Today, nearly every faction of any size in the Southeast District had gathered in this little tavern. It was packed with people and looked exceedingly lively.
However, Zhang Heng knew that the people who could truly make decisions were not here, but seated upstairs. They had sent the middle-aged Jewish man to preside over this gathering while they quietly listened to the arguments and commotion below. They would speak only when necessary, and their voices were the ones that truly mattered—the voices Zhang Heng hoped to hear.
The middle-aged Jewish man sneered. "Do you think you can meet Mr. Lockheed whenever you want?"
But before he had finished speaking, a young girl came down from the second floor. She leaned over the railing to look at Zhang Heng and asked curiously, "Are you the gladiatorial champion of the Flavian Amphitheatre, that mysterious Easterner from the distant Empire?"
"Sounds like me," Zhang Heng said with a nod.
"There are rumors that you're the incarnation of some god walking among mortals, with wings growing from your back that let you soar through the sky. But you look no different from an ordinary person." The girl seemed a little disappointed.
"So I wouldn't frighten my friends, I put my wings away."
The girl let out a snickering laugh. "You men do love spinning tall tales. Still, since you consider us friends, come upstairs. Grandfather wants to meet you."
"I would be happy to oblige." Zhang Heng rose from his seat and followed the girl toward the second floor.
A flicker of unwillingness appeared on the middle-aged Jewish man's face. However, he recognized the girl and knew this was Lockeide's decision. As a member of the Jewish Gang, the most important rule was never to question Lockeide's decisions. So he shut his mouth and