"What do you have to say?"
The bald man glanced back at him coldly, a sneer curling his thick lips: "The 'master' of the Blood Wing Clan."
"You... you..."
A drop of cold sweat rolled down Motan's forehead. He hesitated for a moment and then, in a desperate move, shouted, "You said you were good at drinking, didn't you!"
The bald man snorted, shaking his head, "I never said that."
"Cut the crap!"
Motan slammed the preaching platform and pointed loudly at Cole, "Our young master has the title of the man 'Cordova who never gets drunk,' so let's see if you can drink the two of us under the table!"
The bald man, who had already smelled the alcohol on both of them, pursed his lips, his Adam's apple moving slightly, and after hesitating for a while, shook his head, "Immature."
"You're scared, aren't you!"
