The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Chapter 187 Tofana Elixir

"Mr. Zhang." His voice was still hoarse and husky, like stone grinding stone. "Everything you need to collect is here."

Zhang Chang'an took it, unwrapped the oil paper, and inside were several neatly folded sheets of letter paper.

He didn't move, standing right by the cave entrance, using the light from the laboratory behind him to unfold the document for observation. Quasimodo stood beside him, leaning on his cane, motionless, like a tree stump growing in the darkness.

"So," Zhang Chang'an said, looking down as he flipped through the papers, "the situation is pretty much as I guessed, right?"

Quasimodo's head twitched slightly, his neck stretched forward, then retracted. The movement looked particularly clumsy on his deformed body, as if something was stuck in his spine.

"Yes," he said, his voice still the same, but with something more in his tone, like admiration, or some simpler, indescribable emotion: "You really are a very intelligent person. At that time, my adoptive father, the archdeacon of Notre Dame, and anyone else in Paris, probably weren't as intelligent as you."

Even though I'm in prison, you guessed absolutely right.

Zhang Chang'an didn't say anything more, his gaze falling on the letter, scanning it line by line.

"How else could we possibly predict the direction of development? Isn't that all written in history books?"

He had learned about Marat's death back in modern times. The Jacobin mouthpiece, a radical revolutionary, was stabbed to death in his bathtub by a Girondin sympathizer.

After this incident, the Jacobins were bound to rise up, using it as an opportunity to purge their political enemies and further destabilize an already chaotic Paris. The infighting among revolutionary factions and the increasing disorder among the populace were predictable, even with one's eyes closed.

He had the people from the Palace of Miracles verify it, and it was indeed correct. It was written clearly on the letter.

After Mara's death, the Jacobins seized control of many guilds and organizations among the people. Although they were only at the lower levels and did not have any real power over the royal family, they did launch a large-scale manhunt against the Girondins.

Panic gripped the streets of Paris, prices soared, and life became even harder for ordinary people than before.

You don't even need to read the letters; just look at how many fewer people have been sending him supplies these past two days. Those ordinary people can't even feed themselves, let alone send surplus food to the prison.

Of course, this wasn't the main focus of his investigation into Mara's death.

Mara was stabbed to death, a knife through the chest, in the bathtub. That's what the newspapers should have written, and that's what history records.

But the newspapers a few days ago clearly reported it as poisoning. That's not right. Mara's death was a political assassination, rooted in the factional struggle between the Jacobins and Girondins.

Those serial murders of nobles are a different matter altogether; those involved women killing men, wives killing husbands, and daughters killing fathers. The motives, methods, and goals of these two cases are all different. Forcing a connection between them only shows that someone is deliberately trying to confuse the public.

He turned the letter to the next few pages, his finger pausing on the edge of the paper. There was something else in the envelope—not the letter, but a smaller, neatly folded piece of paper tucked between the letter and the bottom of the envelope. He pulled it out and unfolded it.

It was a flyer. The paper was thin, almost transparent, and the words were printed very roughly. The edges of the paper were rough, and it didn't look like something from a regular printing factory. It looked more like it was printed secretly in a workshop.

The paper itself has a faint fragrance, not the smell of ink, but some kind of fragrance mixed into the pulp. It smells like gardenia or tuberose, sweet, mixed with the smell of ink, and it's hard to say whether it's fragrant or foul.

He could smell it immediately; it seemed like it could be slipped into a perfume bottle or similar container and delivered to various important teams or other important items.

He brought it closer and saw the words on it clearly.

Tofana Elixir. Helps you break free from your cage.

The smaller print below is crudely printed, and some characters are blurred, but it's still roughly legible. It's colorless, odorless, and undetectable. Safe and reliable, we are just like you; you can trust us.

Below that was an address in an alley in the San Antoine district. He had heard of that alley; it was full of small shops selling perfumes and cosmetics—things for women.

He flipped the flyer over; the back was blank. He flipped it back again and stared at the few lines of text for a few seconds.

"Topana Elixir — I feel like I vaguely remember it."

Zhang Chang'an held up the flyer and waved it at Quasimodo.

"Is this the organization's flyer?"

Quasimodo nodded. The movement seemed labored on his deformed body; his neck stretched forward and then retracted, as if something was stuck in his spine.

"Clopan and his team went to great lengths to get it."

He said, his voice hoarse and husky, but he enunciated each word clearly: "This organization appeared in Paris about three months ago. Their direction has always been consistent: to help aristocratic ladies fight against domestic abusers and persecutors, and to poison their husbands, fathers, and even their offspring."

Their methods have always been consistent: they use items that only they would come into contact with, such as jewelry, cosmetics, perfumes, and clothing—things that their husbands and fathers would never even glance at—to insert these flyers for advertising.

Their members are also found among the female artisans who produce these items, or among the nobility. Then comes further contact, using their own methods to investigate and confirm that those people have indeed been persecuted.

Then they would give those noblewomen a specially made alchemical poison, Tofana Elixir, so that they could successfully, so-called, escape their cages.

Zhang Chang'an lowered his head and continued to flip through the remaining intelligence. The paper was covered with dense writing, detailing the organization's operating methods, membership composition, communication channels, and even a list of several members whose identities had been confirmed.

Every detail was far more comprehensive than the few rough lines on the flyer.

He flipped to the last page, closed the paper, and looked up at Quasimodo. "But they never get involved in revolutionary matters, right?"

Quasimodo nodded again. "Most of the people they poisoned were buried in the manner of nobles or the wealthy, in suburban cemeteries or other more upscale graveyards."

But a very small number, one or two, ended up in the catacombs. They were all people who had absolutely no connection to the revolution. By the way, I can send them over if you need them.”

Zhang Chang'an shook his head. "I don't need it. Even Lamote couldn't detect the components of those things, so naturally I can't either, and there's no need to investigate. I'm just asking to confirm."

He lowered his gaze, looking at the stack of papers in his hand that had already been flipped through, and mentally reviewed the information again.

Therefore, this incident is most likely not the work of this organization, but rather more likely the work of the nobles or royal family at the top.

Disrupting the revolutionaries is an obvious tactic. Creating conflict and diverting attention from contradictions is an old trick. Even if it's not the main objective, it can kill two birds with one stone, causing the restless revolutionaries to fight amongst themselves.

If it weren't for the intervention of those in higher-ups, those reports wouldn't have contained so much genuine inside information, nor would they have been so highly influential.

The main purpose, of course, is to lure the snake out of its hole. If they were pinned on this crime, these girls would be in big trouble.

The public is watching closely, the nobility is on high alert; the more chaotic the situation, the easier it is for them to slip up. Even—the revolutionary factions might turn against them. Although the Jacobins are not in power at this time, they are no pushovers.

This is most likely something done by the people investigating the Free Iris organization, or even by the warden himself.

After all, the alchemical potion of the Iris of Freedom is not something that can be easily imitated, and only they have such methods.

He smiled, gathered the stack of letters in his hand, closed his fingers, and tightened his grip slightly. Instant Alchemy unfolded in his palm; the edges of the papers curled, yellowed, charred, and finally turned into a cloud of black ash, drifting away between his fingers.

He looked up at Quasimodo.

"Please continue to handle the matters I previously assigned. That is indeed quite difficult, thank you for your help."

Quasimodo bowed slightly to him, leaned on his long wooden staff with the bell attached, and turned to walk back into the dark depths of the cave. The bell jingled twice, then disappeared into the darkness.

Zhang Chang'an turned around and placed his hand on the rock wall that was sealed with alchemy. The wall trembled slightly.

The rocks and rammed earth that he had grown using ritual alchemy seemed to come alive and receded to both sides, revealing a gap just big enough for one person to pass through.

He squeezed through sideways, and the wall behind him automatically closed, restoring itself to the original, perfectly sealed rammed earth wall.

The fluorescent lights in the corridor were on, and the firelight from the niche cast his shadow on the vaulted ceiling, making it flicker.

He walked along the corridor toward his laboratory, his pace neither fast nor slow, the metal box swaying gently in his hands.

He reached out to push the door open as he walked to the laboratory door.

Before he even touched the door, a hand suddenly reached out from inside. The hand, covered in iron armor, with its five fingers spread wide, lunged menacingly towards him.

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