The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Chapter 185 Captain Louis's New Prisoner

Not directly in front, but to the side and behind. Zhang Chang'an's senses and peripheral vision caught a glimpse of a figure flashing around the corner of the stairwell before disappearing back into the shadows.

His psychic perception had returned to normal after the effects of the medicine wore off. Although he no longer had the ability to penetrate walls like he did with telepathy, he could still sense the presence of living beings within a radius of a dozen steps.

The person had been following him for some time, starting when he came out of the underground entrance, maintaining a distance of about ten steps, neither too close nor too far, and following him very carefully.

However, Zhang Chang'an did not turn around or slow down. His spiritual senses spread out in the darkness and captured the outline of that person.

He was tall and had something hanging from his waist. He walked with heavy steps, each step firm and deliberate, but it was clearly not the light, patrolling stride of an ordinary guard. It seemed more like he was following someone with a purpose.

Of course, this man was well-equipped and should indeed be a guard. The outline of the metal at his waist was clearly visible, and he had several features that distinguished him from ordinary guards. This indicated: "His equipment is as good as Antoine's; he's not an ordinary guard. He's a guard captain-level figure, but not one of the few I know—"

Antoine doesn't walk at this pace, and the other tower captains wouldn't be near the underground entrance at this time either.

Zhang Chang'an continued walking forward, neither quickening his pace nor turning. He turned into the corridor leading to his cell, his footsteps echoing in the empty passage.

The person behind him was still following, the distance and the pace unchanged, like a dog tethered to the other end of a rope, hanging at a distance that was neither too close nor too far.

He stopped in front of his cell, took out his key, inserted it into the lock, and turned it.

As he pushed open the door, he glanced down the corridor out of the corner of his eye. A small patch of clothing peeked out from around the corner; it was dark blue, the same color as the guards' uniforms, but the fabric was thicker than the regular uniforms, and the collar had a metallic sheen.

The door closed behind him. Zhang Chang'an placed the iron box on the table without turning on the light.

He stood in the darkness, his psychic senses penetrating the wooden door to detect movements in the corridor. The man stood at the corner for a moment, then took a few steps forward, paused at his cell door, and continued walking. The footsteps faded into the distance, disappearing at the end of the corridor.

Zhang Chang'an leaned against the table, arms crossed, and stood in the darkness for a long time.

The man's emblem was still etched in his mind: "So it was that guy named Louis—he really is a mad dog."

Captain Louis stopped at the corner of the corridor.

He didn't stop on his own. There stood a man in front of him, wearing a dark blue guard uniform, without the trim of a captain on the cuffs and collar; he was just an ordinary guard.

The man jogged over from the other end of the corridor, panting, and stopped two steps in front of him, bending slightly, looking like he had something to say but was hesitant to speak. But it was precisely because this man had arrived that he stopped following Zhang Chang'an.

"Captain Louis," the guard called out his name.

Louis turned around. He was tall, his uniform was impeccably pressed, the top brass button on his collar fastened, and the longsword at his waist was polished to a gleaming shine, the emblem on its scabbard gleaming with a dark gold light under the phlogiston lamp.

His face was long and thin, with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, a nose bridge that looked like a knife-cut line, and thin lips that were almost invisible when he pursed them.

Her dark brown hair was neatly combed, parted in the middle, and slicked back along her forehead. Too much hair wax was applied, giving it a greasy sheen under the light.

He was the captain of the guards in Tower Three, sharing the same surname as King Louis XVI, and was indeed of noble birth. His title, however, was not high; by the time it reached him, it was merely an empty shell.

But his lineage was undeniable, and he still possessed considerable wealth; the farmers in his territory still had to bow their heads before him.

The guard straightened up, glanced in the direction Louis had just come from, and then quickly looked away.

That direction leads to the corridor where Zhang Chang'an's cell is located.

"Captain, you've come to see Zhang again—oh no, that prisoner." The guard's voice was low, with a rising tone at the end, cautiously probing.

Louis pressed his lips down slightly. His lips were already thin, and when he pressed them down, they almost became a line.

"This man is becoming increasingly arrogant, relying on his help to Warden Lamot and the favors he has with Antoine's guards."

His voice wasn't loud, but he enunciated each word clearly, like carving characters on a stone slab with a knife, each stroke precise and unambiguous.

The guard hunched his shoulders.

"Are you referring to—the same thing as before?"

"That incident serves as a model." Louis placed his right hand on the hilt of his sword, pressing his thumb against the emblem on the pommel until his knuckles turned white. "Vurban and his gang certainly needed punishment, but it wasn't his place to do it. I was just about to transfer them to my tower. What right does a prisoner like him have to resort to vigilante justice?"

His tone was flat, like he was reciting a prison rule. But the coldness squeezed out from between his teeth was more unbearable than a shout.

"And then there's his usual behavior," Louis continued, shifting his gaze from the guards to the closed wooden door at the end of the corridor. "Walking around the prison outside of designated hours and illegally taking items from the prison. The warden has never given him that much authority. But it's insignificant; those people know him, so nobody bothers him."

The guard opened his mouth, then closed it again. His expression made it clear—even so, it didn't seem to matter much.

Captain Antoine didn't say anything, nor did the other tower captains. A prisoner walking around the prison, taking things, wasn't bothering anyone.

Louis read his expression. He removed his thumb from the pommel, closed his fingers, and gripped the hilt firmly.

“You’re not one of my men, so you wouldn’t understand,” he said, lowering his voice, but the lower tone was more chilling than the higher one: “That’s because the most hopeless prisoners are locked in my tower. My men and I share the same thought.”

His gaze fell on the guard's face, neither fierce nor harsh, just staring straight at him. The guard took a half step back, his heel striking the stone slab with a soft thud.

Louis did not continue. He withdrew his gaze, lowered his hand from the hilt of his sword, and let it hang at his side.

"So what do you want me to do?"

The guard swallowed hard, his voice still a little unsteady: "Oh, a noble prisoner with privileges has arrived. According to the rules, he needs to be escorted by the duty captain with his signature."

Louis's eyebrows twitched. He didn't speak, but turned and walked towards the main entrance. His boots pounded heavily on the stone pavement, each step heavy and rhythmic, like a metronome.

In the main hall of the prison, all the fuel lamps were on, making it as bright as day.

A woman stood in the center of the hall, followed by three servants. A male servant carrying a suitcase lagged behind and was jogging to catch up.

She was wearing a deep purple velvet dress with a low neckline, but the fabric was of exceptionally high quality. When the light shone on it, the surface of the velvet shimmered with a soft sheen, like an oil film floating on the surface of deep water.

The skirt was wide, with a rounded and full curve, and the hem was trimmed with a circle of dark gold lace with an intricate pattern that was dazzling to the eye.

The waist was cinched tightly, highlighting an almost unreal thin waistline. The cuffs and collar were adorned with pearls, small but round and lustrous, gleaming softly white under the light.

She wore a small hat with two feathers, one white and one gray, tucked into the brim, trembling slightly. Her gloves were white, reaching to her elbows, with fine silver embroidery on the fingers, each finger bearing a different design.

She stood there, her back ramrod straight, her chin slightly raised, her gaze sweeping from one end of the hall to the other, as if she were examining a less-than-ideal item.

The guards stood at their posts, their backs straighter than usual. Two of them were whispering to each other, but were nudged by the elbow of someone next to them and immediately shut up.

The woman turned her head and glanced behind her. The male servant carrying the suitcase finally caught up, panting, the suitcase dangling from his hands. The woman frowned slightly, looking impatient, but didn't get angry.

"Hurry up, Isabella." Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly in the empty hall, with a natural volume that didn't need to be raised to be heard by everyone. "It's late, I want to rest."

The servant named Isabella quickened her pace, switched the trunk from her right hand to her left, and, head bowed, stood behind the woman. She wore a plain gray dress, made of better material than the other servants, but standing next to her mistress, she looked like a drab gray wall.

Her face was mostly covered by the brim of her hat, revealing only a pointed chin and a pair of drooping eyes.

She carried a box in her hand, her knuckles slightly white from the effort, but her posture was steady, and her back was straight, unlike the other servants who had slightly hunched shoulders.

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