The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

"Cooper and his team spent a day observing Riverside Street, and there were indeed far fewer foreign faces there, and far more British thugs on the streets."

I had them track these people, along with some local British workers, and they discovered that they frequently sneaked into the basement of an alkali-producing chemical plant at night. It's almost certain that that's the club you're looking for.

And Riverside Street is precisely where the Italian you're looking for last appeared.

In addition, through some street rumors, we also learned some of the club's rules.

First and foremost, only native English speakers are allowed to be guests.

Chinese, Irish, Italians, and even Spanish and Portuguese people from the Iberian Peninsula were all simply imprisoned and enslaved as underground boxers.

Moreover, their internal fighting isn't limited to bare-knuckle boxing; it also involves weapons, and sometimes even people fighting wild beasts.

Furthermore, their leader, Jacob, said that if they won ten consecutive matches, they could leave that place, but so far no one has succeeded.

Young gentleman Oliver, still dressed in a long trench coat and suit, stood on the street with an umbrella in hand.

"Thank you." After hearing his report and the specific address, Zhang Chang'an calmly nodded and took out a few bills:

"The company reimbursed the intelligence fee this time. Our boss specially approved an extra ten pounds as a small token of our appreciation for the children."

Oliver raised his hand and slightly lifted his hat to show his gratitude: "Thank you, Mr. Zhang, you are all kind people."

Zhang Chang'an remained noncommittal, just about to put on his hat and turn to leave. Oliver then added:

"Mr. Zhang, remember to be careful. I believe in your abilities, but that club is quite large, and they are in the business of gambling and fighting, so they shouldn't lack weapons."

Zhang Chang'an nodded, but remained calm: "It's alright, I'm not alone this time either."

As he spoke, he used his right hand, which was also wearing a thin leather glove, to put a round black soft hat on his head. After taking only a few steps, a figure suddenly emerged from the previously silent shadows of the street corner.

Zhang Chang'an spoke to him skillfully, and soon after, several more people along the street saw them and immediately left their original spot, gradually gathering around them.

………………

Riverside Street, a brief but vital area between London and Westminster, located at the crossroads of the East and West, was home to many shops and concert halls.

However, this place is close to the Thames River, and the Southwark district, where industrial production is most concentrated, is located on the opposite bank.

Therefore, this area cannot be considered part of West City. Countless workers and thugs still roam the streets, and countless factories still spew out black smoke.

"Click-clack..." The not-too-densely woven iron mesh was placed directly above the pressure relief pool of the alkali plant and connected to the iron lock on the wall. Every time it was stepped on, a lot of rusty bits would fall into the sewage below, which was covered with yellowish-green foam.

Whale oil lamps burned at the four corners of the iron cage, their shades blackened by the alkaline mist. The light squeezed through the holes in the shades, casting murky beams of light in all directions.

Beyond the iron bars surrounding the fence were local faces: workers whose eyebrows had been bleached and whose eyes were bloodshot from the alkali plant, as well as tattooed and scarred thugs from the docks and slums.

"Place your bets! Place your bets!" A foreman with a missing front tooth walked along the edge of the iron cage, collecting coins in a tin bucket. "If the black guy can knock him out in two rounds, it's 2 to 1. The Irish heretic won't last three minutes, it's 10 to 1!"

"Break his teeth out!"

"Beat him up! Shoot him in the head! I'm betting everything on you, you damn black devil!"

"Go to hell, you Irishman! Try calling your Pope now and see if he'll come to your rescue!"

The crowd was shouting loudly, perhaps even louder than some illegal workers working overtime. All the factories with their machines running were noisy.

Above the iron bars of the cage, a black man with numerous scald marks from alkaline water was on top of an Irishman. He was repeatedly punching his opponent in the head with his spiked brass knuckles.

But the Irishman, with his already bloodied hands, fiercely defended against every attack, even managing to grab the black man's hand off him.

Both of them were now extremely weak from the fight, so they remained locked in a stalemate.

"Get apart! Get apart!" someone shouted in dissatisfaction. "Don't waste my time, I didn't come here to watch you two hug and kiss like women."

The crowd erupted in cheers, but not long after, as the Irishman's blood dripped into the alkaline pool below, creating bursts of mist, the man lay motionless on the iron mesh.

Finally, the overseer tapped the iron cage with his iron bar. "Enough! The Irishman's dead! More than a round, but not knocked out by the black guy, so you all have to pay!"

The onlookers, already bored with the outcome for the caged creature, erupted into chaos upon hearing this.

But in the end, no one dared not to pay.

Because behind that foreman, there were clearly a number of thugs carrying guns and daggers.

People stuffed money into the iron pot in the overseer's hand, but just as things quieted down in the crowd, they finally noticed the unusual situation.

"Chinaman..."

The hall of this underground boxing gym is designed like an underground bar, with a bar counter, seats, and a metal cage that serves as the dance floor.

For structural safety, this underground stadium has many pillars, and also displays information such as odds and match schedules.

The words used were very crude and simple, so both idlers and hooligans would go to see it. But at this moment, the person standing quietly by the pillar at the door, looking up, clearly had a Chinese face.

Zhang Chang'an fanned his nose with his hat, then turned his gaze to the crowd and put the hat back on: "You've clearly labeled it for me, that saves me trouble."

The crowd was stunned for a moment, until a thug who was only two steps away from Zhang Chang'an swung out his baton.

"Click-clack!"

"Ah!" Zhang Chang'an grabbed his right hand and twisted it in the opposite direction. His arm instantly flipped outward and twisted until it was deformed and twisted. He fell to the ground in pain and shouted loudly.

Zhang Chang'an's gaze quickly returned to the crowd. Even though he had taken down someone in the blink of an eye, he could tell that most of the people in front of him hadn't reacted yet, so their eyes still held deep contempt and disgust.

"If the people above change their doctrines even slightly, you all act like mad dogs, relentlessly attacking them. If outsiders are more capable than you, all the problems are blamed on them."

Although Zhang Chang'an came from the modern era, he had long heard of the feud between the British and the Irish, which was almost like the conflict between the Chinese and the Japanese.

"Now that you see me, even if you don't open your mouths, I know who you are..."

As Zhang Chang'an said these words, several thugs around him began to curse at him angrily:

"Confucius, are you here to lecture us on grand principles?"

"Who the hell are you calling a Chinaman?"

Who knew that Zhang Chang'an didn't stop at all, but instead turned around and glared at him: "What kind of shit is he going to spew!"

So save your trash talk. I'm here to cause trouble, no need to waste time. You guys should keep your mouths shut, so you don't lose a few more teeth when you get beaten up later!

"Bang!" Just as Zhang Chang'an finished speaking, the first thug who rushed up arrived right in front of him, and his right fist slammed into the man's face with his last words.