The Art of Conversation (Continued)

Considering the powerful hereditary genes passed down through Schicksal, none of this was a problem.

The young man poured him a glass of liquor.

Golden tequila, with butterfly larvae floating inside—it had nothing of French flair about it. This liquor clearly came from the Mexican desert, a pioneer's drink, something only Western cowboys in bandanas with revolvers would enjoy.

What did that signify?

Smart people—or people who thought they were smart—always liked showing off obscure trivia in moments like this.

"My name is Calvados Apocalypse. You may call me Carl."

"Mm."

Zhao Bai acknowledged him.

The Archbishop's brilliance had simply been too dazzling, making Zhao Bai think there were only Otto and Theresa in the Apocalypse family. That was not actually the case. The family was still rather flourishing. Otto, that old virgin, had no direct blood relatives, so he was not particularly fond of managing family affairs.

Then why was Carl's blond hair so conspicuous?

Even his voice somehow resembled a certain commentator's.

There was no time to think further. The shimmering golden tequila had already been offered before him. Zhao Bai added some salt, squeezed in a blob of sour lemon juice, stirred it once or twice, then downed it. A biting sensation struck him, as though he had swallowed a ball of blades.

"Whew—"

He caught his breath, turned to look at Bronya, and asked apologetically, "Do you have apple juice here?"

"We have children's meals..."

Carl answered instinctively, then suddenly remembered that he was not a bartender. He was the rising star of the Apocalypse family, the Creator of the future.

"Then bring us a children's meal."

"Bronya is not a child anymore. Bronya will not eat a children's meal." Bronya turned her head away, seeming somewhat unhappy. Zhao Bai immediately smiled and stepped forward to