The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Chapter 150 Alchemy Civilization

Zhang Chang'an's basic vision and tetrachromatic vision allow him to clearly see any detail in the scene before him.

Robinson's body, starting from the point of contact with that person's palm, underwent a melting reaction like wax melting. His skin, flesh, bones, and all his structures quickly lost their original shape, collapsed, and then produced an evaporating effect.

There was clearly no flame or burnt smell between the two people; all that could be heard in the corridor was a strange, chilling hissing sound.

A few seconds later, all that remained on the ground was a pool of dark red stain and a wisp of smoke rising slowly.

The middle-aged man in the black robe withdrew his hand, took out a handkerchief from his pocket, and gently wiped his palm. Deep in the corridor, the dim yellow oil lamp in his hand illuminated her face, which remained expressionless.

Who's on duty today?

He asked, his voice not loud, but it carried exceptionally loudly in the deathly silent corridor.

Several figures quickly emerged from the darkness; they were the guards carrying strange equipment. They arrived late, but upon arrival, they immediately knelt on one knee.

"Yes—it is us, Marquis Lamot."

Marquis de La Mothe, Zhang Chang'an still remembered that name; he was the warden guarding the gate.

At this moment, his gaze was fixed on the corpses of the guards who had been taken down by Robinson.

"Including these, clean them all up."

"Yes."

The warden threw the handkerchief onto the stain on the ground, then turned and walked toward the stairwell.

In the eerie silence and darkness, he took two steps, then inexplicably stopped and turned his head back. Light pierced through the darkness and fell in a certain direction.

Zhang Chang'an felt a chill run down his spine. He held his breath and quietly shrank back into the cell, silently returning to the wall.

The warden's grey-blue eyes stared straight at him through the darkness, dozens of meters away. Although they didn't meet his gaze directly, the warden's eyes felt like two cold knives.

Judging from his instinctive reaction and fighting spirit, this guy's training level is at least 5% higher than mine.

He pondered, recalling the strange ability the warden had just used.

At this moment, turning to look outside, one could see the guards in the corridor taking out bottles and jars of powder and liquid and splashing them on the corpses on the ground.

"Sizzle—" Soon, the corpse on the ground, as well as Robinson's body which had already melted, all turned into a very strange, dry, earth-like state.

The guards who had been carrying guns with tubes attached to their backs raised their guns, which were full of copper tubes and old-fashioned mechanical structures, towards this patch of black, strange soil.

"Boom—" A strange, arrow-shaped burst of flame, which did not surge upwards, shot towards the debris on the ground.

Zhang Chang'an looked at the huge iron backpacks on their backs, swaying slowly, and muttered to himself: "Phlogiston—the Westerners' view of fire before the late 18th century."

Fire is a material entity composed of countless tiny, active particles. It can combine with other elements to form compounds, or it can exist independently.

A large number of particles coming together create a flame, and these particles themselves are—phlogiston.

"—A large number of particles coming together is what forms a flame, and these particles themselves are phlogiston."

"Phlogiston is the source of all combustible substances, existing in the air and contained within matter. When ignited, it releases phlogiston, and combustion is the process of phlogiston escaping. When metal is forged, phlogiston escapes, leaving behind ash."

Zhang Chang'an read it aloud and turned the page.

"Alchemists can guide the flow of primordial energy through transmutation circles, and can also activate it through incantations. This effect can also be applied to other inorganic substances, performing transformation, reshaping, and transmutation."

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

He paused, then turned the page.

"Phlogiston is the primary energy source in alchemy. It can be stored in special containers and released through conduits to power devices such as 'phlogiston guns' and 'phlogiston bullets.' The power of such weapons far surpasses that of ordinary gunpowder—"

As he read this, he looked up, his gaze passing over the pages and gazing into the distance.

Sunlight streamed down from the hazy, gray sky above, enclosed by high walls, and fell upon the open space within the walls.

The garden in the middle of the Bastille is not large. As a prison converted from a large fortress with eight towers, the exercise yard in the middle is only about two or three hundred square meters.

All around were grayish-yellow stone walls, so high that you couldn't see the top when you looked up.

Despite being called a garden, the open space in the middle is only paved with rough stone slabs, with a few clumps of drooping weeds growing in the cracks.

There were a few small, half-dead trees against the wall, their leaves a mix of yellow and green, swaying listlessly in the breeze.

Several people in prison uniforms were scattered in the courtyard. Some were squatting against the wall in the sun, some were pacing back and forth, and some were huddled together talking in hushed tones.

Zhang Chang'an, who was holding a book, was of course not looking at them. Zi Guang walked straight past them and landed on the wall on the other side of the courtyard.

There was an iron gate leading to a deeper area of ​​the prison, where no prisoners frequented, only guards in blue uniforms occasionally going in and out.

"An alchemical civilization?"

His gaze fell again on the open book beside him.

The cover reads: "Fundamentals of Phlogiston and Transmutation Arrays." The title page bears the stamp of the Bastille Library.

The Bastille, after all, was a place that imprisoned a large number of political prisoners and even nobles. Although it was regarded as a symbol of autocratic feudal rule, many prisoners there were actually treated very well.

For example, it has its own small library where prisoners can borrow books.

He had learned about this information before he came in. As a prison funded by the king, the library here had a rich collection, covering everything from theology and philosophy to natural sciences.

Prisoners only need to provide a list of books to read freely.

That's why he was able to obtain the book so easily and get the explanation for those strange technologies.

Alchemy was already in decline before the French Revolution.

Phlogiston was refuted by Lavoisier with quantitative experiments more than 10 years before the Bastille was stormed.

However, as we see it now, this timeline naturally diverges here. Lavoisier failed to overturn the phlogiston theory; in other words, he simply couldn't overturn it here.

Because there really is phlogiston here. There really is a complete and unique power based on phlogiston and similar alchemical technologies.

This is precisely the biggest problem he currently faces: "This ability—it's kind of my weakness."