The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Chapter 181 Clopan, King of the Wanderers

Zhang Chang'an shook his head and sighed, "Master Lan, you truly have students all over the world!"

"What else is there to say? Here's your account back, you can play it yourself. With that much influence, do you really need me? It seems like you have connections everywhere."

Despite his teasing, he sheathed his long sword and bowed slightly to the bell ringer in return.

"So, from now on, you'll be my messenger?"

Quasimodo nodded, a simple action that seemed particularly laborious on his deformed body. Then, he pulled a letter from inside his tattered cloak. It was made of parchment, folded twice, with frayed edges, but the seal was firmly pressed shut.

"The bell in my hand can indeed drive away ghouls," he said, his voice still hoarse and husky, but each word was enunciated with great seriousness. "The underground tomb passages are intricate and complex, and only I can find my way out. However, I presume you have your own reasons for remaining in the prison. Therefore, I have come to deliver a message for you."

"You may call upon me here at any time thereafter, whether to deliver a letter, dictate a message, or ask me for any other favor."

Zhang Chang'an took the letter but didn't read it right away. Instead, he mentally muttered to himself: "Look at Lan Gong, even Quasimodo could see it. The only reason you're still willing to stay here is because you have ulterior motives."

The memories he received were never complete. It was one thing for the legendary lives of the previous ancestors to just begin, but for someone like Lan Gong, you never knew when some surprises might suddenly appear.

"Whoosh—" He slowly unfolded the letter. It felt rough to the touch, like sandpaper, with rough edges and uneven pulp in some places. When held up to the light, you could see many wispy lines of varying depths.

The handwriting on it is also very rough, with strokes that are wild and rambling.

Even the format of the letters was unusual; instead of the usual greetings, they simply began with a single line of text.

"An Eastern sage walking in Paris."

"I, Clopin, the current King of the Wanderers of Paris, on behalf of the wanderers and gypsies of the Palace of Miracles, greet you—"

Within Paris, the Île de la Cité, on the banks of the Seine, is one of the city's souls.

Notre Dame Cathedral, the Palais de Justice, and other important buildings are all located here.

But even here, amidst the Hundred Years' War with England and various turbulent reigns, there is a side of this jewel that has been tarnished.

At the easternmost point of the island stands Notre Dame Cathedral, resembling the prow of a stone boat cleaving the Seine.

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The gray stone walls stretch from the base of Notre Dame's bell tower all the way to the spire of Sainte Chapel.

The Palace of Justice is nearby. If you crawl under the columns of the Palace of Justice, hug the wall, and cross the Palace of Justice Square and several alleys, you will reach the Palace of Miracles.

This is an area nestled among the most magnificent buildings on Sai Dai Island.

The area is low-lying and damp year-round, surrounded by abandoned churches, collapsed city walls, and dilapidated houses.

It was the heart of Paris's filth and crime, and an underground kingdom abandoned by mainstream society.

There were no walls, no fences, nothing to separate it from the surrounding neighborhood. Yet it was known by its own name, right next to the back wall of the Palais de Justice, just steps away from some of the most magnificent buildings in Paris.

The flying buttresses of Notre Dame Cathedral stretched overhead, and the shadows of the stone arches fell on the muddy ground of the square, mingling with the shadows of the dilapidated sheds and tattered tents.

Looking down from the bell tower of Notre Dame, this side is God's temple, and that side is the devil's lair, separated only by a wall.

The square was irregularly shaped, and the ground was paved with uneven pebbles that were uncomfortable to walk on. Withered grass grew in the cracks between the pebbles, and some places were simply mud, turning into puddles after rain and cracking open when dry.

The building was surrounded by a ring of crooked houses, made of wood, adobe, and stone. The facades were gnawed by insects and rats, and the walls were crooked and twisted, as if they were about to collapse at any moment.

Some houses had second floors that were wider than first floors, protruding over the alleyway. The windows were covered with oiled paper, and the torn parts were plugged with rags, making a whooshing sound when the wind blew.

During the day, the place is deathly still. Only a few people dressed in tattered clothes squat under the wall, basking in the sun, with bandages on their arms, splints on their legs, and blindfolds covering their eyes. They are motionless, like sections of withered tree stumps.

They begged from passersby who rarely came across the area.

But things change when it gets dark.

Torches were lit from every corner, illuminating the entire square in a bright red glow. Those tumor patients who had spent the day sunbathing under the walls threw away their crutches and hopped and skipped around the fire, their steps more agile than anyone else's.

The blind man pushed his blindfold up to his forehead, and his eyes shone like torches.

The mute man sang at the top of his lungs, his voice both rough and bright. He sang a tune from who-knows-where, all crooked and distorted, but it was lively and cheerful, and the people around him slapped their thighs along.

A bonfire was lit in the center of the square, and a large pot was set up, the soup bubbling and steaming, the aroma of meat rising in the air. Someone carried a whole sheep through the crowd, its wool still wet and blood dripping down its path.

A woman wearing a brightly colored dress and wildflowers in her hair walked through the crowd, her skirt sweeping across the ground and kicking up a cloud of dust.

The children squeezed in and out between the adults' legs, laughing and shouting as they ran from one fire to another.

The music and singing were intermittent and difficult to hear amidst the noise, but the melody remained, like a thread connecting the chaotic scene.

Right at the edge of this square, there is an abandoned tower, a remnant of the old city wall. The surrounding walls have all collapsed, leaving only this one standing alone.

Despite this, the walls were full of cracks, and light shone through them in streaks, making the tower look like a broken lantern.

At the very top of the tower, there is a wooden platform that sways in the wind.

But here sat several adult men, their clothes more tidy than those below them, at least not torn to the point of exposing their flesh.

They all had weapons tucked into their waistbands; some had short knives hanging from their waists, others had daggers tucked in their waistbands, and one of them carried an old musket on his back, the paint on the stock worn away, revealing the whitish wood underneath.

They didn't indulge in the revelry below: "That sage—did he really infiltrate a place like that?"

"The Eastern sage possesses unparalleled wisdom," another immediately chimed in, his voice deep and carrying an undeniable authority. "We can already discern that such places contain alchemical laboratories, some of which are hidden deep underground. It's perfectly normal for someone like the sage to be able to enter them directly."

The man paused for a moment, then spoke again, his voice lower: "But what exactly did the sage intend to do after going there?"

A third voice interjected from the side, its tone more composed than the first two, as if it had been planned long ago: "The Bastille is a crucial location for the Royal Alchemist Society, storing vast quantities of firearms and alchemical equipment. The Sage has decided not to roam among the poor, but to personally undertake some tasks; that inevitably means leading us to take over this place!"

These words caused a stir among the crowd. Some whispered in agreement, some shook their heads, some clicked their teeth in silence, and some walked back and forth on the wooden planks, making a creaking sound.

The voices were kept very low, but with so many people, they buzzed like a swarm of bees.

But before long, those voices fell silent again, and all eyes turned back to the same person.

He was a boy, who looked to be under 20 years old.

He sat diagonally on a high platform made of crates and planks, one leg dangling and the other resting on the edge of a crate. His clothes were not luxurious, and he had no extra accessories.

Only on his head was a cast iron crown worn at an angle, or rather, it was more of a jagged iron bar that had been hammered together.

The edges were not polished, and there were still dents and burrs from being hammered. It was crookedly wrapped around his head, with a messy head of dark brown hair underneath.

The face below the hair has slightly high cheekbones, a pointed chin, a straight nose, thin lips, and slightly upturned corners of the mouth, as if smiling but not smiling.

His eyes weren't big, but he looked quite composed, so composed that it didn't seem like a child who had grown up rolling in this muddy field.

He watched the revelry below and listened to the discussions around him.

At this moment, someone spoke to him, their voice carrying a certain matter-of-fact respect, yet not quite formal, and at least not much fear: "Clopan, King of the Wanderers, what do you think the Sage intends to do?"

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