Like the pocket of Doraemon.
Lan Peizhi's gourd looks small, but its capacity is astonishing, causing even an old drinker like Wu Guangjiang to end up dizzy.
Mr. Jiang couldn't refuse; it's his daughter's drink, could he, as a father, possibly refuse?
Perhaps this is the first time in his life he's drank his daughter's wine; even if it truly contains alcohol, he has to close his eyes and swallow.
As for the Martial Saint, considering his age, he became the luckiest man among those present.
Barely finishing two taels, his face red with ears burning, not quite hospital-bound, but he forgot the task Boss Jiang initially assigned him—to pay the bill.
But the daughter over thirty came along, so why would he need to fork out?
"Go tend to your business, don't worry about us; we're walking back with Jiang."
Wobbling out of the Peace Hotel, Wu Guangjiang waved his hands and feet, feeling uncomfortable but mentally excited, looked around and found his son absent.
"Where's Sheng?"
