The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Chapter 193 Marie Antoinette

Isabella's brows were furrowed. Her small face, which had never shown fear or anxiety when being chased, now revealed a strong sense of disgust and a slight fear.

Shifting your gaze away from the device and looking back along the hose, you see that it didn't grow out of the alchemy apparatus, but rather came in from somewhere else.

At the other end of the device are several flexible tubes of the same thickness, which are then connected to six metal boxes that are neatly lined up along the wall opposite the bed.

Each one is about the length and half the height of a person, shaped like a coffin, with a brass outer shell and a surface covered with transmutation array patterns that extend from the lid to the bottom.

Near the head of the container, there was a rectangular glass window, about the size of a palm, with thick glass and lead strips sealing the edges. The outline of a human face could be vaguely seen inside.

Behind those glass windows were the faces of young girls. Their ages ranged from their teens to their early twenties; some had their eyes tightly closed, while others had their eyes wide open, their pupils shrinking to the size of pinpoints.

Their skin was grayish-white, and many of them had a layer of dark red, spiderweb-like patterns that spread from their cheeks to their necks and disappeared below their collars.

Numerous tiny, or clump-like, red crystals were scattered across their foreheads, jawbones, and chins, sharp and reflecting the moonlight, sending chills down one's spine.

Every face showed extreme pain, their expressions contorted in agony.

Their brows were furrowed, with three deep furrows between their eyebrows. Some had their mouths open, their lips trembling as if they were shouting silently. Others had their faces covered in a liquid that was hard to tell whether it was saliva or tears.

Their breaths created layers upon layers of thin mist on the inside of the glass window.

Isabella's fingers slowly tightened on the relief, the stone-carved lilies leaving white marks in her palm.

The girls' bodies were gradually turning pale, the flesh beneath their skin was shrunken and shrinking, their collarbones were protruding from their necklines, and their faces were becoming extremely thin, resembling several corpses.

The soft tubes inserted into their bodies continued to draw tube after tube of blood.

"The Marquis de La Motte," a noblewoman's voice, trailing off softly, came from behind the curtains.

"Yes," de la Motte replied immediately.

"Have I regained my youth?"

Upon hearing this, De Lamot bowed slightly, and very naturally and skillfully placed his right hand on his chest, palm against the chest of his robe, fingers together.

"Of course, Queen Marie Antoinette."

95

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After spending so many days in the underground laboratory, Zhang Chang'an finally gained some new privileges.

Although he still couldn't participate in the purification experiments and hadn't yet accessed the deepest secrets of the Philosopher's Stone experiment, the guards here no longer prevented him from seeing some of the experimental subjects that they hadn't previously allowed him to.

"I've always found it strange that I can freely interact with test subjects of Ciel's caliber, but not with these seemingly ordinary test subjects—"

The dark cell was at the end of the deepest side passage. The cadmium lamps didn't even reach this point. The only light source was the dim, yellowish glow from the lamp at the end of the corridor, which made the whole room look like a half-filled swamp.

Zhang Chang'an slowly squatted down, his gaze falling on the huddled figures on the ground.

They huddled in the corner, some squeezed together, some collapsed on the ground alone, each in a different posture, but all with the same empty expression on their faces.

They were girls, all no older than twenty, with chapped lips. Some had dried saliva at the corners of their mouths, while others had bits of food stuck to their lips, indistinguishable as food scraps or dried scabs.

Their breathing was shallow, their chests barely rising and falling, but their ribcages were trembling slightly, as if something was struggling inside, yet being suppressed.

Their skin was grayish-white, with bluish veins branching out like rivers on a map. Their arms were covered with needle marks, densely packed, some scabbed over, others red and swollen, arranged in a line along the veins from their wrists to their elbows.

The clothes were uniform gray prison skirts, but the original color was no longer visible. They were covered with large patches of bloodstains, which had hardened and shone after drying. New bloodstains were placed on top of the old ones, layer upon layer.

Zhang Chang'an reached out and gently pulled open the collar of the girl closest to him.

Below the collarbone, there was a dark red line, not a wound, but a line emerging from under the skin, spreading outwards like tree roots. It had already caused that area of ​​skin to slowly harden and was about to crystallize.

"Now it seems that it's not that it's impossible, but that it's unnecessary."

Zhang Chang'an said in a low voice, his words barely echoing in the empty cell, "The fate of these people was already sealed long ago; there's no need for stability—"

These people all experienced a portion of the Philosopher's Stone's transmutation reaction, but they will never undergo a formal change.

Those substances were like parasites living inside them, causing them just as much pain. Wounds tore open on their bodies, subcutaneous tissue slowly rotted, and blood vessels were gradually eroded.

But their condition will remain stagnant forever; it won't deteriorate to the point of madness, but it will never improve either, until they are transported away and drained dry.

Zhang Chang'an took out several syringes from the cloth bag at his waist. They were glass-bodied and had thin, short needles.

The medicine was prepared in advance, using the same formula as the one used on Charles, but at a much lower concentration, because these people's bodies are more fragile and cannot withstand strong medicine.

He held the syringe in the best light, using the dim yellow light coming in from the corridor to push the air out of the needle.

A drop of medicine seeped from the needle tip, gleaming with an amber glow in the light.

He grasped the first girl's arm, which was as thin as a withered twig, with skin loosely wrapped around her bones. When the needle pierced her, she didn't react at all, not even flinching.

He quickly pulled out the needle, pressed a cotton ball against the puncture site. The cotton ball was soaked in alcohol and felt cool; it should have been a little irritating to her skin, but she remained motionless, her eyes half-open, with nothing in her pupils.

The second one is the same, and the third one is the same.

No one turned to look at him, no one spoke, no one made a sound.

Their muscles may have relaxed a little, and the impurities in their bodies may have calmed down a bit.

However, they still just huddled in the corner, sprawled on the ground, like a few old things that had been carelessly tossed there and hadn't been disposed of yet.

Zhang Chang'an knew that many of the girls' bodily functions had stopped functioning, which was why he had to administer the medication via injection.

Zhang Chang'an put away the last syringe, squatted down in front of them, and scanned their empty faces with his gaze.

He had already guessed a lot about these people's conditions when he first gained access to view detailed experimental records.

Knowing something is one thing, seeing it with your own eyes is another.

Zhang Chang'an couldn't bear to look at the situation before him any longer, but with his eyes closed, his psychic senses automatically expanded, and what he captured was—

"Sister, it's so dark here—"

Laurent—don't forget me—

"Mommy, it hurts so much—"

One thought after another slowly flooded into his mind through the psychic connection.

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