enunciated clearly: "I come from a small town in Lyon. Even in such a small town, children are taught to remember the good others have done and to look for the reasons in the truly bad people."

"You saved me, I know that. Even without you, de Lamotte would have continued the experiment. My condition would still have worsened, and perhaps even more so without your intervention. I won't blame you."

Zhang Chang'an didn't say anything, but simply laid his hands flat on his knees and stopped tapping with his knuckles.

Indeed, thanks to Zhang Chang'an's tireless efforts, Xia Er has become willing to communicate with him.

A few days ago, after he received his injection, he casually said, "The same time tomorrow," and the man in the iron mask suddenly replied, "Okay."

He uttered just one word, his voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible, but he did say it. From then on, they exchanged a few words each day, gradually increasing to more than ten, and now, after his injection, they can chat for a while.

After reviewing more experimental records, Zhang Chang'an began to understand the man in the iron mask better and better.