Telling a Story

Dealing with Zheng Xian was mentally exhausting, but the roast duck tasted good.

Eating that crispy skin and sweet bean sauce again made Su Ming feel as though a lifetime had passed. As expected of a leader—he had taste. If Mordo had been sent to buy roast duck, he probably would not have found such an authentic little place.

It was not some famous old establishment. After coming up from underground, Zheng Xian drove him through twisting alleys until they finally reached a courtyard house that looked like a private residence, without even a signboard.

Was this the prototype of so-called private cuisine?

After three rounds of drinks, Zheng Xian brought up the real matter again. He set down his little wine cup and wiped his mouth. "Mr. Wilson, you were unwilling to discuss the Brotherhood of the Shield in front of my subordinates earlier. Is there some taboo involved?"

Su Ming was placing scallion whites dipped in sauce onto a pancake. This antique-style place really was quite nice. "Are you sure it's safe here?"

"Of course. The chef's entire family are Mutants. Didn't you notice how exceptionally well the roast duck was cooked?" Zheng Xian replied calmly.

The implication was that Zheng Xian had leverage over them.

Well then, it turned out this was not hanging-oven roast duck, but fire-element roast duck. No wonder.

It smelled amazing.

Su Ming stuffed a roll into his mouth and chewed a few times. "I was worried your subordinates were too young to withstand the shock of reality."

"Oh? Why do you say that, Mr. Wilson?"

"The Brotherhood of the Shield intends to destroy the world. Or rather, the destruction of the world is already halfway complete. Do you believe that?"

"What? Hahaha, sir, please stop joking. The fact that you found this