The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

London, the editorial office of The Times.

"What's going on?" The editor-in-chief, who was woken up in the middle of the night, was already used to breaking news.

The Times was founded a long time ago and specializes in reporting all kinds of news and current events, so timeliness is life for them.

His reporters immediately placed some documents in front of him:

"Something happened at a station in Westminster. A few thugs tried to smuggle a stolen horse out of town, but it turned out the horse belonged to Member of Parliament William. He hired a Chinese man who single-handedly beat up a dozen thugs and rode the horse back home in broad daylight."

The editor-in-chief rubbed his temples, somewhat helplessly: "What is this, some kind of mysterious Eastern martial art?"

Did you know that the legislator for the Riverside Street constituency has recently been using anti-immigrant rhetoric as a campaign slogan? Our next front page will be about the recent xenophobic protests.

The reporter was quite exasperated, stating, "Congressman William doesn't want us to promote this person; he wants to promote..."

Moreover, the advertising fee he paid was twice that of the one on Riverside Street.

The editor-in-chief listened, and his expression finally cleared up a bit: "If that's the case, I understand. Then let's remove the original front page and rush out a new one."

This left the reporter bewildered: "Should we just leave?"

The editor-in-chief said helplessly, "His request to publish this article requires some mysterious force to insist on it. That Chinese person is quite good, but publishing him would be inappropriate if it were to promote xenophobia."

The reporter fell silent, but the editor-in-chief seemed unfazed, calmly tossing another stack of old documents into the trash can.

"Take it easy. Anyway, Riverside Street will just think it was William's idea. It's just a business deal. You and I are Jewish, and we were planning to help spread xenophobic messages before."

………………

"Clang." The two clinked their glasses. After a sip of whiskey, Zhang Chang'an was no longer so uncomfortable with the taste of alcohol in this era.

"Crack, crack..." Zhang Chang'an still winced in pain as his shoulder was suddenly twisted: "Uncle Guang, why are you so strong today?"

Uncle Guang, who wore glasses and had very thin hands but a body full of muscles, showed no mercy:

"You went too far. So what if you're a virgin? Hitting someone so hard will leave you with hidden injuries sooner or later."

As he spoke, he pressed down hard on Zhang Chang'an's left arm, and Zhang Chang'an instantly felt the muscles on that side disappear on the spot, and most of his body went numb.

"Hahaha." Zheng Kui, shirtless and wearing only a coat, sat on another medical bed next to Zhang Chang'an, mocking him mercilessly.

"Uncle Guang used to be the sole successor of the Foshan Miaoshoutang family. He was known as Big Guang because he was not only good at massage, but also very good at fighting."

However, he himself had just been beaten up and screamed even more miserably than Zhang Chang'an.

They both ended up with the same result yesterday – big orders and exhausted – so they both need massage and acupressure services today.

"So powerful?" Zhang Chang'an exclaimed in admiration upon hearing about Uncle Guang's exploits back then.

However, he didn't ask about what happened later. Just like Zhang Chang'an's current identity as the Duke of Yongren, he had killed someone and fled to England. Even people from Guangdong and Fujian, going far away from home, is not necessarily their own choice.

Uncle Guang didn't react much. He pressed hard on his back a few times, then slapped a piece of ointment on his hand. Afterward, he walked to the window of the massage room, picked up his pipe, and lit a cigarette.

As soon as the match was lit, a commotion arose from the street below.

"Uncle Guang, what's wrong?" Zheng Kui asked, his expression slightly composed, though he seemed quite alert.

Uncle Guang calmly lit his pipe and then extinguished the match, saying, "It's nothing, just another foreign protest."

After applying the ointment, Zhang Chang'an stood up and stretched, taking the opportunity to look out the window at the spectacular scene below.

Countless London vagrants, old Englishmen with Union Jacks, paraded through the streets carrying various signs and flags.

The propaganda was aimed at driving immigrants out of London.

London in that era was a giant melting pot—for industry, for society, and for the people. Such things were, of course, not uncommon.

Today they strike demanding higher wages, tomorrow they resist taxes to avoid paying. Deporting immigrants is just an old argument.

But Zhang Chang'an and his group don't need to panic at all. These people are making sweeping generalizations; Chinese people are just one group among many that they are excluding.

With such a broad target audience, there is generally no conflict.

Even if it happened once or twice, Charlie Lin of Chinatown wouldn't want his opium den business to be affected, and Zhang Chang'an's company wouldn't be vandalized, so it would be difficult for these foreigners to cause any real damage.

The same applies to other immigrant territories; in the end, they dare not go anywhere, only shouting on ordinary streets, which is roughly equivalent to oral gymnastics.

"I think I saw it a few days ago," Zheng Kui said casually.

Uncle Guang, having been here longer and seen more of the world, remained calm: "All talk and no action, not even a ripple. You guys are better off."

As he spoke, he sighed helplessly, "Back in Foshan, if I got into a fight with someone, I was in big trouble and had to come here. But you guys are different now. People protest and don't even make the newspapers, but when you fight in the street, it gets published and praised."

As he spoke, after lighting a cigarette and putting down the match, he picked up a newspaper from the table next to him.

That's today's Times.

After all, it was already before World War I, and London's media industry was developing rapidly. What happened last night was already being widely reported today.

Just as Zhang Chang'an had expected, the news coverage of his big incident took a different turn than he anticipated.

The photos in the newspapers were neither of the chaotic scene of police arresting thugs on the train after its final stop, nor of a strange, charred corpse suddenly appearing on the streets of Westminster.

The report was a somewhat blurry photo of Zhang Chang'an, with one hand on his hat and the other holding the reins, jumping off the platform on a black horse.

The caption reads: "London Liberal MP William Glaston's racehorse was attacked, but the excellent horse, accompanied by bodyguards, returned safely from the hail of bullets."

It was published in large print on the front page of the newspaper.

As for events like street protests, you can't even find a small box to mention them.

"That's just how foreigners are," Zheng Kui said with a hint of helplessness, though it was unclear whether he was speaking to Uncle Guang or Zhang Chang'an.

This is truly ironic. Thugs used the railway to transport smuggled goods, greatly affecting the safety of passengers on board. Several corpses lay scattered in the streets. Zhang Chang'an was just an extra, not even comparable to the new horse race promoted by the councilor.

"But there are advantages too," Zheng Kui, a man of experience and wisdom, calmly stated.

"William probably bought this horse intending to use it for breeding, but who knows how long it would take to become famous if it were displayed at horse races or auctions. They desperately need your story. Otherwise, where would they get the publicity money?"

That's right, Zhang Chang'an's trip wasn't for nothing. His business was to recover goods, so the 480 pounds mentioned earlier was direct income, not the actual value of the horse.

In addition, since this member of parliament used some of Zhang Chang'an's image and deeds for publicity, the money he transferred clearly included publicity expenses, a full 550 pounds.